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.

They rise into the cold blue of space, still hand in hand, still laughing.

Far below, the ocean ripples with light — thousands of bioluminescent shapes spiraling up from the deep to greet their visitors. The shuttle hovers over the water, its hull still glowing from the long descent through the planet’s upper winds, and for a moment the aliens inside forget to breathe.

“They’re beautiful,” murmurs the smaller one, his voice like wind through reeds.

“Cousins always are,” replies the elder, flexing her delicate, translucent limbs. “Eight arms, three hearts, and the wisdom to remain in the sea. We share an ancestor older than tides; they simply remembered their path better than we did.”

They glide down in a capsule no larger than a tide pool, the outer plating cooling with a soft hiss as the ocean rises to cradle them. In seconds, the hull becomes a mirror — water pressing close, refracting starlight into a scatter of trembling sparks.

A chorus of color greets them, shifting through violet, coral, gold, and jade. The octopuses sing in light, not sound, their chromatophores pulsing intricate patterns of greeting. The visitors answer with a glow of their own — spirals and waves that mean kin, memory, season-turning.

For the first time since leaving their ancestral waters, the ache of distance eases.

Their hosts guide them toward the reef — not coral, but a living city of glasslike spirals and kelp-towers grown into lace. The octopuses bear gifts: shells filled with glowing plankton, strands of kelp threaded with luminous stones, and sea-fire that burns without heat or harm.

The elder bows low, her eyes like twin suns behind clear lids.
“We bring you warmth,” she says, “for the turning of the light.”

The octopuses reply in shimmer and ripple: We bring you the sea.

A circle forms — water, radiance, motion. The visitors ignite their sea-fire; the octopuses answer with a burst of phosphorescence so bright it paints the underside of the waves in molten gold. For a heartbeat, the ocean appears to hold a sunrise.

The younger alien laughs. “It’s not so different from burning embers,” he says.

“Everywhere there’s life, there’s fire,” the elder answers. “Some flames simply choose different colors.”

The circle widens, ripples spreading, and the two species drift into a shared rhythm — some with hands, some with arms, all with joy. In their mingled glow, something ancient rises, older than language or gravity: the understanding that warmth is not bound to flame, and family not bound to form.

Above them, the stars flicker — responding, perhaps, or merely echoing the radiance beneath them.

The elder reaches toward the surface. Water beads cling to her fingertips, catching the light as they lift — tiny sparks suspended for an instant before falling back, carrying the shimmer of this night into the wide, waiting dark.

She smiles. “They’ll find their way,” she says softly.