“What is the meaning of this?!” Grimwald’s breath puffed in the suddenly frigid air.
Edmund was his business partner once, before consumption claimed him. They built their fortune together, squeezing every farthing from desperate borrowers, foreclosing on widows, and turning away beggars who froze on their doorstep.
I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so cold. The temperature outside was part of it, of course. So was our agreement to burn only one piece of coal at a time. Coal wasn’t cheap, and it was only December 24th, with many
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Marley was dead. Each nail in his coffin bore witness to that.
It was a dreary affair, his funeral. There were no mourners—practically no living souls save the minister, two grave diggers, and Scrooge. Yes, Scrooge. Covetous old sinner! Preoccupied solely with why
Captain Bob Cratchit yawned as he adjusted the holographic scanner, slowly bringing Sector 213A into clearer focus. It had been a long flight between the stars, and all he could think about was getting home to Earth for Christmas.
Alarms suddenly shrieked as the sector
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,
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.
“Ugh, could you be any slower?”
I risk a glance over my shoulder to look at the current angry customer. She’s dressed in an expensive-looking coat and is staring daggers into the back of Jimmy, my coworker, who is fumbling to spray whipped cream into her mocha.
He doesn’t reply as he drizzles a little chocolate over the cream
This is—what do the humans call it? —Heaven, Therrus thought. I can be myself and still be around the humans and all the great stuff!
The convention hall teemed with humans, many of them dressed up as various characters from the Earthan sci-fi media Therrus
“Ag shame skat, they’re full. These trips are very popular you know.” The motherly receptionist patted Therrus’ arm. “I can sign you up for the next trip, though. It’s on…” She flipped through a large book. “May 4th. Next Tuesday.”
Therrus fumbled with his glasses, trying to make sense of her heavy accent. Shame? Had
Therrus tried to quiet his heavy breathing, back pressed to the door, hands bound before him. He attempted, again, to pull apart the bindings. Stars, these are tight. How do they have access to such advanced restraints? He’d been led to believe that monitoring these particular humans would be simple.
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Beauty is as essential as breath to me. Art is my bread and meat. I sought a painting of a beautiful young girl in an oval frame titled Death in Life. A feat of artistry so a realistic that legend held it had drained the vitality from the subject herself.
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Dorian Gray stepped through the shimmering portal, the air of the Nexus Hub a crisp, metallic tang compared to the musty London alley he’d just vacated. Another dimension, another opportunity. His reflection in the polished chrome walls was, as always, flawless. The Nexus, a sprawling interdimensional crossroads, was a haven for those seeking new experiences, new pleasures.
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