Hugh J. O'Donnell

The squirrel sat on the branch and looked out at the falling snow. In a few weeks, he would curl up in the bole of a tree and sink into warm hibernation for a few months, emerging into a new spring.
But for now, he had to sit and freeze. His mind remembered the dim echo of sitting in front of a roaring fire as snow swirled outside a thickly insulated window.
His new claws, although adept at climbing and leaping, had forgotten the trick of making things.
It was one of the few times he regretted the witch’s bargain.

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“I need some fast gold, and I heard you were the man to talk to.”
The stranger in the tavern looked up at me. There was a weighing look in his eyes. “Sign the contract, and you get your gold,” he said.
“And then?”
“At the time of your death, which may be many years from now, I’ll take possession of the body.”
“But how will you find it?” I asked.
He grinned wolfishly. “Don’t worry about that. I have my ways.”
I hesitated, but what choice did I have? I took the pen and donated my body to necromancy.

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That summer seemed to last forever, packed with golden afternoons, soft breezes, and gentle rain that fell overnight as the town slept.
August came and went, with weather as perfect as a postcard. When school resumed, they had to run the air conditioners all through September. The leaves fell in 80-degree heat, leaving the birds unsure weather to migrate or not. Children trick-or-treated without jackets for the first time in living memory.
People commented on the fine weather, but didn’t start to worry until November arrived without snow in the forecast.
We didn’t find the weather control machine until December.

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As a child, her mother told her stories of the Celestials. To keep her entertained as they pulled what they could from the polluted earth, she told them of the magic people and their sky cities.
When her mother lay dying, sick and poisoned, she told the stories back to her.
She’d never believed her mother’s stories. But she followed the strange light in the sky to a strange silver craft and the beautiful people who emerged.
They looked as human as herself.
She sneaked aboard the ship, vowing to discover the truth and lay her mother’s soul to rest.

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After he came home from the doctor’s office, he made the list.
He carefully examined each potential entry, weighing their pros and cons, and considering what was necessary and what was superfluous. Then he saved it and sent it out.
He expected to be nervous, but completing the list felt freeing, like he’d let go of something he’d been holding onto for a long time. The next day, he received an email from the reviews editor. His article was approved. He had always wanted to be published in that fishing magazine, and they had agreed to publish his bucket list.

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He woke up in a field with a crisp, blue November sky overhead. The door between the worlds of the living and the dead only opened one night a year, and now he was trapped on the wrong side.
He shambled into town, looking like a college kid making a walk of shame in costume. He caught bemused and pitying looks from the mortals, but they’d figure out what he was soon enough.
In a strip mall, workers hung decorations of Santa Claus and his reindeer. Perhaps, he thought, he could hide out and catch a ride home with them.

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The supervillain tossed the captured superhero a lump of coal. Restrained by specially designed chains, he barely caught it.
“Press this into a diamond,” the villain said. “And I won’t kill any of your friends today.”
It took about eight hours for the hero to complete the task. As he handed back the uncut gem, it scraped lighting against his manacles. The villain didn’t notice.
It took the hero about a week to break the shackles and rescue everyone.
“How?” the supervillain asked, his lair in flames around him.
“The trick isn’t just asserting pressure, but where you apply it.”

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