Hugh J. O'Donnell

The wolf came and sat by her fire every night. It was huge, and so black she only see it by its eyes and the absence of stars. It never spoke, but there was something intelligent and otherworldly in its gaze.
Sometimes, it would present her with a kill, and she’d roast it over the fire. Sometimes it would sit and loll it’s huge tongue, and she would share her water.
Over time, she came to think of it almost as a friend. She had found precious little other company out in the wasteland.
But it never led her home.

In his darkroom, the photographer stared down at the portrait developing in front of him. It was… wrong.
That was definitely the young Widow Dagmar posed in somber black with the requested symbolic elements. The skull on her lap, and the scales beside her, were all as he had set them. But where had the moth come from?
It was so bright it seemed to glow, hovering above her left hand. He was sure wasn’t there when he took the picture.
He brushed one gloved hand against the glossy paper, and his fingers came back dusty with moth wing powder.

She built her homestead in the high desert, under an abandoned satellite dish. She didn’t know what it had been for, probably some benevolent scientific venture that was forgotten as soon as everything went to hell. But the site was still in good shape, with plenty of building material, and she was miles from the nearest neighbor. It was perfect.
She wasn’t what you’d call a ‘people person,’ and society’s collapse hadn’t improved her outlook.
Which is why she was at a loss when the aliens landed and told her they’d received her signal, and wanted to open diplomatic relations.

He dedicated his life to small acts of kindness.
A hundred dollars discreetly dropped into a struggling musician’s violin case in a busy subway station.
An extra pair of hands in a soup kitchen on the night of an unexpected, and particularly devastating blizzard.
A shout to call the attention of a distracted parent as their child wandered away in a crowded store.
He used the time machine to make small changes.
His instructors had said that even the least significant act in the past could change the future. He hoped they were right. He hoped it would be enough.

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She made gardens in secret places. She planted flowers in forgotten alleyways, and trellised Ivy in the hidden courtyards of long-abandoned buildings. She loved hidden worlds, and wanted them to be beautiful.
She found a solemnity in beauty destined to have no observer. A garden meant for no eyes was still as lovely. Perhaps it was lovelier, a rose growing only for its own sake.
She imagined the sudden rush of joy, someone coming to a desolate, lonely place, and finding a garden instead. The idea gave her comfort.
Plus, it was a great way to hide the bodies.

The ruined abbey lay in the middle of the hunting grounds. Most of the hunters avoided it out of superstition, which made it the perfect place to lay in wait.
I watched the ivy-covered ruins until, late in the day, when a huge stag appeared in the wreck of an arched doorway. It stood there, a silhouette in the gloaming, as though it had never before seen man nor arrow.
I had the odd fancy that it had just received confession, and to take its life would be a sin. Then my stomach rumbled, and I took the shot.

The beach house had long been abandoned. It stood over the water on rotting pilings, and it groaned with each surge of the tide. The sandbar it stood on wasn’t even accessible on foot anymore. She’d rowed out, which had taken longer than expected.
Standing on that remote stretch of sand, and staring at the decaying house, she could almost believe she was the last person on Earth, although that wasn’t quite true.
It wouldn’t do for shelter, but if her research was right, there would still be plenty of supplies inside. She got to work finding a way in.