by submission | Dec 27, 2023 | Story |
Author: Ruby Zehnder
“You silly old fool,” Shirley laughed at her image in the mirror. She was dressed as Santa’s elf in a green dress trimmed with an over-the-top red collar, striped stockings, curly-toed shoes, and an elf hat with attached oversized ears. She painted her nose with red lipstick to complete the costume and left the faculty restroom to go to Santa’s workshop.
“Hey, Shirley,” Nancy laughed when she entered the workshop.
“What’s so funny?” Shirley challenged. “Ain’t you never seen a 78-year-old spinster schoolteacher dressed as an elf?”
“I just can’t help myself. You make the perfect elf,” Nancy chuckled.
Nancy was right. Shirley was only five feet tall, squat, and shaped like a pear.
“Well, what do the munchkins have to choose from this year?” Shirley asked and began studying the silver heart bracelets and the ‘I love you mom’ Christmas ornaments.
“Same stuff as last year. Everything is priced between four and five dollars.”
“When do we start?” Shirley asked impatiently.
“Today is crunch day. The kids were instructed to bring cash and told Santa’s Magic Elves would help them find the perfect gift. First up is Mrs. Morrison’s kindergarten class.” The fun began. Each student, accompanied by an elf volunteer, selected his or her Christmas gifts. After they purchased them, the presents were wrapped, and the children, all giggly and happy, returned to their classrooms.
Halfway through the event, a small child entered the shop.
“Welcome to Santa’s Magic workshop,” Shirley greeted the girl. The little girl didn’t respond.
“Who are you buying for today?” Shirley coaxed.
The child remained silent.
“There are some lovely gifts.” Shirley steered the girl towards the table filled with glass mugs and ‘I love you’ sun catchers. The child seemed uninterested. This odd behavior confused Shirley. Most children jumped at the chance to buy a trinket, confessing their love for their mom and dad.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Shirley asked. “You don’t have what I need,” the child confessed softly.
Alarmed by this reply, Shirley asked, “And what do you need?”
“I need time for my mother. She has cancer, and Daddy says she may not be with us for Christmas.”
Shirley’s heart sank. Shirley had comforted many unhappy children as a teacher, but this was tragic.
“Oh, don’t fret. I have the perfect gift for your mother,” Shirley lied. “Let me get it from Santa’s Magic chest.”
Shirley left the child and found an empty box.
“Lord, I have been blessed in my life,” she prayed as she removed her wristwatch. “I know that I have another good ten years. Maybe more. But they need it more than I do.”
She placed her watch in the box and knew he had been listening.
“Give this to your mother,” Shirley told the child and handed her the box. “It is another ten good years. Maybe more.”
“Really?” the child asked with doubt.
“It is a special gift just for your mother,” Shirley answered, knowing this was true.
The child hugged Shirley and gleefully skipped to the library to have it wrapped.
After she left, Shirley suddenly felt worn out and needed to rest, but she knew she had done the right thing. The thought of this young girl growing up and sharing all her important milestones with her mother was worth her sacrifice.
Besides, Shirley had already had her fair share of happiness and wouldn’t miss what she had given this family—another ten Christmases together. Maybe more.
by submission | Dec 26, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Tatiana crossed the snowfield as if on a ballet stage. She leapt and spun and gracefully bowed when a snowshoe hare crossed her path and stopped. She then encouraged a few curious minks by waving them towards her racing heart. Glorious. All glorious.
At the edge of the snowfield, the spaceship was cloaked in steam, but Tatiana advanced towards its enchanting lights. Odd, oscillating hues far beyond the visible spectrum that she felt rather than perceived.
Her hair frizzed as the falling snow evaporated in the super-heated air, and the bells on her boots tinkled merrily as she did a little jig. All of this as it should be. All of this to explain. As it had been Tatiana’s whole life.
Why she spoke in song and moved in dance. Why wildlife sought her out. Why she disappeared into the woods and fields at night. Why. Why. Why.
But she did not question the appearance of the spaceship, a fellow traveler, a curious being, an audience.
She performed. Song, dance, advanced biology of the soul. This is life! This is life! Tatiana regaled. The odd, oscillating lights applauded her. The minks nearby agreed with their continued attentiveness.
Tatiana reveled. Glorious. All glorious.
The spaceship went dark. Shouts and lights approaching from beyond the woods abruptly ended Tatiana’s evening. On her return, she followed the snowshoe hare past the rapt minks into the silent woods and towards the town’s pale glow.
