Hugh J. O'Donnell

The god towered over the village, their massive frame blocking out the sun, their brilliance lighting the sky. Radiance fell from the tips of their horns. Their footsteps shook the earth. Flocks of birds sheltered beneath their wings.
The villagers watched in terror and ecstasy as their diety approached. Some of them knelt in supplication. Some sang songs of praise and thanks. Some laid a carpet of flowers for their feet. Some of them cowered, not daring to look upon them.
The god sighed. There had to be a better way to nip over to borrow a cup of sugar.

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The Grand Duchess pranced into the lab on four spring-heeled feet. “How goes the reclamation process, Doctor?”
The smaller machine didn’t move from his station, but his free-floating camera eye swiveled to focus on her.
“Passing well, Your Grace.” He gestured to the weed in the analysis chamber. “We are nearly ready to reintroduce plant life to the surface.”
“It doesn’t look like much,” she said.
The scientist thought of their earliest ancestors, boxes on spindly legs and crude, blocky bipeds. Humble beginnings. He was not a religious bot, but sometimes he felt like the long-lost Progenitors.
“No, it doesn’t.”

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The swordsman stood on the hill and bellowed out a challenge. No coward, I rode out to face him. The wizard grabbed my arm as I dismounted.
“Be careful lad. He wields the Sword of Truth.”
“What’s it do?”
“I don’t know, but it’s said that he cannot be defeated.”
“Well, I can take him.” But as our blades met, I heard a voice whisper in my ear.
“Last week when the tavern maid said ‘Enjoy your mead,’ you replied, ‘You too.’”
I cringed in embarrassment, and at that moment, he thrust under my weakened guard, delivering a mortal blow.

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He’d worked as a doorman at the old hotel for as long as anyone could remember. He would always have a smile and a story. He treated everyone who crossed his path the same as the guests in the fancy hotel. He was a fixture of the neighborhood.
When the hotel closed down, it was boarded up. The doorman disappeared and the neighborhood buzzed with rumors of his fate.
Until one day he returned, and sat in the shade under the awning, resting his back against the boarded-up door. The whole neighborhood came out to greet him and share stories.

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They planted the seeds in the center of the blast sites. The plants were genetically modified, created to thrive on the poisoned air and irradiated soil that the war had left behind.
As the trees grew to impossible heights, they rebuilt the city around them in concentric rings, a dome of fresh air and clean earth that expanded year after year. They built pumps and pipes that sent clean water from under their roots to the rest of the city.
But the city never shared the secrets of the rejuvenation with their neighbors. That decision led to the next war.

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