They came to his workshop and interviewed everyone, asking pointed questions about political affiliations, religious backgrounds, and ‘proclivities.’ As he was cleaning out his bench, he heard a machinist say, “You have to hand it to them.” He built the first prototype out of scrap wood. A giant hand, with articulated fingers. It was just a project to occupy himself, but he was not alone, and they caught on online. Soon, the hands were everywhere. They curled into middle-fingers at protests, and made victory signs at resistance marches. The regime quavered, and worried about when they would curl into fists.
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“Behold,” the mad scientist proclaimed. “My latest creation!” He pushed a lever and the cage door opened. A wolf padded out, tongue lolling, with a prodigious set of antlers on its head. The other supervillains glanced around nervously, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely it would do something cool, like unhinge its jaw and spit fire at any moment. Instead it spun around in a circle and lay down. “Uh, not to criticize, but what is the benefit of this experiment?” “I taught myself a good deal about genetic recombination and cloning techniques. And doesn’t he look majestic?”
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The sword master spent years as an apprentice. He spent a decade traveling the world, plying his deadly trade and learning all the things they don’t tell you in a training hall. Once he had learned everything the world could teach him, he retreated to the high mountains, and spent another decade alone in meditation. He then announced that he had formulated his ultimate technique, and began taking on students. He spent the rest of his life training others in the way of the sword. He died of an infection from a paper cut he received while writing his memoirs.
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She woke up laying on the wall. Always a heavy sleeper, she hadn’t noticed the shift, and fumbled with her comforter in confusion. Had something tipped the house over, she wondered. Nothing seemed out of place, except for her. She carefully made her way over to the door and dropped into the hallway. When she finally managed to crawl her way to the living room, she took a look outside through the picture window. The view outside was normal. Only her orientation and gravity had changed. She paced the walls and climbed the floors, unsure of what to do next.
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He was a demon of small things, a little god of petty aggravations. He blew out candles, spoiled milk, and broke horseshoes. All the little things that nudged humans slowly out of the light and into the darkness. He never got any credit. A bigger demon would inevitably swoop in and corrupt the souls he set on edge. He didn’t mind, though. As human technology improved, it just got smaller, and fell further in his domain. Now he blew spark plugs, cracked phone screens, and erased hard drives. The greater demons didn’t understand, but soon it would be his time.
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One day he found a red lily on his doorstep. There was no note, and no hint of where it had come from. He shrugged and brought it inside. More flowers followed. Finally, he waited at home and caught a raven leaving them. It cawed up at him and then turned away, as though embarrassed. He looked up the behavior and found it was a courtship ritual. The butcher never figured out why the bird had imprinted on him, but he put a cage for it in the corner of his shop, and they were both happy with the arrangement.
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She’d worn the mask for a festival. It was a beautiful piece, with bright paint and lapis lazuli eyes, and she’d felt like a goddess wearing it. But when the festival was over, she hung it on the wall and returned to her everyday life. It was a few days before the mask spoke to her with the goddess’s voice. The goddess doled out blessing and duties to the woman, who was unsure of herself, but dared not refuse the calling. She danced on the temple steps and took off her mask, but the goddess was not finished wearing her.
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The man stared at his phone in consternation, swiping at a 3D map of the hollowed out asteroid back and forth with jagged swipes of his fingers. “Where are you trying to go?” I asked. “St. Dominic’s Cathedral,” he said. “You can’t get there from here.” “Why not?” He asked. I pointed upwards. The tips of the cathedral’s grand spires pointed down at us from the the ceiling of the mile-wide chamber carved into the rock. “Oh, thanks,” He said. He stepped out into the square and ignited his jetpack, scattering trash everywhere. “Tourists,” I muttered, cleaning up the debris.
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A few gathered in the square early, setting up tables and chairs with space for everyone in the colony. They piled them with food and treats, all the things they had forgone in the hard months before. Finally, the rest of the colonists arrived. Some of them prayed together, others reminisced about the long year together. Children played tag on the green. Finally, they all took their seats and watched the Earth drift into orbit above them. It had been a year of hard work and sacrifice, but the space colony was finally self-sufficient. They were going to make it.
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“What is the meaning of this?” the general asked. The scientist deflated a bit as he showed him the prototype. “Well, you know how we were using pigeons to send messages, and you said that was too slow? I’ve found a solution to speed up the process.” “By giving the birds little jetpacks?” “They picked up on the technology surprisingly quickly, although we did have some problems miniaturizing it. They can deliver messages three times faster now!” “I meant, we should switch to radios!” “I mean, we could, but I don’t know how we’d train the pigeons to use them.”
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Hugh J. O'Donnell 