When the time came for the kingdom to name a successor, the young prince left rather than be chosen. He went into the mountains to train under the world’s foremost martial artist. He’d seen the shape of the world and guessed the future. He wanted to become a man who could meet what was coming. He needed strength of a different kind than his brother’s. While he was in seclusion, the worst of his predictions came true. Now the train was coming, and he rushed towards it, arms outstretched. If, along the road, you meet the train, suplex the train.
The Old Boathouse burned down when I was a child. They rebuilt it, but I still remember the old one, all sun-bleached wood and creaking timbers. The replacement looks about the same, with bright white and blue paint and flags snapping merrily in the breeze. But sometimes, after the swimmers and boaters have gone home for the night, I would look out at it and think that I could see a hint of smoke, or smell a fire a long way off. And I would wonder, if a place can be said to have a soul, why not a ghost?
They taught him the magical arts, but only how to use them to kill. He can call down lightning from the sky, freeze his enemies in place with ice, and summon fire from nowhere. He spreads pain and death for the glory of the Empire and the terror of its many enemies. He looks out across the battlefield and sees other wizards healing the wounded and summoning wondrous creatures. He envies them. He wonders what it’s like to use magic to help people. All he knows is how to destroy. He vows that someday his masters will regret teaching him.
They come and sat on the beach, and the air is so thick with smoke you cannot see the opposite shore, ten miles away. It is the pall of faraway wildfires making the sailboats hazy shadows in the distance. They walk out into the water, so much more shallow and rocky than in years past. They reminisce about years when it rained all summer, or when they still dumped chemicals into the lake and the fish lay dead and eyeless up and down the shore. They say to themselves, “This is fine,” as they gaze out at the smoky horizon.
The kelpie stood faithfully on the shore, waiting for its rider. It was a majestic creature, with flanks the rich brown of lake stone and a flowing mane of seaweed green. All day it would wait, standing atop the gently rolling waves.. Occasionally it would trot out to crop at the seaweed just below the surface. It was a docile, well-trained mount. If anyone should happen to climb upon its back, it would carry them home. It never occurred to the kelpie that unlike her master, the prince of an undersea kingdom, the people of the surface couldn’t breathe underwater.
As the countdown began, the launch control room held its collective breath. This uncrewed rocket would be Humanity’s next step into space. The rocket ignited, and there was a cheer as it lifted off from the platform. But as it reached the upper atmosphere, the cheers turned to groans as the vehicle wobbled and exploded. At his desk, Roger hid a smile. This failure would set the humans back years, meaning his mission was a complete success. His team called themselves ‘Firefighters.’ They went to undeveloped planets and put out fires that if left unchecked, could destroy the entire galaxy.
They brought the craft in low over the gas giant’s roiling atmosphere. The trick was to just skip across the surface, like a stone on a pond. They fought against the pull of gravity, maintaining an altitude just low enough to avoid the mining station’s sensors, and just high enough not to risk a fiery entry before being crushed by the heavy gasses and liquid metals of the planet’s core. The station sparkled in the distance. They kept their hand steady on the controls. The Imperials a massive defensive grid, but never expected anyone to attack the station from below.
“Hey! Have you ever heard about the breakaway effect?” “What? No!” “Astronauts have reported that after viewing the Earth from orbit, their perspective changed. They were able to appreciate the beauty and the fragility of the world in a way they hadn’t before.” “Oh! That’s That’s really interesting!” “Makes you think, doesn’t it?” “What? Oh, it certainly does. Can you put me down now?” The superhero returned the Prime Minister back to his office. As he flew off, bullets bouncing off his boots, he suspected he hadn’t gotten through to him after all. There was always the next world leader.
The princess arrived at the ruins guided by providence. Here, in the bottommost reliquary, lay her Ancestral Sword. The magic in her bloodline would lead her to it, and then, after years in exile, she would use it to regain the throne. She had trained all her life for this duty, in order to restore her dynasty to glory. She avoided the traps and hidden dangers and fended off the beasts that nested in the tunnels. Finally, she came to the dais where the sword lay waiting. When she picked up the ancient weapon, it fell apart in her hands.
The healer gripped her staff, feeling the familiar callouses on her fingers and palms. It was a simple wooden staff, not unlike a shepherd’s. But through it she had worked miracles for decades. Now the years fell heavily upon her. Joints ached and her callused hands hurt. The staff had gone from a tool to her support. In her travels, she’d cured the sick, and made the injured whole again. But she’d never been able to heal herself. But she was not alone. Her companions and grateful friends returned to care for her as she had once cared for them.
Hugh J. O'Donnell 