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.

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.

“Magic made by them,” Jordan thought as she stood in front of the bicycle—wobbly, glittering, slightly lopsided, and absolutely the most beautiful thing she had seen all week.

She didn’t move for a moment, just took it in, the tree lights catching on chrome and ribbon in little glimmers. It was finished. Actually finished. She and Trisha had built it with their own four hands, two questionable YouTube tutorials, and one bottle of wine.

Trisha stepped beside her, cheeks flushed, hair escaping its clip. “We did it,” she whispered, as if the bike might collapse if she spoke too loudly.

Jordan nodded slowly. She kept staring at the handlebars, the shiny bell, the pink basket threaded with ribbon Trisha had woven through the slats. This mess of metal and determination had come together. Somehow.

* * *

Two hours earlier, the living room had looked like a crime scene involving chrome and poor decisions.

Jordan had unfolded the instruction booklet and immediately regretted everything. “Are these diagrams interpretive?” she asked, rotating the page as if that might help.

Trisha leaned over her shoulder, squinting. “This one looks like a wheel.”

“That’s the warning label.”

“It is a very wheel-shaped warning label.”

Jordan laughed so hard she almost lost the screws she was holding. That probably should have been the moment they stopped for the night, but stopping wasn’t in the plan and definitely wasn’t in their parenting philosophy. Their daughter would wake up expecting magic, and they were determined to deliver it despite the technical difficulties.

They pressed on, holding bolts in place with dramatic optimism while washers vanished into the carpet and the Allen wrench made repeated unauthorized trips under the couch. At one point Jordan was fairly certain she had attached a piece upside down, but Trisha was laughing too hard for her to admit it.

“Midnight Mass for the mechanically inept,” Jordan declared, raising her wineglass.

“Amen,” Trisha said, with solemnity only the tipsy could manage.

Piece by piece, through cooperation, stubbornness, and a shared sense of humor, the bicycle took shape. A wheel found its footing. Handlebars connected with a reluctant click. The basket went on after a brief negotiation with several uncooperative screws.

* * *

Now, in the quiet glow of the living room, Jordan finally exhaled. Trisha slipped an arm around her waist, warm and steady.

“She’s going to lose her mind,” Jordan murmured.

“In the best possible way,” Trisha replied.

The lights of the tree blinked, gentle and soft, casting the room in a warm pulse of color.

Jordan reached out and tapped the front tire lightly, testing the balance one more time.

The bike wobbled slightly, settling into its new center of gravity.

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.

It was the usual congregation dynamic.

The latecomers slipping into the back pews as quietly as possible, the choir fussing with their folders, the acolytes trying very hard to look solemn while whispering anyway. Mother Ixchel had seen versions of this scene on three different worlds now, but nowhere did it feel quite as tender as it did on Centaurus.

Maybe it was the sky.

Everyone said Centaurus had too many stars—so many they blurred into shimmering clouds at night, as if the cosmos had forgotten where to stop. Even inside the little stone-and-salvage church, she felt their presence pressing close, patient and watchful.

But tonight was Midnight Mass, and if the sky had opinions, it would have to wait.

“Lights down,” she said gently.

A soft cascade of clicks followed. The overhead panels dimmed, then extinguished, until the only illumination came from the low line of candles along the window ledges. Their flames fluttered in the draft from the old ventilation system, bright and fragile—like every human hope that had ever crossed the deep.

The choir drew in a collective breath.

Mother Ixchel felt it then, that exact second just before the hymn began: the hush, the pause, the way the air itself seemed to lean forward. This moment had power. It always had. A kind of quiet magic no one could manufacture, no matter the world or century.

“Silent night… holy night…”

The first notes drifted into the dark, warm and imperfect and achingly sincere. The altos blended late. The tenors missed their entrance. The baritone who repaired terraformers for a living overshot his pitch by a full half step and corrected with the confidence of a man who refused to be embarrassed by joy.

Mother Ixchel closed her eyes.

Across the Coalition of Aligned Worlds, she could imagine this same carol rising in a hundred places at once: sung in English, Centauran Creole, SolCommon, Vulhari, SynthCant. Sung in domed colonies, hydroponic farm chapels, mining outpost rec halls, starship sanctuaries. Sung by people who had never stepped on Earth, yet carried its stories like inherited starlight.

