Each night the mist would roll in, shrouding the little fishing village. The boy would wake up early, and be out at first light, disappearing into the cool air before the morning sun burned it away. He would go down to the shore and watch the boats pull out. The mist made their shapes fuzzy and indistinct, and his imagination replaced them with dragons and leviathans. He would return home after the boats left, usually to a lecture from his parents to get his head out of the clouds. At eighteen, he left home and became a successful fantasy artist.
He owned a stall in the Palace Square selling souvenirs and snacks to tourists. He’d inherited it from his father, and it was in a prime location, facing the famous Golden Gates. He’d worked at the stall since he was a child, and spent sixty years looking at the baroque patterns in the gilded iron. But he’d never been inside. Eventually, he passed the business on to his own sons. The first thing he did in his retirement was buy a ticket for the Palace Garden tour, finally able to see what was on the other side of the gate.
Every turn of the seasons, the goblins migrated to new foraging grounds. It was a raucous procession that trampled fields, knocked down trees, and reshaped the course of rivers. When human settlers arrived, they tried to put a stop to the migration. They built wooden palisades. the goblins went over, and sometimes through them. Stone walls fared no better. The militia met with disaster and hired adventurers did worse. Finally, the humans built a road. The goblins happily used it, sparing their new farms. But they still had the stray curious goblin poke their head through the door. Or wall.
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.
Hugh J. O'Donnell 