Those entering the snowfield, those questioning everything, heard nothing more, saw nothing more, learned nothing more. In the days to come, they only asked more questions of themselves. Of Tatiana.
Always, she sang and danced. This is life! This is life!
She knew. The universe is not a question, it is an answer, and each of our lives, if joyously embraced, is a satisfying explanation.
by submission | Dec 24, 2023 | Story |
Author: Robert Beech
‘Twas the night before planetfall, and all through the ship
Not a sensor was stirring, not even a blip;
The airlocks were sealed with hermetical care,
In hopes of preserving our small stock of air;
The passengers nestled in cryofoam beds,
With electrodes attached to their somnolent heads,
Would doze through the decades the ship spent in space,
To awaken with wonder in a far away place,
When up on the deck there arose such a clatter,
That I raced to the bridge to see what was the matter.
All of the com-screens lit up like a flash,
And I feared that our voyage would end in a crash.
The orbiting moon of the planet below
Was pock-marked with craters that glittered like snow,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
Defiant of gravity, physics, or care
They circled the moon in the absence of air
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than X-wings his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, SOLO! now, CHEWIE! R2D2, and C3PO!
The Empire’s awaiting, let us not be sleepy-O!”
As rogue satellites that from their orbit decay,
The sleigh and its driver came hurtling our way
And up to our spaceship his coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And from outside the airlock, came a clanging so dull,
That I feared that deer’s hoof might soon pierce our hull.
I raced to the airlock, and climbed into my suit
When down came St. Nick, in his magnetic boots.
He was dressed in a spacesuit that encased him completely,
With a jolly red robe that encircled him neatly.
And a great zippered duffle attached to his back,
That I soon recognized as his magical pack.
I approached with my tricorder held out before me,
In hopes that St. Nicholas wouldn’t ignore me.
“I’m sorry St. Nick, and I hate to insist,
but I must do a quick little scan of your wrist.
Each passenger duly inscribed for this trip,
Is bequeathed with a sub-dermal citizen-chip;
And I must verify that your name’s on the list,
So, St. Nick, if you please, would you hold out your wrist?”
He flung back his hood and took off his helmet
And said to me, “Sir, Merry Christmas and well met,
But I fear your request is one I must deny,
For my citizenship is as wide as the sky.
Every planet in turn we must visit this night,
Through a quantum mechanical time-twisting slight,
And I haven’t the time when I visit each ship,
To be messing about with a citizen-chip.”
Then he spoke not a word, but ran down to the bay,
Where the passengers deep in their stasis all lay,
And to each of the pods, he affixed a small stocking,
As I silently stood on the deck still a-gawking
Then laying a finger aside of his nose.
He gave a quick nod and up the airlock he rose.
And I heard him exclaim ere they vanished from sight,
HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!
by submission | Dec 23, 2023 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Brief bright flashes of green light escaped through black worn rubber liners on the stainless steel restaurant freezer doors. The kitchen staff ignored it, staying at their posts, waiting for a new arrival. Initial coughing from the traveler announced the interdimensional portal had closed, delivering a migrant trainee assigned to Earth.
A dazed blonde teenage girl pushed open the freezer doors as she rolled in on her roller skates. She wore a red and white carhop outfit from the 1950s. Carole, the restaurant manager, looked aghast.
“This won’t do. Archaeologists messed up again. Erica,” Carole directed her attention to a teen waitress looking over orders and comparing them to the hanging slips from a rotating metal carousel. “Take this one to the back. We’ll call her Anna. Get her the right uniform. Get rid of those ridiculous shoes and that hat. It’s time to prepare the new temporary help.”
After closing hours, the diner’s mature manager sat across from the fresh intern wearing appropriate clothing for an initial briefing. The blonde girl’s eyes continuously dilated back and forth in synch with her heartbeats.
“In time your eye organs will adapt to this human lighting. Now that you’ve adjusted to our speech and voices, you can ask questions. I will guide you through the initiation span allowed so you can adapt and integrate into your new home.” Carole moved a holographic guidebook toward the recruit.
“What is this place and why was I sent here?” Anna asked.
“This is a place where humans risk eating food prepared by their servants. You learn more about a species if you study their feeding habits in an enclosed space. Besides, it is their holiday season and we need extra help. The others here will show you all you need to do in the back area where you’ve been resting since you arrived.”