The second verse swelled, soft and steady.

“Glories stream from heaven afar…”

The candles flickered. The shadows breathed. A toddler in the third pew began humming along, entirely off-key and utterly earnest. Someone’s coat rustled. Someone else sniffled quietly.

This was not a grand cathedral, nor a perfect choir, nor a flawless liturgy.

But it was real.

And when the final chord faded, trailing into the vast silence between stars, Mother Ixchel felt something settle inside her—gentle as a hand resting against her heart, familiar as a well-loved psalm.

Not magic made by ritual.

Magic made by them.

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.

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.

A tiny flame held its ground, steady against a universe of storms larger than Earth itself.

The candle flickered inside its mag-clamped holder, a stubborn point of gold in the dimmed common bay of the solar-sail ship Aurora’s Wake. Outside the viewport, the storm surged—a roil of charged particles and color, ion-light rippling in sheets across the sails like ghostly fire.

Inside, two boys giggled.

Aaron—age six, gap-toothed, and so human it hurt—gave the dreidel an overly dramatic spin. The little carved top wobbled, then steadied, its letters flashing in arcs before skittering into the palm of his friend.

Tir. Not human. Not remotely. Young for his species, with silver-blue eyes and soft bioluminescent freckles that brightened whenever he laughed. Tonight, they glowed like tiny stars.

“It landed on gimel,” Tir announced triumphantly, though his accent stretched each syllable into something musical. “That means I win all the tokens.”

“You always win all the tokens,” Aaron complained without real heat. “You have unfair alien luck.”

Tir pressed both hands to his chest in mock offense. “My luck is regulated. My mother said so.”

Across the bay, the adults exchanged small smiles as they tended to the holiday preparations. Two traditions, overlapping like constellations—Terran Hanukkah and the Festival of Twelve Stars, the great renewal celebration of Tir’s people.

Captain Raizel Levine straightened the menorah, ensuring the flame stayed steady despite the shuddering from  the storm. “Regulated luck,” she murmured. “Wish we could regulate that ion flux.”

Dr. Seret—Tir’s alien parent, tall and luminous and patient—adjusted the crystalline bowl that served as the centerpiece of their own ritual. Inside it, twelve miniature star-shaped lights pulsed softly, one for each principle of their festival. “The sails are holding,” Seret said calmly. “This storm will pass.”

“I know.” Raizel watched the way the aurora-like currents licked at the ship’s exterior. “Still not my favorite way to spend night six.”

Seret’s mouth curved—alien, but unmistakably amused. “Night six for you. Star Eight for us.”

Raizel huffed a laugh. “Time zones are hard enough. Interstellar calendars are worse.”

Back at the low table, Aaron reclaimed the dreidel. “Do your people have spinning tops?” he asked Tir, already winding up for another toss.

“No,” Tir said, blinking earnestly. “We have the Star Cascades. You drop them from a high tower and they drift down like water made of color.”

“That sounds cooler than dreidel,” Aaron admitted.

“It is not cooler,” Tir countered seriously. “You cannot shout ‘Nes gadol haya sham!’ with a Cascade. There is no shouting at all. My elder-mother told me shouting is rude in holy places.”

Aaron’s grin split wide. “My Bubbie  says shouting is how you know you’re doing Hanukkah right.”

The ship rocked again, sharper this time. The flame danced hard, bending sideways before righting itself.

“Okay, boys,” Raizel called gently, “maybe scoot in farther from the bulkhead. Just until the next surge passes.”

Tir turned to Aaron. “Do you wish to pause the game?”

Aaron shook his head, curls bouncing. “No way. Your turn. Maybe this time you won’t steal all my chocolate coins.”

“I do not steal,” Tir protested, deeply affronted. “The top gives me the coins.”

“That’s what a thief would say,” Aaron replied, sage as any ancient prophet.

Tir sputtered indignantly. His freckles brightened.

At the table, Seret lit the eighth Star, the glow folding softly into the shimmering bowl. Raizel lit the next Hanukkah candle, adding its warmth to the tiny flame already pushing back the storm.

“So,” Raizel asked quietly, “how do your people explain this night?”

