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.

Both boys leaned in, breathless and delighted.

Not because of anything flashy or loud or particularly dangerous—although the needle in their grandmother’s hand did look a little like a weapon when she wielded it—but because Grandma Delia was deep into her holiday magic.

“This,” she said, tugging a length of floss between her fingers, “is not just thread. This is destiny on a spool.”

Andrew, age ten and already an expert in detecting nonsense, squinted. “It’s green.”

“It is emerald,” Grandma corrected, as if that explained everything. “And don’t breathe too close or it will tangle out of spite.”

Ethan, eight years old and wholly convinced his grandmother was the cleverest woman alive, gasped and scooted back a full inch. “Threads can do that?”

“Oh, darling,” she said, threading the needle with one graceful motion that made Andrew mutter something about witchcraft, “threads can do anything if you don’t respect them.”

The boys exchanged the kind of look only brothers could—half exasperation, half awe.

Laid across Grandma Delia’s lap were two plain white socks. Not festive. Not fluffy. Not remotely fit for the fireplace. But she’d declared that this year, the boys would have stockings she’d made herself “like in the old days,” even though none of them were entirely sure which old days she meant.

She made the first stitch. A neat little curve of green appeared against the fabric.

Ethan leaned forward again. “What’s it going to be?”

“A surprise,” she said.

Andrew folded his arms. “You always say that.”

“And am I ever wrong?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Scowled. “No.”

“Exactly.” She changed threads—red this time, rich as cranberries—and continued her work, the motion quick enough to impress even Andrew.

The embroidery took shape slowly, looping and swirling, threads crossing in ways that seemed accidental until suddenly they weren’t. Ethan didn’t see a picture yet, but he could feel one forming, like constellations before someone traced the lines.

Grandma Delia paused only long enough to sip her tea, the mug balanced on a book whose title Andrew deliberately did not read. The last time he did, he learned more about Victorian flirting customs than any ten-year-old needed.

“Why do you sew our stockings?” Ethan asked softly.

She smiled without looking up. “Because store-bought ones are fine for strangers, but family deserves the time it takes to stitch.”

Andrew pretended to check a loose thread on the arm of the couch so he wouldn’t accidentally feel anything too sentimental.

She switched to gold thread—thin, shining—and the picture began revealing itself: a tiny tree, but not just any tree. This one wore spirals of red and green that wound like the Milky Way, dotted with stars she added in delicate silver sparks.

Ethan gasped. “It’s— it’s alive.”

“It’s not alive,” Andrew said, but he was leaning closer now too. “It just looks like it’s moving.”

“That,” Grandma Delia announced, tying off the final stitch, “is how you know you’ve used enough love.”

She held up the sock. The embroidered tree shimmered faintly in the lamplight, every thread catching the glow just so.

“It’s perfect,” Ethan breathed.

Andrew swallowed. “Yeah. It… is.”

Grandma Delia patted the cushion beside her. “Come here, both of you. I have one more to make, and I need someone to cut the threads exactly as I say. No more, no less.”

Ethan scrambled to her side instantly. Andrew followed, a little slower but no less eager.

Grandma Delia gathered them in, guiding their hands as she chose the next colors. The three of them bent over the plain white sock, heads close together, the quiet of the room settling around them like a soft blanket.

Andrew tried to act unimpressed. Ethan tried to sit still and failed.

Grandma pretended not to notice either one.

It was the usual congregation dynamic.