When the little sprite found the whispering gallery in the Faerie Queen’s hall, she took full advantage of it. Sprites are tiny, quiet creatures that flit their way through life avoiding larger fae. They don’t have any political power. But by some forgotten architectural design or enchantment, she could whisper and the Queen’s petitioners would hear her as though she were standing on their shoulder. The sprite used the spot to spread dissent and mock the Queen, making her supplicants struggle not to laugh during audiences. The Queen sought her execution, but the sprite was tenacious and difficult to catch.
He knew he should keep Pancake inside. But the little ginger cat looked so insistent, and meowed so piteously as she scratched at the backdoor, that he relented and let her out. He was worried sick the whole time she was out. There were sightings of hawks and even a coyote in the neighborhood. He imagined her being carried off in airborne talons or in a beast’s jaws. It was a relief when he heard Pancake scratching to be let in again. He opened the door and she sauntered in carrying the largest feather he’d ever seen in her mouth.
Disgusted with the world, he set himself up in a little cabin in the woods. He dug his own well and grew his own food. He even made his own his electricity, which he maintained for emergencies and a few creature comforts. He withdrew from civilization. He spent his time walking the woods, doing the constant upkeep that kept him fed and warm, and just enjoying the quiet rhythm of his days. He told himself he didn’t miss humanity. He told himself he didn’t need anyone. And he never learned the difference that he could have made if he’d stayed.
The skeleton paced the hallway. Reanimated by dark magic, they struggled to remember their former life. Unable to concentrate on anything else, they searched the ground for some clue: A scrap of clothing or a piece of jewelry, maybe. The skeleton shambled through the corridors hoping something would jog their memory. From high above, the necromancer’s vampire lieutenant watched the pitiful display. “Why do you do that to them?” He asked. “I saw you put that one together from a random bone pile.” The necromancer shrugged. “Programming animation is my weakest skill. At least this way they’re moving and angry.”
“Skeleton – French anatomical engraving” by liverpoolhls is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.
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When she heard that her father died, she truncated her studies abroad and returned home. She spent the next two days in airports, texting relations and family friends explaining that her plane had been delayed. She landed just in time for the funeral. After the service, they all told her what a good man he’d been, and how sad she must be. The strain of travel helped approximate something like grief, and she said nothing. Shed known her father better than any of them, and he’d been a bastard in private. Preserving his reputation was her last sacrifice for him.
She is a story on the wind. The Tattered Woman had fought a dozen Imperial soldiers in the market square of Harall before vanishing. She traversed the Sandstorm Wastes alone. She freed an army of Underfolk captives from the Relentless Caravan. She is everywhere and nowhere. If you could find her, the Tattered Woman would say many things. The first is that her name is Rachel. The second is that her legend is almost entirely exaggerated. The third is that a red taffeta ballgown makes terrible survival gear. Finally, she would tell you she just wants to get back home.
The Creature lay on the slab, incomplete but aware. It watched as its creator busied himself with other research, never staying on one project for very long before moving on to the next one. It waited, and occasionally he would spend an hour or two tinkering with the Creature before abandoning again, leaving it inchoate. The Creature figured out how to move on its own, and considered whether or not to demonstrate its progress to the scientist. The Creature knew what it wanted to be and didn’t think its creator would concur. It finished itself and escaped into the night.
The Devil opened a casino to tempt the weak and snare the wicked with bright lights and the promise of easy money. The games were fair, as such things went. But the dealers were trained to string gamblers along until their desperation was at its peak. Then their supervisors would swoop in to offer the unlucky player a deal. Not only was the scheme successful, but it was profitable, too. On His days of rest, God sneaked down in disguise and ran the tables. The casino went bankrupt in a month. Only He knows what He did with the winnings.
The mission bell rang out in the pre-dawn hours of what promised to be a perfect spring day. Another of God’s gifts to the monastery. But then it kept ringing. And all the monks knew what the alarm meant. Working quickly and silently, the men of faith gathered what they needed and made their way to the basement chapel. When all were accounted for, it took three monks to close the stone door behind them. They gathered to pray, but a few cringed when they heard the mighty roars reverberate through the stone. The dragons had returned to Capistrano.
The outlaw had won. He reclaimed what was stolen from him and saved the day. Years passed, and the thing about endings is that they are only as thick as a sheet of paper. And Justice ebbs and flows like the tide. He smelled smoke on the wind, and heard cries in the night. It was all happening again. Homes were burning. Families were losing everything. People were vanishing. He’d only won a few breaths of fresh air. He told himself that he was well out of it. But when he looked down the bow was already in his hands.
Hugh J. O'Donnell 