Seret watched their child and Aaron, heads bent close over the spinning wooden dreidel and a pile of rapidly dwindling chocolate. “We say that the universe was born in a burst of light,” Seret whispered, “and every festival since is our attempt to answer it.”

Raizel nodded. “We say we honor a miracle that outlasted the darkest week.”

Two parents. Two rituals. Two children, unaware of miracles except the ones they made for each other.

The hull groaned softly as the storm shifted, currents brushing the sails like an unseen hand.

Aaron spun the dreidel again, and both boys leaned in, breathless and delighted.

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.

Somewhere nearby, something shifted in the quiet, as if it had finally noticed them.

It happened at the moment the flame took hold. Not before, not after—right then. That was what stayed with me. Not the sound exactly, but the sensation of it: a subtle tremor passing through the outer ring of Valhalla Station, the kind you only noticed if you had learned to listen with your feet instead of your ears.

Valhalla sat on Jupiter’s fourth terraformed moon, a place humanity had coaxed into cooperation with pressure, patience, and very good math. The engineers said the structure adjusted constantly—temperature differentials, micro-gravitational drift, orbital corrections. All perfectly ordinary. Still, the timing felt personal.

There were thirteen of us gathered under the dome that cycle, if you counted the dog, which I did. Twelve humans in a loose, imperfect semicircle, one slightly enhanced dog in a holiday vest and taking the occasion very seriously, and an AI drone hovering politely at the back, its indicator light dimmed as if it understood that brightness was already being handled.

The menorah sat on a low table, and it was not impressive in the traditional sense. It had been assembled–cobbled together really – from spare parts over several years: a section of copper conduit for the base, mismatched bolt heads for candle cups, a curved piece of polished hull scrap bent just enough to suggest intention. Someone had engraved small hash marks along one side with a laser tool set slightly too high, giving it a faintly scorched look. It was whimsical in the way frontier objects often were—clearly made by people who needed something to exist and made it any way they could.

The shamash sat a little higher than the rest, because someone had decided that detail mattered.

No one there was particularly observant. A few weren’t Jewish at all. But Hanukkah had a way of widening the doorway. Light was light, after all, and the station nights were long.

When the match struck, the flame appeared small and unassuming against the dome’s cool-blue illumination. Jupiter loomed beyond the glass, vast and molten, its storms rolling in bands of rust and gold. Someone had once joked that celebrating Hanukkah here made the planet look like the universe’s largest dreidel, and the thought lingered, quietly absurd.

The shamash caught first. Its flame flickered, steadied, and was lowered to the first candle. The wick glowed, hesitated, then lifted into its own flame—cleaner, calmer.

That was when the tremor returned.

It wasn’t violent. It didn’t trigger alarms or shift the mugs on the table. It felt more like a breath being taken by something very large and very old. The kind of movement that reminded everyone present that this world had not been born this way—it had been persuaded.

The shamash guttered a moment later. A small cough of flame, a soft hiss, and then it went dark, having done its job.

Only the single  candle remained.

No one spoke for a while. Even the drone held position, as if it had decided hovering was a kind of listening.

Eventually, explanations surfaced. Someone mentioned thermal adjustment. Someone else suggested orbital debris. The geologist, without smiling, said station ghosts. The dog offered a sound that landed somewhere between agreement and applause.

Food appeared. Fried onions mingled with recycled air. Latkes ranged from excellent to deeply theoretical. Sufganiyot were passed hand to hand. The AI asked permission to catalogue “culturally significant carbohydrates” and was told yes, but not directly over the food. It adjusted itself by three centimeters and seemed pleased.

Conversation filled the spaced the way it always did – warmly, unevenly, generously. Stories were told. Apple sauce experiments were defended. Laughter bounced gently off the curve of the dome and faded into Jupiter’s slow, endless churn.

Through it all, the candle burned.

It did not flare. It did not waver. It simply stayed.

Later, when the plates were empty and the voices softened, I looked at it again—the single, steady flame, holding its place in a structure built to survive storms that could swallow planets.

And I thought about that first shift in the quiet. About how something had moved, or noticed, or adjusted itself just enough to make room.

A tiny flame held its ground, steady against a universe of storms larger than Earth itself.

