Holiday
THE ARCHITECTURE OF DARK: RITUAL WINTER
The world doe not die in winter, simply holds its breath. Where I live, the transition isn't a gradual slide, but a sharp snap. One morning, you wake up and the air has changed. It no longer smells of damp earth and rotting leaves; it smells of nothing at all. It is a clean, sterile cold that reaches into your lungs and reminds you that you are made of water and warmth—two things the frost wants to take back.
By Awa Nyassi10 months ago in Fiction
The Neighbourhood Christmas Tradition. Top Story - December 2025. Content Warning.
This is Part Two of The Neighbourhood Christmas Tradition. If you haven’t read Part One yet, you can find it here. When I get home, there’s an afternoon breeze, so I decide to eat dinner in my backyard. As I’m sitting at the table, I look over at my empty garden bed and remember that I have to do something about it. It almost looks as though the previous tenant's plants were pulled out and new soil was added, ready for a fresh start.
By Sandy Gillman10 months ago in Fiction
Last Bus
The bus came through my neighborhood every night at 11:47. I knew because I heard it before I saw it. The low engine hum. The soft rattle of windows. The sigh of brakes somewhere down the road. Even when I wasn’t looking for it, my body recognized the sound. It never stopped. There was no bus stop on my street. No sign, no bench, no schedule posted anywhere. It just passed by, carrying strangers who were going somewhere else. Until the night it slowed down. I was standing on my porch, keys in hand, locked out of my own house. My phone was dead, and the air had that quiet heaviness that only comes late at night. No dogs barking. No cars passing. Just the streetlight flickering like it might give up any second. Then I heard the bus. But this time, the engine softened. The headlights washed over my lawn and lingered there, like the driver was considering something. The bus stopped in front of my house. The doors opened with a tired hiss. For a moment, I didn’t move. My first thought was that this had to be a mistake. The second was that maybe it had always been meant to stop, and I’d just never noticed. The driver didn’t look at me. He stared straight ahead, hands resting loosely on the wheel. His uniform looked older than it should have been, the fabric faded like it had been washed too many times. “You getting on?” he asked, voice flat but not unkind. I hesitated. “Where does it go?” He shrugged. “Depends.” That should have been my answer right there. A normal person would have stepped back, waited for the bus to move on, found another solution to a locked door. Instead, I stepped forward. The inside of the bus smelled like rain and dust. There were only a few passengers scattered throughout, sitting alone. None of them spoke. None of them looked at me. I chose a seat near the middle. The doors closed. The bus pulled away. We drove through streets I recognized at first—corner stores, dark parks, familiar intersections—but slowly, things began to change. The buildings grew farther apart. The streetlights became fewer. The road stretched longer than it should have. No one pulled the stop cord. I watched the passengers carefully. A woman with her hands folded in her lap stared at the floor like she was counting something invisible. A man near the back held a briefcase that looked far too clean for this time of night. Finally, I stood and walked toward the driver. “Excuse me,” I said. “I think you passed my street.” He nodded. “I know.” “Then can you turn around?” He shook his head. “Not until someone gets off.” I glanced behind me. “But no one’s getting off.” The driver’s eyes met mine in the mirror for the first time. They were tired, but not surprised. “People get comfortable,” he said. “They forget they’re allowed to leave.” I returned to my seat, my heart beating faster now. I tried the stop cord. It didn’t make a sound. The road outside faded into something darker. No buildings. No signs. Just endless pavement and a sky without stars. A voice spoke beside me. “I got on thinking it would fix something,” the woman said softly. “It didn’t.” The man with the briefcase looked up. “I was late,” he added. “I thought maybe this bus could take me somewhere better.” The realization settled slowly, like fog. This bus wasn’t about destination. It was about delay. I stood up again, this time without asking permission. I walked to the doors and pressed my hand against the glass. “I want to get off,” I said. The driver smiled, just a little. “Then knock.” I did. Once. Twice. The bus jolted to a stop. The doors opened, revealing a quiet stretch of road under a pale streetlight. Nothing else. No buildings. No path forward. “That’s it?” I asked. “That’s enough,” the driver said. I stepped off. The doors closed behind me. The bus pulled away, its lights shrinking into the dark. I stood there until the street around me shifted. Suddenly, I was back in front of my house. The porch light was on. My keys were still in my hand. The next night, at 11:47, I listened. The bus passed my street like it always had. It didn’t stop.
