Hugh J. O'Donnell

The wasteland Sun blazed overhead. She checked the gauge and sighed. Her truck still had half an hour left to charge.
On the horizon, a cloud of dust said that she was about to have company. She pulled out her scope and confirmed the worst: raiders, and they’d get to the station well before she was done. She reached into the truck’s bed and pulled out her shotgun. There was a trick to appearing to tough to be worth bothering with, but not so strong as to seem a threat.
She cursed herself for buying electric just before society collapsed.

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She felt the change come upon her and cocooned herself, hiding in a safe and hidden spot hanging from a hard to reach branch.
Once she was secure and the imperative could no longer be ignored, she let herself go.
She dreamed of what she might become. She didn’t know if she would be beautiful, or graceful, or terrible or powerful. She didn’t know if she would have jewel-scaled wings or poisonous dust. She didn’t know if she would have barbs or fangs or fuzzy antenna. She didn’t know what the change would be.
So she decided she’d take everything.

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They guided him to what they believed to be his destiny by placing walls in his path. Rather than leading him by the hand, they slowly and surely bricked up every other road he could take.
Better, they said, to ready him for what was to come in life than to let him get tangled in distractions. He should have his feet firmly on the ground, and keep his head out of the clouds.
But he knew that the path they had set him on didn’t lead to his destination.
Instead of walking the labyrinth, he grew wings and flew.

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The squirrel sat on the branch and looked out at the falling snow. In a few weeks, he would curl up in the bole of a tree and sink into warm hibernation for a few months, emerging into a new spring.
But for now, he had to sit and freeze. His mind remembered the dim echo of sitting in front of a roaring fire as snow swirled outside a thickly insulated window.
His new claws, although adept at climbing and leaping, had forgotten the trick of making things.
It was one of the few times he regretted the witch’s bargain.

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“I need some fast gold, and I heard you were the man to talk to.”
The stranger in the tavern looked up at me. There was a weighing look in his eyes. “Sign the contract, and you get your gold,” he said.
“And then?”
“At the time of your death, which may be many years from now, I’ll take possession of the body.”
“But how will you find it?” I asked.
He grinned wolfishly. “Don’t worry about that. I have my ways.”
I hesitated, but what choice did I have? I took the pen and donated my body to necromancy.

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That summer seemed to last forever, packed with golden afternoons, soft breezes, and gentle rain that fell overnight as the town slept.
August came and went, with weather as perfect as a postcard. When school resumed, they had to run the air conditioners all through September. The leaves fell in 80-degree heat, leaving the birds unsure weather to migrate or not. Children trick-or-treated without jackets for the first time in living memory.
People commented on the fine weather, but didn’t start to worry until November arrived without snow in the forecast.
We didn’t find the weather control machine until December.

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