Hugh J. O'Donnell

She tends the village’s scarecrows every day. She sets their poles, mends their clothes, and replaces their lost straw. She makes sure they are comfortable and in good working order.
Under her watch, none of the scarecrows have ever fallen.
But she is getting older, and the village has known safety and plenty for too long. The villagers laugh at the old stories and jeer at her as she does her rounds. Without an apprentice to carry on her work, she worries what will happen when she is gone.
She wonders what the villagers will do when the darkness returns.

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As an undertaker, he maintained a grave sense of humor. He always wore his funeral best and drove a black hearse with custom RM41MORE license plates.
He kept Halloween decorations up all year long, and gave out full-sized candy bars each year.
It wasn’t until he died, with a packed house for his funeral, that they discovered his secret.
Hidden in a back closet were hundreds of carefully wrapped paintings, a lifetime of work. His art style was vivid and colorful, full of vibrant landscapes, happy portraits, and adorable animals. He captured all the joys of his life in paint.

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Once a year, the villagers gathered outside the witch’s hut. It was always a night after the harvest before the hard frost turned the world white with snow.
She looked out at the crowd and smirked. Tonight was the one time they came to her willingly, without desperation in their hearts. They wanted to know the darkness she lived in, just for a night.
She considered showing them the true terror of the grave, but it was nice to be appreciated, even only once a year.
She sighed, put on her makeup, and got ready to give them a show.

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Peanut was a shaman. She had been protecting her tiny flock for decades, and even though she was getting old, she still held a position of great respect within the tribe.
When the monsters came from the sky, long-limbed and carrying sinister weapons, she was the only one with the ancient knowledge to understand their language.
One morning, the hunters caught a group of them. They came to her first to ask what they should do. She examined the tall, bald-bodied creatures.
“Aw, this one’s got a little underbite!” One of the humans cooed at her.
“Eat them,” she declared.

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The crowds were shrinking. The magician was good, but pulling a rabbit from his hat and sawing a woman in half didn’t cut it anymore. His illusions didn’t measure up when they could see a moving picture for the same nickel.
It was time to close up the theatre. The magician could go west and join up with a traveling show. The money was crap, but doing magic was what mattered to him. He started making the arrangements.
Backstage, the rabbit fixed him with a red-eyed glare. “Have you considered what I want?” She was always unreasonable about these things.

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Her mother told her never to touch the bottles on her work table. But they were so pretty, all different shapes and sizes, glowing in a rainbow of colors, that she couldn’t help herself.
One day, while she was cleaning, she pocketed a tiny green bottle no longer than her thumb. She figured her mother wouldn’t miss it.
That night, she pulled out the bottle to watch the tiny lights swirling within. But it slipped from her fingers, smashing on the stones and releasing the angry djinn that was trapped inside.
The witch’s daughter would never disobey her mother again.

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When we reached the dark side of the Moon, we found the message waiting for us. Someone had hidden it beneath the cratered surface, on metal plats a billion years old.
It spoke of the aliens that created the Moon as a shield, and to generate tidal forces, in hopes that Earth would support life.
We ventured farther into the stars in search of our ancient benefactors. But a billion years is a long time. We never found the beings behind the Moon.
Instead, we found new proto-planets and we used our knowledge to give them Moons of their own.

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Billy chased the birds in the park, even though his mother told him not to. He would find a stick and chase after the crows and the ravens.
He didn’t believe in the Carrion Man in his long black feathery coat. That was just a story to scare little kids.
But one day, as he was about to poke a fat bird gorging itself on seed, Billy heard a tap-tap-tap on the stones behind him. He turned to see a tall figure in a big black cloak and hat with a long white mask.
He carried a very big stick.

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When she lost her powers, her team abandoned her.
They all gave her sympathy and praised her work. She’d saved so many, served Justice, and upheld Peace. She’d been a true hero. But that time was over.
They set her down on a beach and turned their backs on her. She was no longer one of them.
She watched as they flew off into the sunset in perfect formation. She screamed, pleaded, and begged for them to take her back. They never turned around.
She grabbed a fistful of cool sand and watched it fall through her fingers, vowing revenge.

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The marble was of the highest quality, yet the stone was flawed. A single rose-colored streak marred the milky white surface. The nobleman who purchased it flew into a rage, but the sculptor put a hand on his arm.
“It’s perfect,” he said.
“Can you not see the flaw?” his patron asked.
“Let me have this stone, and I will show you.”
The sculptor worked in seclusion late into the night. Finally, he unveiled the statue.
It was of a beautiful woman, with a single mark on her neck, as though from a lover’s kiss.
“It’s perfect,” the nobleman agreed.

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