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.

When he reaches for her hand, she doesn’t let go.

The air around them is thin and electric, crackling with a thousand unseen particles that shimmer like the inside of a snowflake. The comet’s tail stretches behind them — a luminous ribbon of ice and dust unfurling through the velvet dark. Stars slide past in perfect, ancient silence, as if the universe itself is leaning in to watch.

She’s wrapped in a silver parka and too many scarves, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with the kind of wonder only the very young ever let themselves feel.

“Grandfather,” she breathes, “we’re really doing it!”

Old Man Winter grins, his beard curling like storm clouds, his eyes the pale, dangerous blue of a frozen sea. His voice rumbles deep in his chest, warm despite the cold he carries within him.

“Of course we are,” he says. “You think I spin tales just to pass the time? Every legend needs its first telling — and tonight, this one belongs to you.”

He clicks his tongue, and the wind obeys. The comet dips lower, sweeping around a pale, glittering moon. Frost trails behind them in twisting shapes — antlers, wings, bursts of crystalline laughter.

She laughs too, the sound human and joyous against the infinite dark.
“It’s beautiful.”

“Beauty,” he murmurs, “is the one thing I never tire of making.”

They skim through the solar veil, the comet’s light scattering like spilled diamonds. The temperature drops, but she doesn’t feel cold; her grandfather’s magic wraps her in an invisible warmth, a flickering halo that turns her breath into tiny auroras.

He guides the comet’s path with one hand, the other still clasping hers.
“You know why we fly on the Solstice?”

She shakes her head.

“It’s the longest night,” he says. “Not for sorrow — for balance. The dark gives the light a place to return to. Winter holds the world still, just long enough for hope to gather its breath.”

Below them, Earth drifts in slow rotation — half-shadow, half-glow. The poles shine white, and delicate threads of light mark the places where humans huddle together, claiming warmth against the cold.

“Are they celebrating tonight?” she asks.

“Most of them,” he answers. “They’ve forgotten my old names, but not the feeling I bring. Warmth means more when the cold is close. Light means more when the night runs deep. That’s what this season remembers — not a single story, but the turning of the world toward brightness again.”

The comet arcs downward, brushing the upper atmosphere. Frost scatters across the sky like sequins thrown from a dancer’s hand. Somewhere below, a child looks up and makes a wish. Somewhere else, an old woman smiles, remembering winters long past.

Her grandfather loosens his grip and nods forward.
“Your turn.”

“Mine?” Her voice trembles between awe and eagerness.

“Every Frostkeeper marks a path once,” he says. “Choose where our light will fall.”

She closes her eyes and lifts her free hand. Gravity hums. Magic answers. The comet sweeps lower, scattering crystal dust over northern forests, frozen rivers, and rooftops crowned with thin halos of light.

When she opens her eyes, the world below gleams faintly — a silver web of frost that will vanish by morning, leaving only the softest glint on glass.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “You’ve found your rhythm.”

She smiles. “Can we do it again next year?”

He chuckles, the sound rolling like distant thunder.
“Next year, you’ll lead.”

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