Hugh J. O'Donnell

She launched the little boat in the dead of night, just when the storm broke over the water. It would’ve been safer to wait for dawn, or for clear skies. But she didn’t have that luxury.
She raised the sail and lashed herself to the mast. She knew the odds were slim that she’d make it to the mainland, but all the larger boats were smashed, and the message had to get through.
War had come to her island, and someone had to warn the capital.
She looked back one last time as her home was lost in the storm.

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She was a practitioner of forbidden arts. The elders decreed combat should only be fought with tooth and claw, or perhaps the sword. Of course, such weapons would be harmless to her fellow vampires. She pursued the art of the stake.
Her fascination made her a pariah, but they always found themselves needing her services eventually. She practiced discernment in such matters, refusing to descend into politics or petty squabbles. She was an artist, not an assassin.
If she would prey on her own people, she would cull the worst to preserve the herd, as a gardener prunes a branch.

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The mascot’s image was everywhere in the company town. Its golden face smiled down from murals, on statues, and in the signage for company stores. With its pipe-cleaner arm and Mikey Mouse gloves, it was the face Management showed to the world.
When the revolution came, the mascot bore the initial brunt of the workers’ frustrations. Murals were defaced and statues pulled down.
Management brutally punished anyone caught in the act, but it was already too late. They had promised a utopia they never intended to provide.
The boxes never contained two whole scoops of raisins, and they never would.

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A hurricane is coming, and they say this is the big one. The old man doesn’t have the time or energy to flee out of its path.
Instead, he goes out to his shed and sits among the manuscripts. They are his life’s work, consisting of thousands of poems, short stories, plays, and novels. Whatever struck his fancy.
He never shared his writing with anyone. It was his secret that he kept for himself alone.
He watches, briefly, as the winds rip down the walls and share his work with the world.
Posthumously, he is remembered as a hidden genius.

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The fortress remained sealed for centuries, keeping the evil within trapped inside. The spell was meant to hold forever. But there are always people who will do something regardless of the dangers, simply because it is forbidden.
Worse, rumors of the treasure buried in the darkness spread almost before the wards were laid. It was inevitable that someone would break that seal and sneak in, releasing ancient horrors on unsuspecting people.
Fortunately, germ theory had progressed significantly in the interval. The sages of the present were able to quickly isolate and treat the plague before it did too much harm.

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The hermit woke to voices in the Sacred Forest. By tradition, their people left them to their own devices.
Curious, the hermit threw on a cloak and stepped out of their hovel to investigate. They paused and hid when they saw the grotesque aliens.
The beings were short, squat bipeds with only two stumpy arms.
They had heard of them, a raider species obsessed with collecting resources across the galaxy. By the number of mechanical saws and other tools they carried, they intended to harm the Sacred Forest.
The hermit decided to teach these Humans the error of their ways.

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