He kept a secret room dedicated to his travels in his youth, known only to himself. Inside, he kept mementos that would bring his doom if discovered. The shelves were filled with treasures from lost lands. He had an opalescent stone from the Fire Kingdom, a jade ring worn by one of the Water Temple’s strange priestesses, and a book liberated from the Underground Library before it burned. He told himself that there was nothing to be done at the time. He told himself that they weren’t trophies but seeds that would bloom again. Some days he even believed it.
We took a Ghost Tour through New Orleans’ French Quarter, but it was a disappointment. Our guide Philippe rambled, trailed off, and nearly got us lost. And his bloody stories were short on actual ghosts. Still, we followed him through the moonlit streets and tipped generously, all the while grumbling to ourselves. My wife was content to let the matter rest, but I wanted to give the tour company a piece of my mind. When I called them up, the woman who answered almost hung up on me. “Is this a prank call?” she asked. “Philippe died three years ago!”
I remind myself that I wanted to be here. I volunteered for this mission. Space was always the goal. Even if the alien planet I’m on is a lightless rock a billion miles from the closest bar and the surface temperature is fifty Kelvin with a windchill. I try not to grumble as I set up the experiment. I pound the stakes into the bare ground, fill the chamber and wait, feeling more than a little foolish. Capcom is in my ear, telling me to be patient. Sure enough, a deer is eating out of the birdfeeder within twenty minutes.
Mother Brewer stood before her cauldron and stirred the mash. She was the product of five generations of ale-wives, and her beer was the best in a hundred miles. She had made a good living until the innkeepers and merchants scared off most of her customers by spreading rumors that she was a witch. She still needed to feed her family, so they ‘generously’ agreed to buy her stock at half the usual price. The brew was ready. Mother Brewer grinned wickedly as she poured the glowing amber liquid into kegs. Those fools would regret just how right they were.
The morning after the election, he woke early. He was still exhausted from giving his concession speech the night before. The loss was crushing. He really thought he’d done it this time. He was going to set everything right. His future was a red carpet, rolling out ahead of him, until the numbers came in. He made a cup of tea and turned on the news, trying to figure out what went wrong. In the afternoon he set up the time machine and set the engine for a month prior. He’d get it right, no matter how long it took.
The chair didn’t go with the rest of her furniture, and it barely fit in her tiny apartment. It was a heavy piece of dark oak transported from the other side of the country. She kept the chair in the corner of her living room where it sat unused except when she needed an extra seat for company, or on days when she needed it the most. When she came home exhausted or frustrated, she would pull out the old kitchen chair and sit down. She would feel the phantom touch of her grandmother’s hand on her shoulder, reassuring her.
The old fire god huddled in his celestial realm, trying to stay warm. He’d been powerful once, worshiped everywhere. Millions of tiny flames lit the darkness, and each breath of smoke carried his essence. Even if his worshippers never knew it, he blessed them all. But his enemies and their mortal agents had banned his worship and now his very image was outlawed. Now he was weak and cold. New gods rose to take his place: gods of mist, nature goddesses and mechanical deities he couldn’t understand. They all said they were his children. All he wanted was a cigarette.
The village had a tradition. Every youth spent a year traveling abroad. It was a rite of passage that signified their adulthood. The children would choose their destinations, and their parents would make the arrangements. Most boys took apprenticeships or jobs on ships or caravans, and came back having learned a trade. Most girls stayed with distant relatives or family friends, and many came back with husbands. Some never returned, and were mourned as though dead. The practice ended when the War started. After the village was bombed, friends from all over the world came to mourn and help rebuild.
We are so back! Welcome to Everyday Drabbles, a daily 100-word short story. After participating in The Dog Days of Podcasting by recording some of my favorite stories from my original run, I got inspired to get the project going again. Please bookmark this site to read a new story every day, and subscribe to receive a weekly summary email in your inbox!
Today’s Drabble is “Tradition.” Music by Kevin MacLeod of Incompetech.com. Thanks for listening and I’ll be back with more audio in December. Until then, visit EverydayDrabbles.com for more very short stories as Everyday Drabbles returns in text with all new drabbles starting September 1st! I hope you enjoy this sneak peek, and have a fabulous day!
Hugh J. O'Donnell 