By Jhon smith10 months ago in Fiction
Wild Love at Christmas Eve. Top Story - December 2025.
If we grow old together, help me to remember the catch in my voice when I faced this old world anew one Christmas Eve ... Aflock in the town's tavern, my head a mix of love and merry. Downing my glass of Moscato, my head spinning with claustrophobia, I ripped away from the endless whir of clutches and kisses. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, I found relief in the welcome outside air.
By Susan L. Marshall11 months ago in Fiction
Winter Series 2025 - When the Sun Forgot Us for a Moment (PART II)
That morning, the Sun hesitated; it did not announce itself with disaster or spectacle. There were no sirens, no collapsing networks, no urgent alerts vibrating in pockets. Light simply arrived differently, spreading across the city with an unfamiliar patience, lingering on rooftops and sidewalks as if it were deciding whether the day truly needed to begin. People noticed the change not with panic but with intuition. Coffee cooled untouched. Footsteps slowed. Conversations stretched into pauses that felt intentional rather than awkward, as though time itself had loosened its grip just enough to let the world inhale.
By José Juan Gutierrez 11 months ago in Fiction
Auroras Beyond the Last Forest - Mysteries of the North Pole
The journey toward the North Pole did not begin with coordinates or maps, but with a forest older than memory itself. The Taiga Forest stretched endlessly beneath a sky that never fully darkened, its snow-laden trees standing like quiet witnesses to centuries of travelers who had come seeking answers rather than destinations. This was not a forest that resisted passage - it tested intention. Every step forward felt deliberate, as if the land itself required certainty before allowing anyone deeper. It was here that the travelers gathered - not heroes in the traditional sense, but beings shaped by curiosity, patience, and winter’s discipline. Among them walked humans wrapped in layered wool and belief, forest spirits whose footsteps left no imprint, and small luminous fair folk - fairies - whose wings refracted the pale light into soft prisms. Even the wind seemed aware of them, slowing its breath as they advanced northward.
By José Juan Gutierrez 11 months ago in Fiction
Winter Series 2025 - Snow Does Not Fall the Same Way Twice (Part III)
Snow looks identical until you stay long enough to watch it fall. From a distance, winter appears repetitive - the same cold, the same gray skies, the same quiet streets. But snow, like memory, reveals its truth only to those willing to slow down. Each flake carries a distinct geometry. Each winter arrives believing it is both the first and the last of its kind.
By José Juan Gutierrez 11 months ago in Fiction
Winter Series 2025 - The Longest Night We Shared (Part I)
Winter does not arrive loudly. It enters quietly, slipping between conversations, dimming the edges of the world, asking us to slow down even when we resist. The longest night of the year - Solstice - is not only an astronomical event - it is an emotional threshold. A moment when darkness lingers long enough to make us listen.
By José Juan Gutierrez 11 months ago in Fiction
Christmas Carols
Sitting around the fireplace on a Christmas Eve for now it's Storytime. Hope you like it. We Three Kings of Orient Are traveling along to that O little town of Bethlehem following a star that will lead us to a King somewhere away in a manger for we are hearing a carol of bells proclaiming what child is this. We see on our travels some decking of the halls with the hanging of the greens and hear some jingle bells for those bells are ringing hark the herald angels singing glory to the newborn King. Now we hear the phrase King of kings and Lord of lords has been born. Oh, come all ye faithful and come adore him and see the greatest gift of all that is love as the little drummer boy finds out. Happy Christmas to all!
By Mark Graham11 months ago in Fiction
The Dancing Snowflakes
On the coldest night of winter, when the moon hung low and silver in the sky, the town below was quiet. Snow blanketed the streets, muffling every sound, and icicles hung from rooftops like delicate crystal daggers. The children of the town had long since gone to bed, their windows glowing softly in the dark. But above them, something extraordinary was happening.
By Logan M. Snyder11 months ago in Fiction
Christmas Wishing
Here's a link to the Challenge: Dear Satan Santa, I have been a good boy, but I wonder if that is enough in the climate we live in. I want so many things, and I am not sure if you can get them for me. I would like to have more things for my family and myself. We deserve to be released from all of our obligations, despite the contract we signed.
By Kendall Defoe 11 months ago in Fiction
