Hugh J. O'Donnell

The newly-discovered planet was a land of rocky mesa and dusty plains. It was the perfect candidate for terraforming.
There was a huge legal battle over which concern had discovered it and who would get the colonization rights, but as always, the big corporations managed to hash out a deal.
The contract eventually went to a ranching concern, and they immediately began enriching the atmosphere and seeding it with hearty grasses, turning the planet into a paradise for cattle. They named it ‘Hathor.’
The colony thrived for a time, but the attack of the space rustlers caught them by surprise.

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Zeus stood on the mountain and watched the Titans approach. This would be their last battle.
He’d trained his entire immortal life for this and gathered allies and armies to his cause. But he was still a young god, with thunder in his veins and lightning in his fists. He could free cyclopses and fight titans, but would he be a just ruler? Or would the poor mortals trade one tyrant for another? I was uncertain.
He looked to his siblings. They all nodded, and Metis put her hand in his. They were with him. He let his lightning fly.

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We found an old piano standing in the woods. Our squad leader thought it had to be a trap, but we checked it over, and there were no booby traps, tripwires, or mines.
There were probably snipers, and I knew I was about to catch hell for it, but I had to play something.
I played a simple chord. It reverberated, sweet and clear. Nothing happened.
I started in on a concerto, expecting to be pulled away from the piano or shot at any moment.
But I finished the song. For a few fleeting minutes, the war couldn’t touch us.

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The three space explorers stood at the survey site and took in the towering ribbons of pink crystal. The geologist took a sample.
“Spectrometer was right. High NaCl concentration with widespread iron impurities. God, it must be something to see them form during storm season.”
“When windspeed tops 200 meters per second?” the pilot asked.
Their boss looked up at the formations. “Gathered by sacred winds, these unique salt crystals form pillars local shamans believe reach Heaven itself.”
“This planet is uninhabited.”
“Not if we’re going to sell this stuff for a thousand credits a box to the hub worlds.”

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The peasant had found the dragon as an egg, washed up along the river. Thinking the beautiful egg was a stone, he took it home. He brought the hatchling back to the river, but there was no sign of the dragon’s parents. So the peasant adopted him instead.
When he grew too large to live in the little hut, the dragon took to living in the river. The village protected him, and their fields never went without rain.
The peasant knows his son can’t stay in the village forever. But dragons are stubborn and long-lived. He won’t abandon his father.

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Flowers grow from sacred blood spilled. I developed a ritual that reversed the process.
I gathered everything that sprang from her bloody footprints. The spell demanded nothing less than perfection, so I plucked every root and chased down every wind-blown petal. The blossoms were delicate, pink, and sweet-smelling.
I arranged the plants in her shape and began the ritual. Slowly, she coalesced into a form I recognized. Finally, only a single rose stuck up from her hand, its stem tracing the length of her vein. I pressed it into place.
She opened her eyes. I knew she would forgive me.

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She sat on the beach and watched the dawn. The golden sunrise lit the waves, and you could hardly tell how murky the water was. For a few perfect moments, everything was beautiful.
Of course, it was an illusion. Time wasn’t standing still. Below the water, the pounding surfeiting was turning the concrete back into sand. In a few minutes, her Uncle would yell at her to get moving, and there’d be hell to pay if they were the last salvage boat on the water.
But for now, she sat on the cool sand and imagined everything was still okay.

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The garden boasted plants from every corner of the Empire. In the center was a fountain topped with a statue of the goddess Proserpina. Every day, I left the best flowers as an offering.
One day the goddess thanked me. I bowed low to the icon.
“Everything I have built is in your name, my lady.”
The statue glared at me with a, well, stony expression.
“I am not my husband, nor my father. These are the fruits of conquest, not cultivation.”
“What would you have me do?”
“Rise, child. From this garden, you will plant the seeds of peace.”

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She was raised on stories of chivalry and princesses, but she wanted to be a knight, not a beautiful maiden.
She rode her bike up and down the street with a broom tucked under one arm for a lance. In her imagination, she fought monsters and righted wrongs.
When she grew older and saw all the ugliness that the children’s stories scrubbed away, she became disappointed and put away childish things.
But when her anger and despair threatened to overwhelm her, she put on her armor and fought for the world, not as it was but as it should be.

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