On Halloween Night, the dead roamed the living world. The villagers sheltered on the hallowed ground of the church as ghouls and malevolent spirits raged outside. The priest tried to comfort and distract them with homilies and hymns, but he was no match for the groaning zombies and wailing ghosts outside. In the light of dawn, the villagers surveyed the damage. The air was hazy with smoke and smelled like rotting flesh. Trash and debris littered the streets. But what had been destroyed could be rebuilt, and the villagers counted their blessings. At east nobody was playing Christmas music yet.
I sat struggling to come up with a new story but finding myself utterly without inspiration. My muse sat across from me, smiling. When I first found my muse, I thought she would be a blessing. I thought she would fill my head with ideas, uncorking some font of inspiration in my brain. But I was wrong. Muses don’t give out ideas, they eat stories. It’s the finished product that is important. And mine was always hungry. I hurriedly typed with bandaged fingers, hoping to pick up brilliance along the way. It was a bad idea to make her wait.
The fishermen of the coast all avoided the sunken ruins. The fish were plentiful there, darting among coral that grew on the lost city’s tumbled stones. But the fishermen believed they were cursed. They would share reports of boats getting caught in sudden storms or foundering on hidden shoals in the area. They told tales of fools pulling up ancient treasures, only to be destroyed by them. And even whispered ghost stories of malevolent gods living int he sunken depths, whispering madness. But when the pirates came, the ruins were the one place that their ships would not pursue them.
The monster lived in phone lines. It was a being of waves as much as particles, too small to see but as large as a continent. It traveled by wire, only spotted in glimpses. Its roar was the static of a dropped call and it left footprints in the tangle of switchboard wires. But as the world upgraded to cell phones, its territory shrank. Soon it would have nowhere to hide. Just when it seemed like the creature was doomed, it caught the end of a fiber optic cable and jumped into a digital plain where it could run forever.
The former chancellor sat on his throne and felt the softness of the cushions. He suppressed a smile. The coup had taken years of hard work. First he’d gained the trust of the old king. Then he’d put his own men in positions of power. Finally, he slid the knife in. But it was done, and now he was king. It was time for his first meeting with his advisors. The doors opened and his fellow conspirators shuffled in. It struck him that if a man had seen something done, he could repeat it. The king began making new plans.
“Igor, are the rods in position?” The mad doctor shouted. Thunder rumbled and the wind tore at the little man clinging to the tower roof. A storm was coming, and it would be a bad one. He wished he was back at home beside a roaring fire. But that wasn’t the job. “Yes, Master!” he called down as he double-checked the wiring. Igor scrambled back down the ladder. “Then throw the switch! This storm will produce all the electricity I require to complete my experiment!” Igor sighed. He wished his boss would swallow his pride and pay the electric bill.
A swarm of bats circled the castle, shrieking into the night. The lord of the manor watched them from a high window and was pleased with their work. The villagers were terrified of the creatures, and took to crossing themselves or locking themselves in at night, the superstitious fools. A few had even taken to hunting them, but the Count had put a stop to that. Despite the public outcry, the reintroduction program was already a huge success. The bats had already reduced the invasive mosquito population by fifty precent without pesticides. How wonderful his children of the night were.
It was a bad winter, even for Northern Ontario. Jean hadn’t seen anyone in weeks, and he was running out of food. Jean heard scratching on his door. When he opened his door, he found a freshly killed squirrel and no sign of anybody. Winter wore on, and the gifts kept coming. It was always just enough, and he never saw so much as a footprint. Then, the visits stopped. When Jean next heard the scratching, he found a still-bleeding human hand waiting in the snow. You’ll eat anything if you’re hungry enough. You’ll befriend anyone if you’re lonely enough.
The gardener planted his garden at the very edge of a tall cliff, so that he could sit among the flowers and enjoy the view of the valley. In spring, his plants would flower and rain petals on the town below. In summer, fallen fruit rolled downhill like stones. In autumn, the leaves fell, and he watched them tumble the great distance to the valley floor below. He considered the castoffs from his garden gifts to those below him, although he never asked their opinion. One winter, he slipped on a patch of ice and fell over the edge himself.
The monster was in the closet. I listened to it and considered what to do. Since I was a child, I’ve seen monsters everywhere: Lurking in dark corners and hiding under beds. My parents said I had an overactive imagination, but they became worried when the behavior persisted as I grew up. It took a long time, but I learned to cope with my special sight. I handed the monster a tissue. He dried three eyes with it. “The people who love you may not always understand,” I said. “But there is joy and community in living your authentic self.”
Hugh J. O'Donnell 