Hugh J. O'Donnell

They abandoned the launch ramp long ago. Everyone who could afford to abandon Earth for the Space Colonies left and pulled the ladder up behind them. The rich and powerful promised ‘Resettlement Initiatives’ and ‘Environmental Restoration Projects,’ all the while building sites like this one to get out and leave the rest of us to die.
I dig through the rusting rockets and leftover parts and wonder what they felt as they watched the dying world shrink to nothing on their monitors.
I set to work and wonder what they will say when all of us catch up to them.

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Once a year, the merchant visited the town. She brought strange goods from far-off lands, exotic spices, and treasures beyond compare. She would sit in the town square with her wonderous stock arranged around her and wait for someone to come and make a deal.
When the townsfolk saw her coming, they closed their curtains and locked their doors. Everyone knew the cost of her mysterious and enticing wares.
But every year, she would strike a bargain. There would be a rebellious teenager or a traveler who dismissed the townfolks’ warnings as superstition. The merchant always got what she wanted.

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He had only a few moments to send a message into the past. He couldn’t survive the trip through the wormhole, and he didn’t know that anyone would be on the other side to receive what he sent through, but he had one chance to send a short message, for good or ill.
He thought about the impact his message could have. What tragic events could he prevent, and how could he steer the course of history?
He considered his own life and what he would change. In the end, he only sent two words through the portal.
“THANK YOU.”

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It hadn’t stopped snowing in over a year. The village had managed to survive growing potatoes under lamps in dirt-floored basements.
When she couldn’t grow a flower for her mother’s grave, she decided to build one. Electronics were the one thing they had in abundance, so she strung one together from LEDs and a little battery. She placed the electric flower on her mother’s grave and switched it on. It blazed red and orange in the night. Soon, others followed her example.
It had been a year since they’d seen the sky, but the churchyard became a sea of stars.

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When humanity came to survey their planet, the visitors did not deem them an advanced civilization.
Where, the humans asked, were their great cities? Why did they not harvest the full capacity of their planet’s energy production? Why did they not use all the energy produced by their sun? Why did they not colonize their neighboring planets and stars?
The humans judged them as a level zero civilization, unworthy of diplomacy. It suited them fine, as they found the Earthlings distasteful.
It was not that their civilization did not consume, but they had learned what it meant to be satisfied.

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The girl was crying in the bathroom when I came in.
“Whatever he did, he ain’t worth it, honey.”
She straightened and composed herself. “It isn’t like that,” the girl said.
“Of course not.” I pulled a wipe from my purse. “Let’s fix your makeup.” When I pulled out the switchblade, she gasped.
“Sometimes a sharp line is best for mascara,” I said. I pressed the flat of the blade against my cheek and used the spine as a straight edge. I set it down on the counter.
I guess I forgot to ask for the knife back. Oh well.\

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Huddled in our makeshift camp at the base of the valley, we heard trickling water for the first time in years. We searched and found a little pool collecting a rivulet flowing off a high mountain. We drank our fill.
I climbed to the summit and was amazed by what I found.
The gateway opened to another, better world. On the other side, a stream flowed out of a grassy field. I felt the breeze on my face and heard actual birdsong. I smelled the fresh air.
I wandered through, enraptured. The soldiers waited for me just out of sight.

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The goddess looked out over the battlefield and wept. Bodies from her army and her brothers littered the field.
The battle had been intoxicating. She rode out in her shining armor and drank in worship. Now that it was over, and those worshipers lay dead, the high had faded.
“Let it go,” her brother said, their argument already forgotten. “They’re mortal. Dying is what they do.”
Poets said that flowers grew where the gods shed blood. She waived a hand, and crimson blossoms sprang up to cover the corpses. This blood belonged to her, and she would repay her debt.

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Stilttown stood in the middle of desolation. When the world was dying, they took their supplies and sheet metal walls and built upward, securing all the lumber they could before the forest burned. They watched the End of the World from on high, believing that it could not reach them.
When the refugees came after, they still sat and watched, condemning them to die.
When I came to Stilttown, I called up. They still refused my entry. So I took out my solar-powered electric chainsaw, a valuable relic of the old days, and showed them that no perch is inviolable.

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The Inter-County Varsity Basketball Tournament was the most important sporting event of the year, and Hillcrest Private School always won. But this year, we had an ace up our sleeve.
“What is that?” The River Heights coach demanded, pointing at one of my players.
“Transfer student.”
“That is not a transfer student!” he pointed to the twenty-foot tall, three-skulled being hovering above the court on ebon wings.
“That’s Luci,” I said.
“You Lowville Public Highschool losers won’t get away with this!” He shouted.
“Hey, there ain’t no rule that says a demon lord of the inner pit can’t play basketball!”

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