Hugh J. O'Donnell

She built her homestead in the high desert, under an abandoned satellite dish. She didn’t know what it had been for, probably some benevolent scientific venture that was forgotten as soon as everything went to hell. But the site was still in good shape, with plenty of building material, and she was miles from the nearest neighbor. It was perfect.
She wasn’t what you’d call a ‘people person,’ and society’s collapse hadn’t improved her outlook.
Which is why she was at a loss when the aliens landed and told her they’d received her signal, and wanted to open diplomatic relations.

He dedicated his life to small acts of kindness.
A hundred dollars discreetly dropped into a struggling musician’s violin case in a busy subway station.
An extra pair of hands in a soup kitchen on the night of an unexpected, and particularly devastating blizzard.
A shout to call the attention of a distracted parent as their child wandered away in a crowded store.
He used the time machine to make small changes.
His instructors had said that even the least significant act in the past could change the future. He hoped they were right. He hoped it would be enough.

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She made gardens in secret places. She planted flowers in forgotten alleyways, and trellised Ivy in the hidden courtyards of long-abandoned buildings. She loved hidden worlds, and wanted them to be beautiful.
She found a solemnity in beauty destined to have no observer. A garden meant for no eyes was still as lovely. Perhaps it was lovelier, a rose growing only for its own sake.
She imagined the sudden rush of joy, someone coming to a desolate, lonely place, and finding a garden instead. The idea gave her comfort.
Plus, it was a great way to hide the bodies.

The ruined abbey lay in the middle of the hunting grounds. Most of the hunters avoided it out of superstition, which made it the perfect place to lay in wait.
I watched the ivy-covered ruins until, late in the day, when a huge stag appeared in the wreck of an arched doorway. It stood there, a silhouette in the gloaming, as though it had never before seen man nor arrow.
I had the odd fancy that it had just received confession, and to take its life would be a sin. Then my stomach rumbled, and I took the shot.

The beach house had long been abandoned. It stood over the water on rotting pilings, and it groaned with each surge of the tide. The sandbar it stood on wasn’t even accessible on foot anymore. She’d rowed out, which had taken longer than expected.
Standing on that remote stretch of sand, and staring at the decaying house, she could almost believe she was the last person on Earth, although that wasn’t quite true.
It wouldn’t do for shelter, but if her research was right, there would still be plenty of supplies inside. She got to work finding a way in.

The Bandit King knocked the young knight from his horse, and scoffed as he lay crumpled in the dust.
The knight fought to get air back into his lungs, certain that he was about to die uselessly far from home.
He thought of his mentor, the princess who trained him and sent him out to do Justice. He thought of something she’d told him once.
A knight isn’t a warrior who can’t be defeated. They’re someone who stands back up every time they’re knocked down.
He rose to his knees and struggled to his feet. He had work to do.

He enlisted in the Navy to pay for culinary school. He spent years training in a pitching galley, feeding the crew on a destroyer.
He served his time, got his degree, and started working in a professional kitchen. Eventually, he was even able to open his own gourmet restaurant.
But he felt depressed. He missed his early days in the Navy. He was never happier than when he was cooking on a boat. He closed the restaurant, and took a job on a cruise ship.
The sea was for Cookie, and that would have to be good enough for him.

The Senior Ambassador gave us our instructions before the reception with the alien dignitaries. “Whatever you do, don’t call them ‘Catgirls.’ They’re a superior technological force, and we’re representing the whole Terran League,” she said. I forgot it by my second glass of champagne.
“You know,” I said to one of the representatives, “There’s an ancient Earth culture that worshipped cats. And everybody always jokes that their monuments were built by aliens!”
“Nonsense,” he replied. The Egyptians used slave labor.” His ears went suddenly flat. “Er, or so I’ve heard.”
The subsequent negotiations took a sudden turn in Earth’s favor.

The skald overturned his bench with a shout, scattering his work. Upon his throne, Odin raised one eyebrow.
“I have shared with you the mead of poetry, which makes all people poetical. Why are you struggling?”
Odin gestured, and the scattered sheaves of paper assembled themselves in his hand.
“I see your problem,” he said after a time. “Kvasir’s mead enflames the passions and unlocks the soul. You require a different tonic now.” A valkyrie entered bearing a steaming cup of dark liquid and presented it to the bard.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Write drunk, edit sober,” the old god said.

When they heard the cry and the crash, all the Nereids came to investigate. They found a winged youth had crashed on their island.
His wings were complex, mottled in brown and white and gold, and utterly shattered. It was clear that the boy was dead.
“Is he some sort of harpy? I thought they were all women,” one said.
“No,” replied another. “Look, the wings are artificial. They’re stuck to a wooden framework with wax. I wonder where he came from.”
“Who cares where he came from. Just get him off of me,” snapped the Nereid he’d landed on.