From Bob Cratchit: A simple “thank you” note.

Neatly folded. Handwritten and handmade—on my office stationery. Pay docked for materials. A noble attempt to inquire about a raise. Denied, but noted.

From Tiny Tim: “God bless us, every one!”

Generic. Pandering. Broad. Keeps chirping the same greeting about town incessantly, trying to make his sycophantic catchphrase stick.

From my charwoman, Mrs. Dilber: “Season’s Greetings.”

Acceptably secular tidings—sent alongside documented accusations of workplace abuse, co-signed by Cratchit. Consigned to flames.

From Fred, my Christmas-obsessed nephew: A singing telegram.

Would consign to flames, but murder.

From Mr. Fezziwig: “Merry Christmas!!!”

Gilded corners. Excessive embossing. Earnest scrawl. Far too many exclamation points. An alarming laughter-to-income ratio. Returned to sender before interest accrues.

From Mrs. Fezziwig: “Tis the season to be jolly!”

Insistent. Incessant. Gleeful and glitter-ridden. Abominable. Feckless. Everywhere. Blacklisted.

From the Ghost of Christmas Past: My most egregious regrets, itemized like an overdue invoice.

Spattered in candlewax drippings like an anachronistic Jackson Pollock.

From the Ghost of Christmas Present: A cornucopia on cheap cardstock.

Sweet words that smell of saccharinity and roast beef. Watermarked in gravy fingerprints.

From the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come: Unsolicited clippings of white-collar obituaries.

Also, a rough draft of the devastating eulogy he intends to read at my funeral.

From Jacob Marley, my dearly departed business partner: A delightful reminder that compound interest is eternal and unforgiving.

Envelope arrived reeking of sulfur. A crisp, creased spine with crispy edges. Singed at the corners. Signed in iron filings that blackened my fingers like ledger ink. Consigned to flames (Marley, not the letter).

From Mrs. Cratchit: Frosty threats, frosted in pleasantries.

Accompanied by a rather crude doodle of Nana Scrooge riding the family steed—and the other way around—along with two invitations to go “Scrooge myself.” Passive-aggression, thy name is Cratchit.