Hugh J. O'Donnell

The sculpture was bold, daring, and outrageous. The artist had gotten her hands on a decommissioned human-form mech suit and splayed it like a body in the colony’s central green space.
The mechs had always been experimental and had never outperformed traditional weaponry on the battlefield. But they looked impressive and were central to their propaganda efforts.
When asked for comment, the artist said to keep watching. She had replaced the robot’s innards with terraforming compound, and soon plants were sprouting from the dead machine’s joints.
But even she was surprised when the machine got up and initiated first contact.

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Patrolling the Broadside Market is her favorite part of guard duty.
She passes displays of fresh fruit and vegetables, the stalls of master artisans in a hundred different crafts, and even the seedier parts of the market, where nothing is on display but anything is available for the right price.
She keeps walking. As long as they aren’t disturbing the peace, it’s not her business.
The shouts coming from a wine stall are her business, and she quickly intercedes with her sword, breaking up the drunken brawl.
She loves the Broadside Market but cherishes the island’s peace most of all.

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Donna named the toy store Happy Harry’s as their little joke because he was always so serious. Harry didn’t mind. The business was her lifelong dream, and he loved her desperately. He would hold her close and tell her, “You’re my smile.”
He did everything he could to make that dream come true. During the first lean year, when she couldn’t even afford to hire an assistant, he was always there, sweeping floors and stocking shelves. She radiated joy, and he basked in it.
After she passed, Harry kept the store running himself, unable to let go of her smile.

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The sailor found himself in an unfamiliar room with whitewashed walls. Many paintings hung on the walls. Most of them were covered by white cloths. There was a picture of an empty chair hanging behind him.
He remembered sitting for a portrait. The Boston winter had been harsh, and he’d already drank his wages. The artist had promised to pay well for his time.
“Welcome!” A high-pitched voice said. He turned and saw a boy of perhaps twelve dressed in old-fashioned clothes. The boy’s face was almost familiar. He had seen it in a painting. “I see you’ve been restored.”

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The patched-together airship buzzed with unshielded magic. The forest shook where it passed overhead, barely clearing the treetops. Long-tailed birds scattered in the exhaust of the craft’s perpetual-motion engine.
The ship wobbled through the air, chugging, and stuttering, towards the heart of the forest. The guardians stood ready to turn back the invaders.
The commander gave the command. A barrier of Wind would be enough to destroy so feeble a craft. But one of the guardians paused and looked closer at the ship. They were not attackers, but refugees.
He lowered his staff. Mercy has a magic all its own.

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They stood on the platform and watched the transports taking off and leaving.
These days, it seemed like everyone was getting into space. The ads all said that a new life of adventure awaited in the off-world colonies. He’d thought about going with them and starting over.
He blew out a lungful of smoke and reached down with his other hand to pet his dog. They don’t allow pets on the transports.
There is a point where you have to choose between the bonds you love and the things you might do. He made his choice and never regretted it.

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The young fiend hung over the scroll, feeling the creative urge burning within. This spell would be their first great masterpiece. They set pen to paper, desperate to get the idea down.
Centuries later, they came across the forgotten scroll while searching their library. Curiously, they broke the seal and cringed at what they read. They recalled creating a spell of unimaginable power and destruction. But this incantation was clumsy and inefficient.
Yet the idea did have some merit. Perhaps they could polish it into something useful. They set the scroll aside on their desk, their abandoned dreams slowly rekindling.

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He hovered over the bodies at the crash site. The sea had already taken what the force of the impact had left behind. He cradled one of the victims, still in their spacesuit, delicately in his arms.
He was no forensic analyst. He couldn’t tell anyone what had gone wrong. If it hit the water at a bad angle or there was a problem with the hull materials.
But the giant octopus wondered who these people were, who had entered his deep and lightless domain. He pulled himself out of the cramped reentry capsule and swam off, savoring the mystery.

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