The sun scattered glimmering rays of life throughout the leaves and branches of the forest. As the trees swayed in the cool breeze, the light danced on the forest floor in a brilliant show.
Aenid, unfortunately, didn’t have time to appreciate the light.
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
Oh, humbug, humbug, humbug!
Down the street Scrooge sprinted, leaving a trail of paw prints across the thin blanket of snow. Windows aglow blurred by as he passed apartments and houses.
Bah, Fred! Why do you reside so far!?
He veered onto Fern Street.
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
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!
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