Toppo the octopus was born at the aquarium. Every day she performed for the amusement of the humans. She did little tricks for the staff, and they fed her and kept her healthy. She had a comfortable existence. But every night, she dreamed. She dreamed of The Ocean, and storms with towering waves. She dreamt of towering over wooden ships, splintering them with mighty arms. In Toppo’s dreams, she was a kraken. She heard the guides say all water flowed back to the sea. She wondered. One day, she spotted a loose grate outside her tank, and took her chance.
The portrait was an instant sensation. Not only was the composition notable, but the enigmatic expression on the model’s face arrested the attention of critics and patrons alike. The artist, knowing his business, let the public debate its meaning themselves. The figure was called alternately a temptress, a saint, and a harridan. She remained a figure of fascination for decades. In the stuffy flophouse the artist used as a studio, the model sat on her cushions and endured hours of torturous discomfort as he made minuscule changes to his painting. She tried not to let it show on her face.
When her father died, she transformed herself into a clawed crystal demon; a goddess in pursuit of revenge. Those close to her turned away in horror, claiming that she had forsaken her humanity. Being torn between her desires and her responsibilities, she would have turned into a monster anyway, even if she looked the same on the outside. So she embraced the worst of her father’s research and became the monster he always wanted. It was only later, after she’d emerged from the blood and horror, that she could look at herself and embrace what she always needed to be.
Sometimes it feels like she practices a new drill every day. Fire drills, earthquake drills, active shooter drills; she can tell you what each alarm means and how to respond. When the rest of her class feels panic, she gets a twinge of excitement. It’s her favorite part of the day. Her teacher explained the concept of ‘Chekhov’s Gun,’ but she already understands. The world is full of potential energy. The gun placed on the mantlepiece will someday be fired. The emergency is always waiting, in the future. And when the alarm rings, she will rise to meet her destiny.
The weather changed fast on the mountain, especially after sunset. He’d been hiking alone, in defiance of the pleas of his hosts. He was an experienced outdoorsman and wanted some privacy. The change in the weather caught him by surprise. He was blinded by the squalling snow and howling wind. When he stumbled across the cabin, it felt like a miracle. He banged on the door, hoping to find a warm fireside. The opening door let out a blast of gelid air. The smiling face with too many sharp teeth greeted him. Only then did he truly understand their warnings.
They laid siege to the city and attempted to starve them into submission. But from the start the invaders were beset by problems. Their own supply lines were disrupted. There were accidents and even rumors the camp was haunted. As the days wore on, morale among the troops continued to drop while the resolve of the enemy just became stronger. The commander ordered a thorough search of the area and the found the hidden tunnels the enemy was using to bring in supplies and cause havoc. But it was already too late. They broke the siege and went home, defeated.
The Unicorn is well known in the forest. She can be seen from a distance, guiding lost travelers to safe paths or seeking out hidden dangers. She is a blessing that radiates warmth and light to all. But the Unicorn never gets close. Legends say she is shy. They say she will only approach a virgin girl. Nobody asked the Unicorn. Unicorns are old creatures with long memories. She knows the flame that lights the way can burn you. She remembers the lsat time. So she keeps her distance, and guides the forest with love, hoping that love will spread.
When the snow fell for days, we did not think much of it. It was winter in the Far North. We bundled ourselves up and used the winter doors of our houses when the snow buried the ground floor. But as the months past, the seasons refused to turn. The Sun lay hidden behind impenetrable clouds, if it rose at all. The elders called it ‘Fimbulwinter’ and despaired the ending of the world. When the food in our cellars ran out we ate ice. We changed ourselves in defiance of the endless winter, and survived. And we became something else.
The prophet lounged on a cushioned divan in his audience chamber, practically a throne. The villagers gave him the hall when he’d arrived and predicted a disaster. It was only his quick prognostication that spared the village from the worst of the damage. A curtain at the far end of the room twitched, and he nodded almost imperceptibly to the figure hidden behind it. The villagers loved their new prophet, but found him dour, only predicting calamities. Good fortune was crowd pleasing, but tricky. Doom was easier; especially if you had a team to make sure your predictions came true.
The party found the book at the very back of the tomb, next to the sarcophagus itself. It was chained to a lectern, as though waiting for a reader in the dark. After checking it over, the thief brushed dust from the leather binding and opened to a page. It was filled with tight handwriting in a language they couldn’t decipher. As they were puzzling over the tome, the lich rose from his coffin and coughed politely. “Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night and just have to write an idea down before you forget it?”
Hugh J. O'Donnell 