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.

They stood there for a moment, the kind of pause that could turn into anything.

Which, in retrospect, was probably why the universe chose that exact second to drop an icicle the size of a baguette from the roof.

It hit the sidewalk between them with a sharp CRACK, sending a spray of glittering shards across their boots.

Marisol yelped.
Theo shouted something that sounded like “FRIGGIN—” but lost the rest to shock.
Then they looked at each other and burst out laughing in the kind of helpless, slightly hysterical way you only do when you’ve both just escaped being impaled by weather.

“Oh my god,” Marisol wheezed, bending to pick up one of the harmless fragments. “If that had hit one of us—”

“Immediate popsicle,” Theo said solemnly. “Open-and-shut coroner’s report.”

She snorted. “‘Cause of death: holiday décor.’”

“‘Victim was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but was at least festively themed.’”

Their shoulders bumped as they crouched to sweep the icicle shards into the snowbank. The contact made both of them freeze for half a beat—long enough to feel it, not long enough to acknowledge it out loud.

When they straightened, Marisol dusted her gloves, trying to act nonchalant. “So. That was dramatic.”

Theo nodded. “Nature’s way of telling us something.”

“Oh really? And what’s that?”

“That we should never, ever stand under eaves again,” he said, nodding sagely.

She laughed again, warmer this time. “I walked here under like twelve eaves.”

“Reckless behavior.” He shook his head. “Truly wild.”

A gust of wind rattled the remaining icicles along the edge of the roof. Both of them instinctively stepped closer together, out of the drop zone. His arm brushed hers. Neither of them moved away.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. Fine.”
Then, after a beat she didn’t mean to let slip: “Better now.”

He turned to look at her—really look at her—and something in the air shifted. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. It just got…warmer

“Should we, um…” Marisol gestured vaguely toward absolutely nothing. “Move before the roof tries to kill us again?”

“Probably,” Theo agreed.

They didn’t move.

Another icicle creaked somewhere overhead. They both flinched—directly into each other’s space. Not on purpose. Not quite by accident.

Marisol felt her breath catch.

Theo’s eyes flicked to her mouth.

“Okay,” she said, barely more than a whisper, “that one was definitely a sign.”

He laughed, soft and nervous and delighted. “Yeah. A pretty obvious one.”

And before either of them said anything else, he leaned in—slowly enough that she could turn away if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

Their lips met in a warm, startled, perfect little collision, the kind that makes you laugh into each other’s mouths because neither of you was quite ready and both of you wanted it anyway.

A chunk of snow slid off the roof behind them with a soft whump, like the universe clearing its throat politely.

They pulled apart, breathless and grinning.

“Okay,” Marisol said, cheeks flushed, “maybe we should go somewhere less… structurally dangerous.”

Theo nodded, brushing a snowflake from her hair.

Somewhere nearby, something shifted in the quiet, as if it had finally noticed them.

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.

He reached for the espresso machine switch.

“Don’t,” Jenna warned, holding her mug like a shield. “Not until we resolve the wreath situation.”

Daniel froze mid-reach. “The what situation?”

She pointed toward the window, where their holiday wreath—tasteful, classic, hung with a single red ribbon—now sat crooked, half-crushed, and inexplicably sprinkled with glitter.

“Explain,” she said.

Daniel squinted. “Okay. In my defense—”

“Oh, this’ll be good.”

“—I was trying to shake the snow off.”

“Daniel,” Jenna said, voice dangerously calm, “we live in Florida.”

He looked at the wreath again. “…Right. So it might’ve been sand.”

Jenna set her mug down very slowly. “Sand. In the air.”

“It happens. Meteorologically.”

“And the glitter?”

He hesitated. “Atmospheric… festive… particles?”

The smoke alarm beeped once, sharply, as if weighing in with its own judgment. They both ignored it.

“Look,” Daniel said, “I was just trying to help. You said the door looked ‘undecorated and emotionally bleak.’”

“I meant the inside,” she shot back. “The inside of the door looked bleak. The outside was fine. The outside was classic. Elegant. Dignified.”

“Well, now it’s festive.”

“It looks like a raccoon hosted a rave on it.”

“A tasteful rave.”

Jenna pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Why do we do this every year?”

