Sorry for the brief entry this month. This Christmas, my family experienced a loss of someone we all loved, so I’m in a dark place. The story reflects that. May we all find a star in the heavens for every loved one we’ve ever lost.

“Star on the Tree”
Science fiction
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Jim surveyed the Christmas tree in the living room. Twinkling colored lights flickered happily amidst the darkness and his sadness. Colorful ornaments dangled everywhere. Atop the tree, the star shined brightly.

His brother, Bob, clasped Jim’s shoulder. “The tree looks great,” he said. “After... after you lost Annie, I didn’t think you’d ever put up a tree again.”

Jim nodded in silence, choking back his tears. Bob could see that Jim held the familiar stone urn in his right hand.

“But it’s been seven years,” Bob said. “I know Annie would approve of you finding something positive in Christmas—not just associating it with losing her.”

“Do you like the star?” Jim said.

“Well... yeah, it’s nice.”

“She was an astronomer,” Jim said. “I couldn’t do a tree without a star. It had to have a star. To honor Annie. I mean, what would a Christmas tree in memory of an astronomer be without a star, right?”

Bob nodded. “It’s beautiful, Jim.”

“And she was the best astronomer ever,” Jim said, holding up the urn to survey it. “I didn’t deserve someone like her, as great as she was in her field.”

“Listen, brother,” Bob said, “don’t knock yourself, you know. You are to the field of physics that she was to astronomy. And it isn’t about careers. You and Annie loved each other for who you were.”

“Being an astronomer was everything that she was. And being a physicist is everything I am.”

They stood in silence as the lights flashed and the star twinkled.

Presently, in the awkwardness, Jim said, “I had a star named for her the first Christmas after she... after I lost her, you know.”

“That’s beautiful, man.”

“That’s it.”

“What’s what?”

Jim pointed at the tree. “The star on the tree. That’s her star.”

“Ohhh...” Bob smiled as he beheld it. “Same color? That sort of thing?”

“No. I mean it’s literally her star.”

“I... don’t get what you’re saying.”

“The work I’ve been doing... you know, with wormholes and gravitation-canceling fields. I’ve worked since she died to do this. Wrapped her star in a gravitation-canceling field. Opened a spherical portal with reduction lensing on top of my tree. That’s actually her star, right there. If you stick your finger through the portal and the cancellation field beyond, the star’s gravity suck you right in. Watch.”

He shifted Annie’s urn to his left hand and picked up a book sitting on a nearby shelf with his right. He tossed it at the shimmering star. The moment the book his the spherical field about the star, it was sucked in—Bob could see it almost stretching or warping as it was drawn in, like taffy being pulled and shrunk. Then it was gone. Bob stood, mouth agape.

“Jim... you have to undo this,” Bob said, aghast. “This is dangerous. If something were to go wrong... I mean, the whole planet would be in danger. The whole solar system. A trillion people on four planets and a dozen moons...”

“Relax,” Jim said. “The reduction portal will shut down in a few hours. And after it does, the cancellation field will collapse around the star and force it into supernova.”

“Good God!” Bob cried.

“Yes. It will be the last gift I leave in Annie’s memory. You have to promise me one thing: You need to make sure it gets named for her. Annie’s Nebula, got it?”

“Why can’t you do it? That’s your thing, brother.”

Suddenly, Jim turned and hugged his brother mightily. “Just promise.”

Bob hugged him back, confused. “Of course.”

Jim broke the embrace and smiled. “Thanks, brother. I love you.”

Bob had no time to respond, because Jim turned back, clutching the stone urn, and leaped forward. The urn in his outstretched hand hit the spherical portal, and in the wink of an eye, it and Jim were sucked through the portal and into the star.

Bob screamed in horror.

*   *   *

The portal collapsed hours later. Bob later learned that the star had, in fact, gone supernova. He kept his promise to his brother, mostly.

He had it named Jim and Annie’s Nebula.

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies, and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.