Hugh J. O'Donnell

The new senator accepted their stole of office with a slightly jerky bow. A cam in their lower back kept seizing, and they had put off replacing it.
As the first democratically elected automaton, they tried to enjoy the ceremony. After all, the election was only the beginning of their fight.
Many did not approve of equal automata rights, and threatening rhetoric was rising everywhere. The news feeds said violence was all but inevitable.
But experience had taught them that probability was what you made of it. They would execute their function to bring equality and freedom to the galaxy.

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He knocked on the dressing room door, awkwardly maintaining the bundle of clothes in his arms. The dancer answered, looking cross.
“The King has asked that you perform for him tonight,” he said.
She looked down at the elaborate costume. “In that?”
“By request of his highness,” he replied. They both stood quietly as a cadre of palace guards marched by.
“We’re almost in the treasury. You only have to keep the king distracted for another night or two, Rosemary.” He whispered.
“Fine. But you all owe me.” She took the intricate and revealing bird costume and slammed the door.

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The dread archfiend Orbulax stalked through its ineffable library. The non-euclidean structure stretched to infinity, holding tomes of knowledge so blasphemous that even looking on their covers would drive a mortal being mad.
Orbulax ignored those dread grimoires, its eyestalks searching for a particular book. There was no librarian to assist it, although shadows and half-glimpsed forms flitted between the shelves. Orbulax needed no guide.
Finally, it placed a chitinous claw on a volume. Its bulbous eyes widened in delight. It had found what it searched for.
It just had to find out how Lupin pulled off his latest heist.

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The great detective set the telegram down on the mantle and picked up his pipe. He looked down at the bustling London street below contemplatively. The irony of his long and storied career being hampered by legal loopholes was not lost on him. But that was all over now.”Well, Holmes?” His partner asked from the side chair. “What does the message say? Is it good news?”Sherlock crossed the parlor and planted a kiss on his forehead. “It is the best news, Watson. The news we have been awaiting. We are finally in the public domain! We are free!”

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The flower shop had stood on that block as long as anyone could remember, a hidden little place with windows always misted over with steam and water from the hothouse flowers. The sweet scent of the flowers wafted throughout the neighborhood.
Although if you pressed most residents, the shop was rarely, if ever, open. And none of them would be able to recall ever having met the florist. It was just one of those places that had always seemed to be there in the city.
Occasionally, a prospective customer would wander inside, and the flytrap would close tight behind them.

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“I really wish you wouldn’t do this,” she said, glaring over the table full of silver dishes. There was a pile of fugu sashimi and a still-squirming dish of sannakji. More deadly delicacies lined the spread, each on its own gleaming tray.
“It’s an eating challenge,” he replied. “Don’t be such a baby.”
“But it’s so dangerous. Over a hundred people die a year from-“
He held up a hand, cutting her off. “What’s a little risk to us?”
“Fine,” the one werewolf said to her partner. “But I wish you wouldn’t use silverware.”
“That’s the best part!” he complained.

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He hid the altar in his lumber room, cleverly setting the pieces inside a decorative neon bar sign. When he could be sure of safety, he rearranged it to create an image of his deity.
The authorities had banned his religion, calling it ‘no more than barbaric human sacrifice.’ He knew his history, the public perception of his faith, and the bigotry they’d suffered over the centuries. But he would continue his traditions in his own way, He would practice peacefully.
He knelt before the effigy and whispered, a moment of connection between himself and the almighty.
“Ia! Ia! Cthulhu!”

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The duchess sat in her feast hall, sipping a glass of wine.
Last night, the long table had been piled high with sought-after delicacies and rare vintages. It remained so this morning.
Not a single guest had arrived for her feast, and she did not know what that meant. She had long been a player in court politics and was no stranger to intrigue, but to be so utterly abandoned was an unexpected puzzle, and she feared what it meant.
She despaired until a servant entered and opened the grand windows, revealing a blizzard that had covered the kingdom overnight.

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The Krampus was tired.
He’d been doing his job for a long time. He didn’t mind that. Krampus had no problems with being the bad guy, and someone had to be the stick, so to speak, to Saint Nicholas’s carrot. But you can only play the monster for so long before you become one in truth.
One year Krampus hung up his birch rod and stayed home. Nicholas complained about it. He said that the children would run wild without him.
But the holiday passed as it always had.
Krampus breathed a sigh of relief, finally able to enjoy Christmas.

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Santa Claus was magic. It came with a cost: a mission to be completed once a year. Throughout history, he did as he was bid, bringing every good child a present in a single night.
Humanity grew and expanded, and Santa’s operation grew alongside them. He created flying reindeer and a team of magical toymakers to assist him in his work.
It was hard, but he managed.
But then humanity spread into space, colonizing the Moon and Mars. Santa could feel the tug of his mission pulling him out into the void. He knew he had to up his game.

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