Hugh J. O'Donnell

When the pirate ship appeared, the crew prepared to repel boarders. The captain rubbed hands together solicitously and begged my assistance as a traveling mage. He couldn’t afford me, but I made an exception.
As the ship drew alongside, a cry went up among the superstitious defenders. The derelict vessel was crawling with skeletal horrors!
While the crew panicked, I looked for the necromancer. He was standing on the rotted forecastle, directing his puppets. I called forth a great wave and swamped the ship, knocking the pirates into the water.
Undead pirates are terrible to behold, but skeletons can’t swim.

“Pirate” by ~Sincere Stock~ is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2025 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 

The old lot had stood empty for years. It used to be a surviving patch of woods between the subdivisions, but the land was eventually cleared and leveled.
But nothing was ever built on it. Some of the developers had financial or legal troubles, other purchasers just felt so uncomfortable on the land that they sold it off after an on-site inspection.
The lot dreamed of haunted houses with shutters that creaked in the wind and porches that sagged like a disapproving frown. It could manage a mournful wail if the wind was just right.
For now, the lot waited.

“Empty Lot in Portland, OR” by danxoneil is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2025 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 

When the famous spy and cryptographer passed away, they found a book of handwritten notes in his kitchen. It was his last gift to the world.
Codebreakers spent years poring over the notes online and arguing with each other about cyphers in forums, but couldn’t make heads or tails of the hidden meaning that was surely left in the text somewhere. When the world’s greatest cryptographers couldn’t solve the puzzle, they declared it a hoax.
In truth, there was no hidden code in the notebook. The old man had merely wanted to share his award-winning scone recipes with the world.

“Sugar cakes in the recipe books of Margaret Home Countess of Moray” by Unoquha is marked with CC0 1.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2025 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 

When we bought the beach house, I regretted it right away.
Every year, a little more of the beach eroded away. The debts and taxes just too much for us. I tried to sell it, but the market had dried up.
When the house fell into the sea, it was almost a relief.
“At least we won’t have to pay property taxes anymore,” I said.
There was a knock at the door. A strange little man with overly large eyes stood hunched on the porch. He handed me a damp business card.
“I’m the property assessor from Atlantis,” he explained.

“Beach House Exterior Colors” by DesignFolly.com is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2025 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 

The old mystic lived in the swamp for so long that he became a legend to the villages surrounding villages, which avoided the deep swamp for fear of witches and monsters. They were no match for him.
He had been a hero once, forced into hiding by the Dark Lord’s ascension. The spirits gave him a prophecy: He would train the hero would save the world, but only if he stayed hidden.
The mystic felt the horrors inflicted by the Dark Lord’s armies, but told himself that it was necessary to wait.
When the boy arrived, he was a disappointment.

“A house in the swamp” by Marit & Toomas Hinnosaar is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2025 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 

Last night, the girl wrote her phone number on a napkin and stuffed it brazenly into his pants pocket before sauntering out of the bar. He couldn’t remember the reason she couldn’t just text it to him , but it had seemed like a good idea at the time, and he hadn’t been complaining.
In the piercing light of day, he waited for his hangover to pass enough to read it. He spread the cheap paper out on the bedside table.
‘I poisoned your drink. Call this number within twelve hours if you want to live.’
He sighed. Every damn time.

“Abstract White Crumpled Napkin Folds Pattern” by shaire productions is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2025 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 

When the cadre of Orks escaped the front line, they stole a boat and sailed until they found a place that had never heard of the Dark Lord.
They set down their pikes and clubs and made a new life for themselves. It was Shorty who suggested they open up a restaurant.
They hadn’t seen much cuisine in their time fighting, but they made up for their inexperience with enthusiasm and brotherhood.
When Ripper hung the sign and they opened the doors, they stood looking into an uncertain future. But if nothing else, meat would always be on the menu.

Image by Thew Adams.

Everyday Drabbles © 2025 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 

Through everything, he maintained his garden. In the winter, while the election results were coming in, he ordered seeds.
In spring, during the early days of the regime’s expansion, he planted. His neighbors asked how he would fight.
In summer, during the protests, he watered and weeded. His neighbors asked why he wasn’t out protesting with them.
In autumn, when the crackdowns started, he harvested vegetables. He stored what would keep and canned the rest. His neighbors hid in their basement.
The next winter, when the store shelves were bare, he shared with his neighbors so they could keep fighting.

“garden” by drewfish is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2025 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0