Hugh J. O'Donnell

She loaded the shotgun. and tied it to the horses’s saddle. She patted the huge black creature affectionately. He was going to get a lot of exercise tonight. She checked her makeup and dress one last time. Everything was ready. All she had to do was wait until dark.
The ranchers and the miners, the outlaws that were stealing everything they could get their hands on out here in the ‘lawless frontier’ wouldn’t see her, she told herself.
They wouldn’t see the old farmhand’s daughter. They would see La Llorona. And she would be the last thing they ever saw.

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The priestess glanced around the wizard’s chamber and sighed theatrically. It was a total disaster. Robes lay strewn about the floor. Forgotten bowls half-filled with snacks and cold cups of tea crowded the desk. Grimoires lay tossed about, casually left open to pages of lore best forgotten by gods-fearing mortals. She tried not to look too closely at any of them.
“This place is a mess. How do you ever find anything?” she asked him.
“I have a spell for just that purpose!” The wizard patted his pockets, then looked helplessly at the piled scrolls and spell books. “Err, somewhere.”

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I was assigned to the ambassador’s entourage for the day, and they were very excited to visit the Earth they had seen from so many captured and upscaled broadcast signals. They had even dressed for the part based on their favorite dramas of the period.
Their planet is a about one hundred lightyears from Earth, so I wore an old-fashioned suit to the meeting. I wasn’t expecting the 8-foot tall, baby-faced extraterrestrials to show up in late 20th Century Los Angeles gang clothing, complete with antique firearms.
Only my quick intervention before security forces saw them prevented an interplanetary incident.

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When the lake filled with poison, the knight looked at his sword in disgust. His sole duty was to protect his lord, his kingdom, his family. He had failed.
He felt like a vestigial organ, unable to defend against this new attack. His weapon and his ideals were relics.
He allowed his grief to move through him, and when it passed, his sword waited for him. It couldn’t cut the poison from the water, or raise the dead. But he could find the men responsible, and show them that slow poison is no match for a quick and determined blade.

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The bluffs overlooked the vast lake, carved over thousands of years of glacial erosion. He’d visited them often as a child and he wanted to climb them again while he still had the strength.
As he looked out at the horizon and felt the wind on his face, he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed about how much smaller they’d become. He’d always known they would fall to wind and wave, but seeing them diminished still hurt him.
The dunes were towering formations in his youth. Seven-hundred years seemed too short a time for them to change so much.

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The last circus touches down on the lunar surface in a cacophony of zoological discomfort. The caged animals hate microgravity, but the return to stable gravity, even the moon’s reduced pull, is even worse for them.
Once we’re green, I clean out the cages and get them ready for transport into Armstrong City. I’m brushing down one of the lions when I see a line of scar tissue under his mane. I ping the owner.
“Boss, Leon’s got cell degradation. You’d better call the cloners.” I pet the lion and stare up through the dome at the lifeless, ruined Earth.

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The villagers called her “The Widow.” She could be seen along the bluffs, or sometimes, on dark and desolate nights, a ship would spot her on the beach, with her lantern held high and her tattered black dress rippling against the wind.
There was some debate over who the ghost had been in life, and several likely candidates were proposed from the many widows who waited for sailors who never returned over the years. All were deemed unlikely.
The apparition continued to appear, watching the ships come and go. Someday her package would arrive, and then she would be free.

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The prototype superweapon was nearly completed. The Space Forces needed something big to strike against the Earth Armada.
The lead designer was nervous as he led a team of dignitaries through the assembly floor. Finally they came to the machine. It stood on two massive legs, a giant robot over a hundred meters tall. It was painted fire-engine red, and it bristled with gun placements and spikes. Some rocket launchers were welded on for good measure.
The others stared up at it for a moment, then burst into peals of laughter. He knew he shouldn’t have made his 12-year-old co-designer.

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The haunted castle loomed in the fog like a malevolent dragon, its empty windows seeming to watch the ghost hunters’ approach with disdain.
They parked the van in the front courtyard and started lugging in the detection equipment. “The British government is only giving us the night, so everybody stay alert,” Devon said, hoisting a EMF reader and nearly tripping over a sign for the gift shop.
As the night wore on, they combed through the drafty halls, finding nothing. The ghosts huddled in distant rooms, waiting for them to leave, and complaining to one another about ‘the boorish colonials.’

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