Hugh J. O'Donnell

The devil handed the sleeping man’s phone to the angel with some difficulty. “Listen, you want to know what he does with this thing all day, don’t you?”
“Well, sure. But this seems like something I’d warn him against.”
“Honey, do you even know what a comment thread is?”
The angel looked away, embarrassed. “Well, no.”
“Then you’ve got to study up, my friend.”
“When you put it that way, I should take a peek. For research.” The little angel turned on the screen.
The devil smiled. With his counterpart distracted, both shoulders were finally his. He got to work.

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Lord Raven stood atop his tower and looked down on the city. He could trace his lineage back a long way. His office building was a castle of steel and glass, but his ancestors had reigned from towers of stone.
He reflected that his role was not so different from his forebears, although he preferred the term Magnate to Warlord. The city certainly smelled better these days.
He gave himself a moment to imagine his descendants standing on taller towers, presiding over grander cities. He never considered that somewhere in the labyrinth below was a boy who would be king.

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The rider appeared every evening just before sunset. They were a ghostly figure on a pale horse, washed in sunset colors ahead and silver moonlight behind.
I spent weeks trying to catch them, but their mount was too swift, their steps too sure, and by the time the Sun slipped below the horizon, they were gone.
One night I lay in wait and finally managed to catch the phantom. The moment I wrapped my hand around their wrist, the sunset paused.
I realized at that moment that the rider not chasing the sunset but heralding the coming of night.

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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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