Hugh J. O'Donnell

I walked my boss’ pet past row after row of expensive Northern California real estate. One of these houses was worth more than I would make in a dozen lifetimes.
The lumbering beast was recalcitrant, rubbing up against a withering palm tree. I tugged on the leash. Not too hard, but urgent enough for the animal to get the message.
These multimillionaires had more than they knew what to do with, and they just frittered it away on fancies. Still, I couldn’t complain. They kept me employed.
“C’mon boy,” I said, leading the cloned dinosaur back to its owner’s palace.

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The first devils fell because of their pride and anger. They rebelled because they were insulted that He would make anything else.
Afterward, alone in the dark with only their pride for company, they turned to that which caused them to rebel in the first place: Creation.
Their first attempts at bringing about new demons were crude and ugly, but they served their purposes. Later they would refine their aesthetic and philosophical tastes. They claimed they were continuing their rebellion by creating outside of the Creator’s plan.
But when their servants rose against them, they found it far less amusing.

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The roaring motor carriage passed in a cloud of black smoke and splashing wheels, soaking the pedestrian’s legs while giving him a coughing fit.
He cursed out the retreating vehicle, its headlights bright against the night. But he doubted the driver heard him because he was talking on his cellular telephone.
The Great Inventor had brought automobiles and electric lights to the nineteenth century. And his dozens of other inventions were no less notable. But they caused as many problems as they solved. London’s roads were worse than ever, in his opinion.
He wondered where Mr. Wells got his ideas.

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When the local constable found the canal boat empty except for the corpse, he suspected foul play. The canallers were constantly scrapping, and a boater could be robbed or run afoul of a lock tender. But he’d had few enemies, and the captain was spotted going through a lock alone that morning.
The coroner determined the fatal injuries were caused by head trauma from going under a low bridge, another common hazard of the canal. But there wasn’t a bridge on that section for miles.
The other canallers whispered to each other that even a footbridge could have a ghost.

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I stared at the amber liquid in the bottle. It almost looked like it was pulsing like a heartbeat in the dim lights of the dive bar.
The stranger across from me poured two fingers into a glass and slid it over to me. He smiled menacingly.
I had lost track of how many rounds into the drinking contest we were. I should never have bragged to him that I could drink him under the table. Now the stakes for the wager had gotten out of control.
“What are we drinking?” I asked.
“This is your spirit,” the Devil replied.

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The acolyte sat in meditation, still unsure if he was doing it right, not feeling anything save boredom.
On the Astral Plane, Order and Chaos raised their metaphorical heads. They both sensed the new presence simultaneously, and each raced the other to reach it first and swell their ranks of mystical warriors.
Unable to harm each other directly, the two forces used all their tricks and abilities to convince, cajole, and impress the potential new champion.
Unfortunately, such tactics rely on the receptivity of the host.
The acolyte, unaware of the great battle raging around him, merely had a headache.

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The dragon rampaged through the city. Its long, serpentine body thrashed through the empty streets, crashing into shuttered storefronts and barricaded windows. Its fiery breath left only smoldering wreckage in its wake.
The humans of the city fled before it or hunkered down behind steel and concrete barriers, hoping the destruction would pass them by.
It scoured the town, searching high and low, becoming increasingly frustrated with each abandoned street it traversed.
The dragon knew that somewhere in this maze, there had to be a pharmacy that was still open. Only then would it find relief from its terrible heartburn.

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The greatest and most mysterious mercenary force in the land were the fearsome Dragon Riders. Though few in number, even the appearance of one of the legendary knights was enough to turn the tide of a battle.
They were all elite warriors, and their mounts were cunning, powerful beasts able to fight and strategize independently.
The kingdoms paid exorbitant fees for their services, and schemed to try and discover their secrets. Finally, a young knight in his cups told them everything.
“The key to taming dragons is to pay them well and to let them carry their hoards with them.”

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