Anna twisted her neck to relieve stiffness from her transportation. “This body is strange to me, but I can use it. I will assist as I learn, but what is a holiday?”
“Ah…that’s a bit hard to understand. This species designates times of special importance to them when they can quit working. They use this time to repair tribal bonds and sometimes become incapacitated with various chemicals.”
“Why would any species quit working? That is the joy of being.” Anna seemed confused.
“That is disturbing. Many adults in this race hate their work, so holidays relieve social pressure and anger.”
“Absurd,” Anna replied. “But, I will accept this. Why aren’t they like every being in the galaxy performing duties they love?”
Carole smirked before responding. “It is rare that anyone ever asks them what they truly love.”
“Then are they hostile?” Anna asked.
“Sometimes, especially during holidays. You’ll find out when you deliver their food orders, even if they are correct.”
“Do they avoid responsibility for their eating risks?” Anna replied.
“Not when they can blame someone below their station in life. Wait until you witness their females drive vehicles at high speed while holding a sharp pencil to their eyes. They often take senseless risks without considering outcomes.”
“How will I come to withstand beings that act so oddly?” Anna sounded concerned.
“Always smile, no matter what happens,” Carole answered, smiling back. “Whatever the situation, it seems to confuse them. It works every time.”
by submission | Dec 22, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Barber
These were the years we ransacked our world for things to trade for the Jirt science we envied so much.
Véronique Aubert was a compromise. She was, in her own estimation, a minor composer in the minimalist tradition of last century. The European Union had included her when other delegations had focused on scientists, diplomats and canny moguls.
Her selection spoke of wrangling behind the scenes, the Old World slipping further behind in everything but its pretensions and history.
On the Jirt craft, the gravity was low and the oxygen content high, and she had to concentrate to stop herself bouncing like an excited child on her birthday.
The Jirt Princess, motionless as a statue in the middle of this vast chamber, suddenly chattered her mouthparts.
The translator waited respectfully before speaking. Gallingly for Véronique, its English was better than her own.
“Her Highness says the sounds you offered, this Bach, Mozart and others, have no trade value.”
The translator resembled a soft giant tortoise with a wizened little face.
“The Jirt find these sounds meaningless,” it confided. “Like your storytelling.”
Véronique had learned that while Jirt were taciturn, their translators liked to chat.
“The one called Hamlet,” continued the creature. “Emphasises the distinction between translating and interpreting. A most difficult task. I am enjoying it.”
“You are enjoying Hamlet?”
“Translating it.”
It was obvious these negotiations were over and she should leave, but still she did not.
“The Jirt have no interest in your cultural artefacts, yet you persist. You do know they lack…”
The creature trailed away. “Your word eludes me.”
Intrigued, Véronique waited.
“Like when one antenna tastes hatching and the other tastes dying.”
Now she was at a loss also. Knowing each English word was no help in understanding.
“Perhaps yūgen in your Nippon language.”
She had once composed a piece based on traditional Japanese music and recalled the term: A profound, mysterious sense of the beauty of the universe.
“Ah, soulful, you mean.”
“Soul, yes.”
The huge Jirt was lifting each of her six legs in turn, fidgeting like a horse that was bored and fretful, making a scraping noise like a blade being sharpened.
Absently, Veronique considered its musical possibilities.
“Her Highness complains we are not making progress. She invites offers for a weak-force pump—”
More bargaining for alien technology we do not understand. In exchange, the Jirt accept slave workers, or rare earth elements. So far, we only traded rare earths.
“They seek a use for you, as they do with every subject race. Their dynasties skirmish with one another; they trade and conquer, and prize power for its own sake.”
It sounded like most of human history.
“We serve the Jirt but pity them. Lacking souls, they invent themselves instead.”
“I don’t understand.”
Was it saying the Jirt ran soulless bureaucracies, with no art of their own? Or was it something more elusive, lost in translation?
“I mean we can hear our god. Though ours is a small god, as befits our status.”
“Are you talking about a chip in your head?” ventured Véronique.
“A curious notion.”
The translator glanced at the Jirt Princess.
“The Jirt do not survive death. A defect that is rare in sentients. Mostly such species do not realise. How could they? But their societies are always greedy and violent. The Jirt often cull them. Your kind should be careful.”
Véronique studied the creature’s face but it held no clue.
She began to wonder what she would tell them back on Earth. She wondered what the translator would tell the Jirt.
