The thief held his hand lightly over the shelf, feeling for the telltale tingle of magic trapped in ink and vellum. Carefully, as to only bend the ward and not break it, he slid a scroll free and slipped it into his bag with the others. He left the manor the way he’d come. He already had a buyer lined up for the scrolls, one who didn’t fear the Merchant Lords or Sorcerer Princes. It had taken him a lifetime to learn the skills needed to steal the scrolls. Someday, he promised himself, he would learn how to read them.
A popular rumor at the monastery was that of the ‘Flame Jab.’ They said the head abbot knew a secret martial arts technique so powerful it set the very air on fire, but he would only teach it to a worthy successor. The rumor had been around for as long as anyone could remember, and someone always told it to each new class of initiates. Their instructors let this impropriety slip because even though it encouraged worldly desire and impure thought, it also encouraged correct actions and helped establish good habits. Besides, one never knew if it might be true.
After retiring, the adventurer cashed in some favors and moved to the Elven capital. She fell in love with the beautiful city with its lush foliage and broad, curving streets that spiraled out like the petals of a flower. She relaxed into the languorous pace of the Elves, who viewed time much more slowly than humans. She adored her cozy little house, grown out of the side of a redwood. But when her window broke, she was told not to worry and that her tree would grow a new one in a few years. Then she kicked up a fuss.
The dragon lay basking in the moonlight when it heard the armored rider approach. It opened a single eye and watched with catlike disinterest as they dismounted and readied a huge spear. In no mood to fight, the dragon lashed out with its tail, crushing the horse against a sheer cliff. But the knight leapt impossibly high, dodging the fatal blow. The figure raised their visor, revealing a pale face with protruding fangs. The dragon sat up with interest. It had heard vampires sought out dragon blood as a rare and powerful vintage. They would not find it easy prey.
Jack knelt before the king and wondered at the strange turn of events. The king called him a heroic giant killer, even though he only chopped the beanstalk down in self defense. He’d had no idea that the giant was terrorizing the kingdom. He had been too busy trying to save his struggling farm. He couldn’t explain why the beanstalk had sprouted from the seemingly dead soil, and none of the townsfolk remembered the cloaked stranger that had traded him the beans. But he wondered why the king’s sorcerer, who he certainly had never met before, was avoiding his gaze.
At the Voice Navigator’s instruction, he turned off the main road and onto a gravel track. He’d been following the voice all day as the app had rerouted him around backups, construction zones, and accidents. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but the promised job was too lucrative to ignore. He nearly hit the fallen log. The GPS didn’t warn him. When he got out of the truck, I took the shot. The hack was simple, just a bogus email and a corrupted GPS app. I find assassinations go much smoother when the target brings themselves to the site.
As the clock struck midnight, the old man sat in his parlor and whispered the words, just as he’d done every Christmas Eve for the last hundred years. “Bah, Humbug.” As the church bells tolled the hour, he saw a bright light/ His spirit lifted, hoping that this was the year the Ghosts would return and end his curse. But it was just a passing truck’s headlights. He sighed, defeated. He was trapped for another year in the bargain that had been struck, leaving him adrift in the loneliness of time. For he was Tiny Tim, Who Could Not Die.
The singer sat in his dressing room and listened to the opening act. He tried to ignore the rumbling in his gut that said his best years were over, but he felt washed up. Nobody bought albums anymore, and he couldn’t feel the energy of the crowd like he used to. He heard the cheering, but the audience felt farther away. But if he was at the end of his career, he always promised himself he would go out with a bang instead of fading away. So he went out and gave the best performance of his life, every night.
The necromancer’s apprentice stood in the graveyard, watching her sift through the detritus of centuries. He would hand her tools as she performed arcane rituals, and jotted down the results. Just before dawn, he reburied the bodies and locked the gates behind them. Back in her lair, the necromancer looked over his notes approvingly. “A profitable night’s work.” “But what did you do?” He asked. He’d expected to be raising armies and cowing shades. This was almost boring. She sighed, disappointed. “Some secrets do not pass when the spirit leaves, but are known in the bones. And now they’re mine.”
Each evening, as the Sun set, she hung a lantern over the gate. The soft white light could be seen for miles, and it always brought him home, riding after dark with whatever he had hunted or foraged in the wilds. Until the night that the storm blew the lantern down, and he didn’t return. The search party found him days later, swept away by the flood. During the funeral, she said sat very still and said very little. That night, she repaired the lantern. She hung it over the gate again, hoping its light would guide his spirit home.
Hugh J. O'Donnell 