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.
She smiles. “They’ll find their way,” she says softly.
The younglings cluster close to her, their eyes wide as moons, their soft bodies still faintly translucent with newness. They haven’t learned yet to dim their glow, so the cavern sparkles — hundreds of tiny lights flickering against the stone, reflections moving like fireflies through water.
Outside, the desert wind moans across the dunes, carrying the scent of iron and ozone. The sky beyond the cave mouth is purple-black, strewn with so many stars it almost hurts to look. The elder has seen a thousand nights like this, and yet each one still feels like a beginning.
“Is it far?” one of them asks. Its voice is high, tremulous, hopeful.
“Far enough,” she says. “But not beyond reach.”
They murmur among themselves — a soft chime of uncertainty.
She chuckles. “You think distance is the hardest part. It isn’t. The hardest part is not knowing which way is yours to take.”
Their light flickers lower at that, and she regrets the shadow her honesty casts. “But you’ll learn,” she adds, gentler now. “The stars mark paths, not destinies. The wind remembers the shape of every traveler. You’ll listen, and you’ll know.”
One of the older ones — older by perhaps a few rotations — steps forward. “Will you come with us?”
“I will watch,” she answers. “But this is your journey. You’ll go farther without me.”
They shift uneasily. They’re not ready to leave the warmth of the nest, not ready to trade comfort for discovery. She remembers that feeling — the ache of wanting safety and freedom at once.
“Do you know why we’re called the Wandering Kind?” she asks.
A dozen small heads tilt. “Because we wander?”
“Because we seek,” she corrects softly. “And seeking means you can never stand still for long.”
She reaches into the pouch slung across her shoulder and pulls out a handful of dust — fine, shimmering particles that glow faintly blue. With a whisper, she scatters them into the air. The motes drift toward the cave’s mouth and catch the faint starlight, revealing faint trails across the sky — glowing threads stretching outward, weaving and crossing and looping back in on themselves.
“These are the paths of those who came before,” she says. “Every one of them once stood where you do now, wondering if they could survive the first night alone.”
“Did they?” another asks.
She smiles again, soft and knowing. “You wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t.”
Silence settles over them — a listening silence, deep and reverent. Outside, the wind shifts, and the glowing dust begins to fade. The younglings turn their faces toward the open sky.
“Go on,” she says. “Before dawn finds you waiting.”
One by one, they step into the starlit desert. Their glow grows brighter as they move away, pale lights bobbing like will-o’-wisps across the dunes. She watches until they’re only a constellation of tiny sparks at the edge of sight.
When the last one pauses to look back, she lifts a hand and waves. The youngling mimics the gesture, then turns and continues after the others.
The elder lingers a moment longer in the cave’s mouth, feeling the wind brush her face like a benediction. Then she sits, pulls her cloak around her, and looks up. The stars shimmer — the old paths intertwining with the new — and she hums a song as ancient as dust.