“Because,” Daniel said, coming closer, “we love the holidays. And also we’re both control freaks.”

“You’re the control freak,” she countered automatically.

“True,” he admitted. “But you’re competitive about it.”

She cracked a smile. “Okay, that’s fair.”

The espresso machine clicked as it finished warming up. Daniel reached for two mugs.

Then stopped.
“Wait… is this still a fight?”

“Maybe,” Jenna said. “I’m still deciding.”

A long beat.

“But I’ll allow coffee during deliberations.”

He handed her the good mug—the big one, the one she always stole from his side of the cabinet. She took it, slid her hand over his briefly, and sighed.

“I’m sorry about the… atmospheric festive particles,” he said.

“I’m sorry I threatened you before caffeine,” she replied. “It wasn’t my best self.”

He flipped the switch, and the machine gave a small, enthusiastic flare of steam—loud enough to make them both jump.

Jenna laughed first.

Daniel followed.

The wreath gleamed crookedly in the morning sun, glitter catching light like it had its own opinion.

“Okay,” Jenna said, sipping carefully, “we’ll fix it later.”

Daniel nodded. “Yeah. Later.”

They stood there for a moment, the kind of pause that could turn into anything.

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 storm had passed, but the warmth in the circle of chairs lingered like an afterimage.

Sam noticed it the moment he stepped inside Breakwater Books & Brew. The chairs near the bay window were still gathered close, mugs left where hands had warmed them, a scarf draped over the back of one seat as if its owner meant to return. The shop smelled faintly of cocoa and paper and something else—relief, maybe. The kind that came from not having to be alone for a while.

December always did this. People drifted in under the pretense of weather or errands and stayed because it felt safer than going home. They rarely asked for help; they just wandered until something caught and held.

Mae came in a few minutes later, stamping snow from her boots. She paused when she saw the chairs and smiled.

“Looks like last night was busy,” she said.

“Full house,” Sam said. “Jake said no  one wanted to be the first to leave.”

She nodded like she understood exactly what that meant and started gathering mugs, moving quietly so the room could keep its shape a little longer.

Sam began straightening shelves, returning books that had been handled and set aside. One paperback still lay open on the low table, its spine creased in that particular way that meant someone had read the same paragraph more than once. He picked it up and checked the bookmark tucked inside: a receipt from the ferry, folded small.

He smiled and set it behind the counter with the others.

That was his favorite part of the holidays—the way people found the book they needed by accident. Not the one they came in asking for, but the one that met them halfway. A collection of letters for the widower who needed other voices in the room. A mystery set in a seaside town for the woman who wanted somewhere familiar to walk for a while. A slim book of poems someone held against their chest, as if it had already said what they couldn’t.

Not every book left the store wrapped. Some left tucked under arms, or pressed flat against coats, or carried openly, like a declaration.

As Sam bent to straighten one of the chairs, something slipped from between the cushions and fell softly to the floor.

A book.

Not one of his.

The cover was plain, cloth-bound, its title stamped faintly on the front:

Harbormaster’s Log
Coal Bay, 1894–1899

He frowned, turning it over in his hands. It didn’t have a price sticker. No barcode. No record in his inventory.

Mae looked over from the sink. “Find something?”

“Looks like it found us,” Sam said.

He opened it carefully. The pages were filled with neat, spare handwriting—notes about weather, arrivals, departures. Names of ships. Names of people. Small observations written down so they wouldn’t be lost.

He read a line at random.

December 21. Cold, but clear. Three travelers stayed longer than planned. Gave them directions anyway.

Sam closed the book and sat for a moment, listening to the hum of the espresso machine warming up, the muted sounds of the harbor waking outside.

“Guess it belongs,” Mae said softly.

He set the logbook on the low table with the others—the found books, the waiting ones—and left it there.

Someone would need it.

The bell over the shop door chimed as the first patron of the day entered, brushing snow from their coat.

Sam stood, the familiar warmth of the morning routine settling over him again as he reached for the espresso machine switch.

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 night felt different now—larger somehow, full of places for wonder to hide.

