Royally Scrooged

Let us revisit the timeless wisdom of Ebenezer Scrooge! A story of dreams, wages, and perhaps a dash of redemption.

Our tale begins on a foggy Christmas Eve in the heart of London, where lived a man named H. Money Penny. Moneypenny was not a miser like old Scrooge, but he was practical. His office overlooked the bustling streets, where the poor shuffled by, their breaths visible in the chill air.

He was in the business of writing other people's stories in his newspaper business. Merchants depended on him to dream up ways to make them rich. The affluent paid him well to keep the rumor mill humming and their pockets lined by the words which he spun.

Moneypenny's loneliness was his confidant. It kept him safe from affairs of the heart and nurtured the common sense of not being a slave to the banalities of silly love and swooning lasses. He understood the language of pounds and pence. But there was one thing that intrigued him: “Dreams".

Dreams had always fascinated Moneypenny. Not the kind that visited you while you slept, but the dreams that fluttered in daylight...the hopes, the aspirations, the longings for something that he could not quite put his finger upon...More...he wanted more, always believing that dreams were the currency of the soul, and he tallied them meticulously.

One day, as the snow swirled outside, a young woman stumbled into Money’s office. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide with desperation. She clutched a tattered purse, its contents jingling like distant church bells.

“Mr. Money Penny", she gasped, “I need work. My family is starving".

Moneypenny studied her. Dreams swirled around her...a painter’s brushstroke, a singer’s high note, a gardener’s bloom. But dreams didn’t pay the rent. Wages did.

"Do you have a name, madam"? He asked, sounding a tad annoyed.

"My name is Promise, sir, and I am at your mercy".

Money pulled his eyes from the desperate woman, peered around at his solitary walls, then back to the earnest face eagerly awaiting his response.

“Promise,” he finally asked, “what can you do"?

She straightened her shoulders. “I can write, sir. Letters, stories, anything you need".

Moneypenny nodded. He hired her on the spot, paying her a modest wage. But he also made a note in the ledger: “Promise’s Dreams - worth, 1 shilling".

Days turned into weeks. Promise sat at her desk, pen scratching paper, writing paragraphs, advertising for the well to do. Money watched her, curious. Her eyes sparkled as she wove words into the dreams of others.

One evening, he found her crying. “What’s wrong, Promise".

She wiped her tears. “I want more than this, Mr. Penny. I want my words to touch hearts, to change lives".

Penny studied her face, dreams were tricky things...they didn’t fit neatly into columns. “Promise", he offered, “what if I paid you not just for your words but for the dreams they carry"?

Promise blinked. “How?”

“For every tear shed by a reader, for every smile they find in your stories, I’ll add to your wages. Dreams have value, you see".

Promise’s wages grew. Her stories reached out, touched hearts far and wide, the beggar who found hope, the lonely widow who laughed again. Moneypenny's business overflowed with dreams: “Promise's Dreams—10 shillings, 1 pound, 5 pounds…100 dollars...”

Their dreams became of laughter echoing through once empty halls, of warmth beside a crackling fire. They now dreamed together, Moneypenny finally understood what the 'more' was that he had always dreamed of.

Dreams were the true wealth...the currency that bought freedom, happiness and peace.

They wrote stories that darted between reality and reverie, and their wages became laughter, love, and shared dreams.

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Note: This story is a humble homage to Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” and the spirit of transformation.

The prompt: