“We’re contracting out this year,” The elf said, leaning their long and angular frame down to peer at the two gnomes. “Contracting out? I don’t understand,” one of the pair said. The elf sighed. “It has been a difficult year. The Big Guy needs a bit of help with deliveries.” “Does he?” The other asked. “Belief is somewhat thin this year. We were hoping to borrow some power from the Deep Places,” the elf admitted. A gnome grinned wolfishly. “Were you now? And what have you brought to bargain?” The elf reached into their sack, hoping for a Christmas Miracle.
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He dreamed of the future. He imagined a sky full of jetpacks and flying cars. He pictured each star crowded with gleaming space colonies, the void between them plied by ships full of utopian heroes. One day he got up and found himself in the wrong future. His vision had been replaced by a maze of dark alleys ruled by sinister megacorporations in high-speed sunglasses. He raged against the unfairness of it all. A small hand rested on his shoulder. He looked into his daughter’s eyes and realized you don’t dream the future. You build it. He got to work.
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He always carried a hatchet on his belt, prominently displayed. He had a lot of problems in public, but he insisted it was a tool and nothing more. He had to get an open carry license, even though he didn’t own a gun, just the chopper. He only used it once, opening the locked door of a public restroom where a man was having a heart attack. His wife hugged him as they carried the man out. “He would’ve died if you hadn’t had that weapon on you.” “It’s not a weapon,” he replied. “It’s my small axe of kindness.”
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Her father disappeared when she was very young. She remembered the day he left, and his last word to her before he rode out into the fog and vanished. She waited her whole childhood for his return, and when she was old enough, she went looking for him. Her journey took her all across the world. She chased leads and rumors for years, always one step behind him. She finally caught up to him in a mountaintop bar at the edge of the map. She reached across the table, tears in her eyes and grasped his hand. “Tag,” she whispered.
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They came to his workshop and interviewed everyone, asking pointed questions about political affiliations, religious backgrounds, and ‘proclivities.’ As he was cleaning out his bench, he heard a machinist say, “You have to hand it to them.” He built the first prototype out of scrap wood. A giant hand, with articulated fingers. It was just a project to occupy himself, but he was not alone, and they caught on online. Soon, the hands were everywhere. They curled into middle-fingers at protests, and made victory signs at resistance marches. The regime quavered, and worried about when they would curl into fists.
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“Behold,” the mad scientist proclaimed. “My latest creation!” He pushed a lever and the cage door opened. A wolf padded out, tongue lolling, with a prodigious set of antlers on its head. The other supervillains glanced around nervously, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely it would do something cool, like unhinge its jaw and spit fire at any moment. Instead it spun around in a circle and lay down. “Uh, not to criticize, but what is the benefit of this experiment?” “I taught myself a good deal about genetic recombination and cloning techniques. And doesn’t he look majestic?”
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The sword master spent years as an apprentice. He spent a decade traveling the world, plying his deadly trade and learning all the things they don’t tell you in a training hall. Once he had learned everything the world could teach him, he retreated to the high mountains, and spent another decade alone in meditation. He then announced that he had formulated his ultimate technique, and began taking on students. He spent the rest of his life training others in the way of the sword. He died of an infection from a paper cut he received while writing his memoirs.
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She woke up laying on the wall. Always a heavy sleeper, she hadn’t noticed the shift, and fumbled with her comforter in confusion. Had something tipped the house over, she wondered. Nothing seemed out of place, except for her. She carefully made her way over to the door and dropped into the hallway. When she finally managed to crawl her way to the living room, she took a look outside through the picture window. The view outside was normal. Only her orientation and gravity had changed. She paced the walls and climbed the floors, unsure of what to do next.
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He was a demon of small things, a little god of petty aggravations. He blew out candles, spoiled milk, and broke horseshoes. All the little things that nudged humans slowly out of the light and into the darkness. He never got any credit. A bigger demon would inevitably swoop in and corrupt the souls he set on edge. He didn’t mind, though. As human technology improved, it just got smaller, and fell further in his domain. Now he blew spark plugs, cracked phone screens, and erased hard drives. The greater demons didn’t understand, but soon it would be his time.
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One day he found a red lily on his doorstep. There was no note, and no hint of where it had come from. He shrugged and brought it inside. More flowers followed. Finally, he waited at home and caught a raven leaving them. It cawed up at him and then turned away, as though embarrassed. He looked up the behavior and found it was a courtship ritual. The butcher never figured out why the bird had imprinted on him, but he put a cage for it in the corner of his shop, and they were both happy with the arrangement.
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Hugh J. O'Donnell 