The overhead announcement crackled as if it had traveled a long way to reach them. All outgoing flights have been canceled. Not delayed. Not rerouted. Canceled. Outside the tall terminal windows, snow moved sideways in thick, luminous sheets, swallowing the runway lights faster than they could blink back on. The weather service was already issuing apologies.

Most passengers groaned and surged toward the customer-service desk. She went the other direction—toward the quiet corner of the terminal where the airport bar spilled into a lounge lined with club chairs and a fake fireplace flickering in its little glass box.

The bartender spotted her and lifted his chin in greeting. “You look like someone who needs a chair and something warm.”

“You’re not wrong,” she said.

“Grab a seat by the ‘fire.’ I’ll bring it over.”

The club chairs were arranged in loose circles, like the airport wanted strangers to believe they could be friends. When the next few stranded passengers trickled in, they drifted into her circle almost by instinct: a businessman already shrugging off defeat with a sigh; two college students wrapped in scarves big enough to be blankets; a tired mother carrying a baby who slept with his cheek pressed to her shoulder.

Then there was the man in the vintage flight jacket—leather worn smooth, patches stitched by hand, real metal zipper with a pull tab that looked older than her father. He eased into the chair nearest the fake fireplace, warming his palms over nothing.

The bartender arrived with mugs of hot cocoa. Real cocoa. He made a point of telling them so.

“Storm’s throwing its weight around,” he said. “You’re welcome to wait it out here.”

“Better here than gate C17,” the businessman muttered. “Pretty sure a family of raccoons lives there.”

The students snorted. The bartender winked.

The mother rocked the baby gently. “He’ll wake up any minute. He always wakes up when the pressure drops.”

“Hand him here,” said one of the students—unexpectedly gentle. “My little cousins love me.”

The mother hesitated only long enough to check the student’s grip, then passed the baby over. He blinked awake, then settled into her arms like he’d made a decision.

“Wow,” the mother whispered. “That never happens.”

The man in the flight jacket smiled. “Babies know who to trust.”

His voice had a warm, radio-static softness, the kind you only heard in old recordings.

The businessman leaned forward, curious despite himself. “You sound like you flew professionally.”

“For a long time,” the man said.

“What’d you fly?”

“Oh, whatever needed flying.” He gave a small shrug, as if the details were unimportant. “Cargo. Rescue. The odd emergency route on Christmas Eve.”

“Christmas Eve?” the student holding the baby asked. “Like… weathering storms?”

“Like whatever came through the air that night,” he said, eyes glinting.

Everyone laughed, but he didn’t.

As the storm worsened, the lounge grew warmer. People took turns holding the baby, who seemed to enjoy the rotation. The students played peekaboo. The businessman—awkward at first—held him like he was handling a fragile instrument, and to everyone’s surprise, the baby gurgled at him.

“See?” the bartender called from behind the counter. “He’s judging your aura. You passed.”

They talked in little bursts.
Where they were headed.
How long they’d been traveling.
Who they were hoping to see.

“First Christmas without my sister,” the businessman admitted quietly.

“I get that,” said the mother, adjusting the baby’s hat. “Holidays get complicated.”

“Storms too,” the man in the flight jacket added, almost to himself.

A gust rattled the terminal windows. Snow swirled outside, thick and bright.

“Well,” the bartender said, refilling their mugs, “looks like you’re all stuck till morning. Cozy up.”

They did.
Surprisingly easily.

Hours passed.
The fake fireplace hummed; the baby slept across someone’s knees; conversation rose and fell like tidewater.
It felt like a room suspended outside of time.

Then, a little before dawn, the man in the flight jacket stood.

“Storm’s easing off,” he said, glancing toward the windows.

Everyone turned. The snow had thinned to drifting flakes. The runway lights flickered hazily back to life.

“Will you catch a flight out?” the mother asked.

He smiled, pulling a cap from his jacket pocket—a cap that hadn’t been there before. “Flights aren’t really my concern tonight.”

He nodded once to the group—almost a bow—and walked down the corridor.
Not hurried.
Not lingering.
Just… leaving.

She blinked, and he was gone.

The bartender collected the empty mugs, smiling knowingly. “Some folks pass through exactly when they’re needed.”

The intercom crackled.
A gate agent cleared her throat.
People stirred.

The storm had passed, but the warmth in the circle of chairs lingered like an afterimage.