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.
The bike wobbled slightly, settling into its new center of gravity.
It hung from the vertical rack at the end of the train car, one pedal knocking softly against the metal brace as the train shifted. Eleni reached out without thinking and steadied it, fingers brushing the cold frame. The movement was small, but it traveled: overhead luggage rattled, coffee in travel mugs sloshed into tiny crescents.
She had three finals behind her, one term paper submitted at 11:57 p.m., and a ticket home that had cost more than she wanted to think about. The bike was her compromise—too expensive to leave on campus, too likely to sit untouched until January.
The car lights flickered once. Not ominously. Just uncertain.
Outside the window, the snow that had been falling steadily since before dawn wasn’t snow anymore. It streamed sideways in long, silver arcs, glowing faintly, as if each flake had remembered how to make its own light.
“Well,” murmured the man across the aisle, pulling his scarf tighter and bracing his rolling suitcase with one foot, “that’s new.”
No one panicked.
It was a holiday train. Everyone was tired, half-asleep, wrapped in the dull patience that came from delayed departures and shared inconvenience. A little strangeness barely registered.
A soft chime sounded overhead.
It wasn’t the conductor’s voice. It wasn’t any announcement Eleni had ever heard in four years of riding this line back and forth between school and home. The sound felt musical, like the opening note of a song someone had started in another room.
The train slowed.
Then stopped.
There were no tracks beneath them.
No trees flashing past.
No sky in any direction she recognized.
Beyond the windows stretched a wide expanse of deep violet light, like dusk layered over starlight, shifting gently as if moved by a tide no one could see.
A door appeared where there hadn’t been one before.
Not the end-of-car door. This one was narrower, curved, its outline faintly luminous, as if it had been sketched into existence and only just agreed to stay.
Someone stood there.
They were tall and composed, not quite human but close enough to be reassuring. Their features carried the soft familiarity of old memories—faces glimpsed in dreams, professors half-remembered, strangers who once helped carry a box up a stairwell.
“Welcome,” they said, their voice resonant in a way that felt felt rather than heard. “You’re right on time.”
A woman near the front let out a short laugh. “Time for what?”
“For the Interstice,” the being replied easily. “The pause between departures.”
Eleni felt something settle in her chest at the word. Pause. Not stop.
“Is this… allowed?” someone asked.
The being smiled. “Journeys create their own permissions.”
One by one, passengers stood. No one rushed. No one needed to. Eleni unhooked her bike from the rack and wheeled it forward, the tires humming softly against the threshold as she crossed into the violet light.
The ground beyond the train felt warm beneath her boots. The air tasted faintly sweet, like oranges remembered from childhood winters. Overhead, points of light gathered—twelve of them—arranging themselves into a slow, deliberate circle.
A presence beside her spoke gently. “This space appears for travelers who are carrying more than they think they are.”
Eleni thought of her backpack, heavy with books she would not open again until January. Thought of her parents’ house, unchanged and waiting. Thought of how it felt to belong in two places and fully in neither.
“Will we be late?” she asked.
“No,” the being said. “You’ll arrive exactly when you’re meant to.”
Time loosened its grip.
People talked. Someone laughed. A child traced glowing shapes in the air. The man with the suitcase leaned his case against a low table and accepted a steaming bowl of something that smelled like warmth translated into food. Eleni rested her hands on her bike’s handlebars, feeling steady again.
Eventually, the chime sounded once more.
The doorway reappeared.
“It’s time,” the being said, kindly.
The train car returned around them without urgency. Seats. Windows. Overhead racks. The bike clipped back into place with a soft, familiar click.
The lights flickered.
Snow resumed its ordinary fall.
The train lurched forward, metal on metal, sound and motion returning to their expected patterns.
Most passengers sat quietly, gazes unfocused, as though holding something fragile just behind their eyes.
Eleni looked out the window, watching the snowfall steady itself back into the ordinary world.