Note: I made a list of prompts, and wrote a bite-sized story for each one. They don’t live in the same universe, but they’re all a little off-kilter from what you might expect from holiday fare. And if you pay attention, you’ll notice that the last line of each story becomes the first line of the next. Also? You can listen to these stories at my podcast website: BathtubMermaid.com.
A tiny flame held its ground, steady against a universe of storms larger than Earth itself.
The candle flickered inside its mag-clamped holder, a stubborn point of gold in the dimmed common bay of the solar-sail ship Aurora’s Wake. Outside the viewport, the storm surged—a roil of charged particles and color, ion-light rippling in sheets across the sails like ghostly fire.
Inside, two boys giggled.
Aaron—age six, gap-toothed, and so human it hurt—gave the dreidel an overly dramatic spin. The little carved top wobbled, then steadied, its letters flashing in arcs before skittering into the palm of his friend.
Tir. Not human. Not remotely. Young for his species, with silver-blue eyes and soft bioluminescent freckles that brightened whenever he laughed. Tonight, they glowed like tiny stars.
“It landed on gimel,” Tir announced triumphantly, though his accent stretched each syllable into something musical. “That means I win all the tokens.”
“You always win all the tokens,” Aaron complained without real heat. “You have unfair alien luck.”
Tir pressed both hands to his chest in mock offense. “My luck is regulated. My mother said so.”
Across the bay, the adults exchanged small smiles as they tended to the holiday preparations. Two traditions, overlapping like constellations—Terran Hanukkah and the Festival of Twelve Stars, the great renewal celebration of Tir’s people.
Captain Raizel Levine straightened the menorah, ensuring the flame stayed steady despite the shuddering from the storm. “Regulated luck,” she murmured. “Wish we could regulate that ion flux.”
Dr. Seret—Tir’s alien parent, tall and luminous and patient—adjusted the crystalline bowl that served as the centerpiece of their own ritual. Inside it, twelve miniature star-shaped lights pulsed softly, one for each principle of their festival. “The sails are holding,” Seret said calmly. “This storm will pass.”
“I know.” Raizel watched the way the aurora-like currents licked at the ship’s exterior. “Still not my favorite way to spend night six.”
Seret’s mouth curved—alien, but unmistakably amused. “Night six for you. Star Eight for us.”
Raizel huffed a laugh. “Time zones are hard enough. Interstellar calendars are worse.”
Back at the low table, Aaron reclaimed the dreidel. “Do your people have spinning tops?” he asked Tir, already winding up for another toss.
“No,” Tir said, blinking earnestly. “We have the Star Cascades. You drop them from a high tower and they drift down like water made of color.”
“That sounds cooler than dreidel,” Aaron admitted.
“It is not cooler,” Tir countered seriously. “You cannot shout ‘Nes gadol haya sham!’ with a Cascade. There is no shouting at all. My elder-mother told me shouting is rude in holy places.”
Aaron’s grin split wide. “My Bubbie says shouting is how you know you’re doing Hanukkah right.”
The ship rocked again, sharper this time. The flame danced hard, bending sideways before righting itself.
“Okay, boys,” Raizel called gently, “maybe scoot in farther from the bulkhead. Just until the next surge passes.”
Tir turned to Aaron. “Do you wish to pause the game?”
Aaron shook his head, curls bouncing. “No way. Your turn. Maybe this time you won’t steal all my chocolate coins.”
“I do not steal,” Tir protested, deeply affronted. “The top gives me the coins.”
“That’s what a thief would say,” Aaron replied, sage as any ancient prophet.
Tir sputtered indignantly. His freckles brightened.
At the table, Seret lit the eighth Star, the glow folding softly into the shimmering bowl. Raizel lit the next Hanukkah candle, adding its warmth to the tiny flame already pushing back the storm.
“So,” Raizel asked quietly, “how do your people explain this night?”
Seret watched their child and Aaron, heads bent close over the spinning wooden dreidel and a pile of rapidly dwindling chocolate. “We say that the universe was born in a burst of light,” Seret whispered, “and every festival since is our attempt to answer it.”
Raizel nodded. “We say we honor a miracle that outlasted the darkest week.”
Two parents. Two rituals. Two children, unaware of miracles except the ones they made for each other.
The hull groaned softly as the storm shifted, currents brushing the sails like an unseen hand.
Aaron spun the dreidel again, and both boys leaned in, breathless and delighted.