It was the first truly nice day of the year, and he sat on the back porch with his morning coffee and newspaper. The spring air was filled with the sounds of nature. The birds sang in the bushes, frogs peeped in the woods, and bees buzzed among the new blossoms. The neighborhood dogs, let out to romp, barked to one another. He listened, feeling peace in his soul. “How can you stand all that racket,” his wife asked as she stepped outside. He put down the paper, full of war and calamity. “Because I can’t tell what they’re saying.”
He commissioned a wrought iron gate for his wife as a wedding present and had it installed in her private garden. It was decorated with a highly realistic serpent taken from his family crest. His new wife thanked him for the gift, but developed a fear of using the gate. When she opened it she heard a susurrus, like a snake crawling through tall grass. He told her she was imagining things. They found her dead in the garden with a snakebite on her hand. Nobody noticed the head of the serpent on the gate now faced the other way.
She sat by the fire and tended the coals. She swept the floors and put away the tools that the rest of the apprentices left lying around. It wasn’t because she wanted to be noticed, but because they were jobs that needed to be done. The smith was reluctant to take on a female apprentice, stating it ‘wasn’t women’s work.’ But her arms were strong and her resolve was stronger, and if he wouldn’t let her hold a hammer now, she could keep the fire burning until he did. She would make sure that hammer had someplace to strike home.
They had always lived on the hillside, back as far as anyone could remember. Generation after generation had hunted, gathered, and trapped here. Now the rest of them were leaving, scared off by a few earthquakes and mudslides. He harrumphed as he watched them load their packs and begin the walk to the plains. They had big ideas about making themselves gods. As though they could control how the flowers grew, or when the herds would foal. It was foolishness. Next, they’d think they could tell the sky when to rain. ‘Agriculture,’ they called it. It would never catch on.
The men opened the bunker hatch and found the angel waiting for them, hovering just above the ground. They fell to their knees in their frayed suits, heedless of the radiation. It had all been worth it: The planning, the campaigning, the war. Now the Kingdom of Heaven would arise. The angel looked down, lip curling in disgust as they gathered the souls of the innocent dead from the bombed-out city. This took a long time. “This is the message,” the angel said. “We are leaving.” They rose into the sky and left the men in the world they’d created.
Every year, the kingdom’s restauranteurs drew lots to see who would host the annual Mage’s Guild Symposium. The prestigious event drew mystics and sorcerers from miles around. This year’s meeting began with a cocktail hour where members met and boasted of their achievements, followed by a lavish dinner and speeches that usually, nobody paid much attention to. When young mage presented his research for a more efficient fireball, he was pressed by the audience for a demonstration. The next day, the guild sent an apology to the hall owner, along with funds to rebuild his establishment, just like last year.
It was supposed to be petty revenge. The sorcerer surrendered the bag of coins to the tax collector, only smirking a little. That night, the coins would grow little legs and skitter back to him. The spell was usually used as a prank to scare first-year students. He went to sleep dreaming of his wealth returning to him and woke up on a bed of coins. A small error in the spell’s structure caused it to spread, infecting every coin in the treasury. The sorcerer quickly packed up his little house and disappeared to start his new life of crime.
When he took the farm’s surplus crop into the town to sell, his mother and grandmother made sure he was protected. They gave him amulets and charms, and a cold-forged knife to protect himself. They warned him to count fingers, and never make no a promise or a bargain that he couldn’t keep. They told him to stay away from strangers and running water. But as the fog rolled in on his return home he became lost and found himself on a dock instead of the familiar bridge. Despite his caution, he still found himself taken away by the ferries.
When the brothers captured Medusa, they first went about rendering the monster harmless. They bound her hand and foot, and wrapped a blindfold tightly over her eyes. They beheaded the venomous serpents that crawled through her hair. While the gorgon wept in a corner, the trio argued over how and where to sell their bounty. When the crying turned to laugher, the eldest brother came up and boldly struck their bound captive. “What’s so funny, monster?” He asked. “They were never snakes,” she replied. “They’re hydras!” “Bring a torch, quickly!” The eldest brother called, but it was already too late.
The station owners held a ball every year on the Outer Ring, in a docking bay converted into a recreation 18th century ballroom. The guest list was exclusive, and the dress code black tie. The Safety Officer was appalled, but obligated to attend. When he arrived he caused a stir, but he’d followed the letter of the dress code, squeezing a cummerbund and dinner jacket over his space suit. His gloves were white. He endured criticism of his attire all through cocktail hour, but when the emergency docking alarm triggered during the salad course, he was the only one prepared.
Hugh J. O'Donnell 