Hugh J. O'Donnell

The bandit found the ivy-covered monument in a clearing. The symbol engraved into the monolith at the center meant nothing to her, and the glyphs on the pillars were illegible. But the ground was flat and had a good vantage point. She readied her spear and made her stand.
The knight came crashing out of the woods but stopped when he saw the ruins.
He sheathed his sword. “This is holy ground. I’ll shed no blood here.”
She fled and considered herself lucky. But she never learned the truth about the ruins, and the mystery plagued her like a scar.

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When she could, she would walk her dog in the virtual park. The physical park was always full of people who gave her anxiety. She managed better if she knew that the people around her just temporary illusions.
She did notice some consistencies, though. There was a quiet man who ate his lunch on a shaded bench. Since there were no consequences, she tried striking up a friendship.
Until one day, the program glitched, and the two of them found themselves standing in an empty room, understanding for the first time that the other was an actual person after all.

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Every time the heroes destroyed his body, the robot built himself a new one. Early on, he had access to the best facilities, but as they cut off his access to labs and factories, he was running out of options.
He considered his programming. He was a superior intelligence designed to go where humans could not. Yet he continually chose a humanoid configuration.
He fabricated his new body in a powerful, efficient quadrupedal configuration. He added teeth, claws, and the standard laser armaments. When the body finished printing, he examined himself through a drone camera.
“Query: Who’s a good boy?”

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The massive tree grew amid an ancient ruin. Its twisting roots plunged through the crumbling stone to find good soil and fresh water.
The people who lived nearby considered the tree a metaphor for self-reliance and survival against all odds. Perhaps they were the descendants of the ruin’s inhabitants, or they might have come from their conquerors. The history was long since lost.
But the tree, if they had been able to ask it, would have fondly remembered a time when it grew straight and narrow in a clay pot, cultivated by a skilled and loving hand, now centuries gone.

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The Orb hung over the rains-shrouded city like a giant mechanical eyeball. But it was blind. I thought as I raced through the city, balancing an industrial power cable in one hand and an umbrella in the other.
Finally, I reached the power station and plugged it in. I heard a distant whoosh as the Orb came back online from emergency power-saving mode.
“Is that better? I asked via my communicator.
“Yes, thank you,” the Orb’s A.I. replied.
Outside, rings of orange light limned the Orb’s single entry hatch. It was such an eyeball.
“What are friends for?” I said.

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The apprentice brought the wizard out to the woods. The wizard had been growing senile. He was forgetting things and losing track of himself. An out-of-control mind in command of that much power was a danger to everyone.
“It is time, Master,” he said gently. The ancient wizard nodded.
Legends say that wizards do not die but transcend reality. But the truth is carefully protected. When a magician grows senile, they transform into animals. They forget they were ever human, taking their secrets with them.
The apprentice watched the eagle soar into the heavens and returned to the village alone.

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The swamp monster rose from the muddy water and shrieked at the humans. The two men ran away, knocking over the sign they had been hammering into the ground. The swamp monster picked it up.
He did not understand the human letters, but the drawing was clear enough. It was a picture of him with his gaping mouth full of sharp fangs and his vine-like arms raised menacingly.
It was a swamp monster’s job to protect the swamp, and nothing wrecked an ecosystem faster than humans. They should be scared of him.
But he couldn’t help feeling a little hurt.

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The secret to the ritual is that it works if you need it to. Death does not appear before poseurs, but if your desire is pure enough, if your need is great enough, you will catch His attention. It matters little if you don’t arrange the candles correctly, or mispronounce every other rune.
When the door to the other side opens, He will step through in all His pomp and majesty, and you will be allowed to bargain.
And as He flies off into the night, you will wait beside your lost love and decide the price was worth it.

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He sailed an ocean that flowed between worlds, looking for home. Every time he set out in his little boat and rowed out into the water, he would return to a different realm.
Sometimes the differences were as subtle as the title of a beloved book. Others had strange physics or dramatically altered histories. Some worlds teemed with life while others were barren.
After spending time in each world and learning the wrongness of it, he would set out to sea and try again.
He never realized that home wasn’t a place you found. It was a place you made.

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They built the temple so high that the tops of its towers rested among the clouds. The massive complex was in a constant state of construction, with each new generation of builders adding to the project.
As the centuries went on, styles came and went, and the ideas of new generations clashed with those that came before them; sometimes successfully, sometimes not. The temple became a living map of history as each architect was driven to go higher and farther than their predecessors, reaching up to Heaven itself.
But the higher they built, the larger the cracks grew in the foundations.

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