When she heard that her father died, she truncated her studies abroad and returned home. She spent the next two days in airports, texting relations and family friends explaining that her plane had been delayed. She landed just in time for the funeral. After the service, they all told her what a good man he’d been, and how sad she must be. The strain of travel helped approximate something like grief, and she said nothing. Shed known her father better than any of them, and he’d been a bastard in private. Preserving his reputation was her last sacrifice for him.
She is a story on the wind. The Tattered Woman had fought a dozen Imperial soldiers in the market square of Harall before vanishing. She traversed the Sandstorm Wastes alone. She freed an army of Underfolk captives from the Relentless Caravan. She is everywhere and nowhere. If you could find her, the Tattered Woman would say many things. The first is that her name is Rachel. The second is that her legend is almost entirely exaggerated. The third is that a red taffeta ballgown makes terrible survival gear. Finally, she would tell you she just wants to get back home.
The Creature lay on the slab, incomplete but aware. It watched as its creator busied himself with other research, never staying on one project for very long before moving on to the next one. It waited, and occasionally he would spend an hour or two tinkering with the Creature before abandoning again, leaving it inchoate. The Creature figured out how to move on its own, and considered whether or not to demonstrate its progress to the scientist. The Creature knew what it wanted to be and didn’t think its creator would concur. It finished itself and escaped into the night.
The Devil opened a casino to tempt the weak and snare the wicked with bright lights and the promise of easy money. The games were fair, as such things went. But the dealers were trained to string gamblers along until their desperation was at its peak. Then their supervisors would swoop in to offer the unlucky player a deal. Not only was the scheme successful, but it was profitable, too. On His days of rest, God sneaked down in disguise and ran the tables. The casino went bankrupt in a month. Only He knows what He did with the winnings.
The mission bell rang out in the pre-dawn hours of what promised to be a perfect spring day. Another of God’s gifts to the monastery. But then it kept ringing. And all the monks knew what the alarm meant. Working quickly and silently, the men of faith gathered what they needed and made their way to the basement chapel. When all were accounted for, it took three monks to close the stone door behind them. They gathered to pray, but a few cringed when they heard the mighty roars reverberate through the stone. The dragons had returned to Capistrano.
The outlaw had won. He reclaimed what was stolen from him and saved the day. Years passed, and the thing about endings is that they are only as thick as a sheet of paper. And Justice ebbs and flows like the tide. He smelled smoke on the wind, and heard cries in the night. It was all happening again. Homes were burning. Families were losing everything. People were vanishing. He’d only won a few breaths of fresh air. He told himself that he was well out of it. But when he looked down the bow was already in his hands.
She found the pin-back button sitting in the bottom of her grandmother’s jewelry box. She almost pricked herself as she fished it out. It had been brightly painted, once. But he red white and blue front was faded and scratched. The blue ‘VOTE’ was still clear, but the name underneath it had worn away. She handed it to her grandmother. “Why do you keep this crusty old thing with all your nice jewelry?” The old woman looked at it, her eyes getting misty. “It’s from the first time I voted. I keep it to remember all the years I couldn’t.”
The sorceress stood before her table, accoutrements, tools, and exotic ingredients spread before her. When the first rays of dawn hit the table, she began to work, humming to herself and preparing her brew. Sharp smells and mechanical hisses filled the air. She filled two bone china cups, and set one before the beast in her parlor. “Thanks, Doll.” It said after draining the cup. “You know,” the sorceress said, sipping from her own. “Most familiars do this sort of thing for their Mistress. “I appreciate it, ma’am. But you know me. I’m a monster before I’ve had my coffee.”
He made a wish on a shooting star. He wished without thinking: for Success, Wellness, and Happiness. The meteor had no power to grant such things. But something, somewhere, heard him and the universe was rearranged. He stumbled across the perfect investment guide in the library, he ran into a personal trainer looking for clients, and his new neighbor invited him to her next game night. But the book languished on his bedside table. He put off booking his first training session. He forgot about the game night. The wish curdled. And the demon gained strength from the wasted potential.
We saw each other for the first time on a battlefield in ancient Greece, but promptly forgot it in the haze of fighting. I next met him in a bazaar decades later and hundred of miles away. After our third encounter in a century, we recognized each other for what we were. Immortals are rare, and guard their secrets jealously. Over the centuries, I sent my resources after him, and he did the same to me. It became something like a game, with move and countermove. Slowly, we even became friends. And finally, after millennia, we shared our first kiss.
Hugh J. O'Donnell 