On Christmas Eve, Belle awoke as the toll of the neighboring church bell struck four quarters, then rang the hour with one hollow, melancholy chime. Before she could roll over with the hope of falling back asleep, the bed curtains were sharply drawn aside.
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Announcing the winners of the “Multiversal: Dorian Gray” October 2025 flash fiction contest!
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The XO-76 Mindwarp “Bookmobile” touched down on page 89 of Charles Dickens’s Best Stories (Hanover House, 1959) with its usual finesse, which is to say that all the bit characters who watched it crash into an unluckily placed fruit stand
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Belle’s steps slowed as she neared the grand house. Had her heart not already been racing from hurrying to make it in time, it surely would be now. Her stomach tightened. Too many years had passed. What if he had forgotten her?
She pulled her shawl closer, shielding herself from the frigid snowfall,
Felix counted down the seconds as he adjusted his glasses and glanced at his clipboard.
Sloppy notations filled the margins: Displays bitterness and regret. Reluctant to engage. Replies with Humbug when upset. Bright red letters reading Unchangeable branded the top of the file.
A
Some people count their blessings. Ebenezer Scrooge preferred to count his money, and that’s exactly what he was doing as quitting time approached on Christmas Eve.
He’d programmed the holo-projector to display his wealth in a variety of ways—as thousand-dollar bills strewn on a king-sized bed, as bars of gold, or in today’s selected fashion, as stacks of Canadian two-dollar coins.
“One hundred twenty-one, one hundred twenty-two, one hundred twenty-three…” Scrooge muttered, his thin lips pursed as he stacked the last coin. He paused, squinting at the desk with rheumy eyes. Last time he counted, there had been 124.
“Who stole my sovereign?” he thundered, slamming
The icy air wrapped around Ebenezer in a death grip.
He shivered, watching his warm breath leave his thin lips. The land before him was desolate, with only abandoned buildings to tell of the once lively city.
That’s what scared him.
An idiot! That’s what you are!
They found him, arms curved inward as if protecting something, but the fire that left him a charred husk had destroyed what he’d cradled: A Ricky Henderson rookie card, the most precious of all his collection.
Together forever.
I close my eyes, and sigh. Then, I delete the file.
Ebenezer Scrooge hated many things, including Christmas, carolers, cheer, children, and the words “limited-time offer.”
Oh, and one more thing—chaos. As in what happened when his router suddenly gifted him a high-pitched whine and then died. An overheating his cold existence was not familiar with. His orderly life was abruptly unplugged.
“You’re saying if we don’t stop Dorian from activating these paradox portals, then the entire multiverse will collide into one timeline and destroy reality?” Phezz asked, his bushy tail flicking.
Miriel turned to the squirrel-like Xintixa. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“What would that accomplish?” Harmony’s implanted short-term memory processor spoke for the young girl, imbuing her with a British accent.
Accountant Barnaby Rudge plunks a thick file folder onto my desk. “I’m finished with Pickwick’s papers, Mr. Scrooge.”
“About time.” I pull a leather-bound ledger from the drawer. “Now process Dombey & Son.”
“Certainly—there’s just one thing.”
I scowl. “Do you still have great expectations of going home early for Christmas? Humbug!
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