Hugh J. O'Donnell

The boy climbed to the rooftops while the rest of the village was still asleep. The watery light of dawn was just beginning to gather at the eastern horizon. It was time.
He pulled the flute out of its case and began to play. First softly, then louder and more joyously. The instrument didn’t look like much, but its tones were sweet and clear.
He played until he felt the sun warm his face, then climbed down and joined the morning crowd.
He never told anyone he played the sun awake for fear they would delay him in his duty.

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Her sisters all said she was crazy when she took a job on a ship. But she gets to travel the world instead of lurking in their crumbling domain.
She loves the fresh sea air and the horizon surrounding her.
The sailors were rough at first, but she only had to toss one of them overboard before they learned her boundaries. And when pirates attack, their shock when she climbs down from the prow and defends the ship is always delightful.
Her sisters say she’s just a figurehead, but she wouldn’t trade her life for all their undersea kingdom’s treasure.

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“Are we doing a nude?” He asked, taking in my little portrait studio.
“Not today,” I blushed. “Have a seat while I get set up. This should only take about an hour.”
He rolled his piercing blue eyes and pursed his sensual lips. “You could just take a photograph.”
“I could, but where’s the fun in that?” I looked over my pigments while he made himself comfortable, lounging int he sunlight.
He was right. I could’ve used a photograph, but that would only capture his image. I wanted all of him.
“Hold that pose,” I said, and began to sketch.

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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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