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.

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 lets the silence fill her, vast and bright as home.

It’s the kind of quiet that only happens after heavy snowfall — thick, forgiving, a hush that smooths the sharp edges of everything. The colony sleeps beneath a quilt of white, soft light bleeding from the biothermal streetlamps. Above the dome, the auroras twist in ribbons of green and rose, reflected in the ice like the planet itself is dreaming.

She stands outside the comms station, chin tilted back, breath crystallizing in the air. Her boots leave careful tracks on the compacted path. The cold doesn’t bother her much anymore; after six years on Isolde Prime, her body has learned to move with the chill instead of against it. Still, she misses the sound of wind through trees — there are no trees here, only metal towers and frost.

The door slides open behind her. “You’re out here again.”

She doesn’t turn immediately. “You say that like I’m supposed to be somewhere else.”

He steps beside her, close enough that she can feel the faint warmth radiating from his coat. Dr. Elias Hart, exobiologist, reluctant optimist, hopeless romantic. His parka hood is lined with faux fur gone a little ragged at the edges, and his cheeks are red from the cold.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he says.

“So are you.”

“I was.” He smiles, slow and tired. “Then I dreamed about the first storm, and figured you’d be out here watching this one.”

She glances sideways. “You make that sound like a bad habit.”

“Depends on the company.”

The lights above them pulse, soft as breathing. She remembers that first storm — the fear of the power failing, the scramble to secure the greenhouse domes, the way they’d worked side by side in the cold until dawn. That was when it began, really: not the flirtation or the laughter, but the quiet respect that came from surviving something together.

“Do you think we’ll ever get used to it?” she asks. “The cold, the dark, the way it always feels like we’re living inside a snow globe?”

He follows her gaze toward the horizon, where the sun won’t rise for another twenty days. “Maybe that’s not the point,” he says. “Maybe we’re not supposed to get used to it. Maybe we’re supposed to keep being amazed.”

She snorts, but softly. “That’s the kind of thing you say before you go back to Earth and write a book.”

“I’m not going back.”

She turns toward him, really looks at him this time — the steady eyes, the unshaven jaw, the kind of man who plants roots even in permafrost.

“Elias—”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small: a clear polymer sphere, snow swirling inside in tiny suspension. “The kids in the fabrication lab made these. Said they’re souvenirs for when we forget what the real thing looks like.”

She takes it, shaking it once. Flakes swirl like tiny ghosts, catching the lamplight. “You kept one?”

“I made one for you.”

Her breath catches — not from the cold this time. “You really are hopeless.”

“Hopelessly yours,” he says, grinning.

The silence between them is thick, but not empty. It’s the kind of silence that holds everything they haven’t said — the hours shared, the meals traded, the quiet in each other’s presence.

She leans in before she can second-guess it. The kiss is brief, but steady. His beard is cold, his lips warm, and the world seems to tilt slightly around them.

When they break apart, the snow begins again — soft flakes drifting down through the artificial atmosphere of the dome.

She tucks the snow globe into her coat pocket. “Merry Christmas, Elias.”

“Merry Christmas, Alina.”

The snow falls thicker now, wrapping the colony in white, and when he reaches for her hand, she doesn’t let go.

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.

For once, she feels perfectly in time.

The station hums around her — quiet but alive, a cathedral of carbon fiber and light. Out the viewport, Earth drifts beneath her like a blue lantern, its cloud swirls gleaming silver against the dark. The orbit is stable again. The instruments whisper compliance.

For the first time in seventy-three days, she’s not fighting the drift.

She floats closer to the window, gloved hand brushing against the glass as if she could touch the horizon. On the far side of the planet, dawn unspools in a line of molten gold. The sun flares, and the panels outside catch it, flooding the cabin with soft radiance.

It feels like Christmas morning — though by the mission clock, it might not even be December anymore. Up here, dates blur. There’s only light and shadow, work and rest, silence and the steady rhythm of her own pulse.

She checks the comms again. Static. Then, faintly, a voice.

“Jemison, this is Houston. Do you copy?”

Her breath catches. “Copy, Houston,” she replies, the words a little too fast. “Jemison reads you five by five.”

“Good to hear your voice again, Commander.”

It’s a new voice, one she doesn’t recognize — calm, low, threaded with warmth. A voice that sounds like gravity.

“Telemetry shows you’re back in sync,” he continues. “Your orbit stabilized two cycles ago.”

“I know,” she says softly. “I felt it.”

There’s a pause on the line — not static, but surprise. Then a chuckle. “You felt orbital correction?”

“I’ve been up here long enough to tell when the universe exhales.”

She hears him smile through the static. “Roger that.”

They run through diagnostics together, the familiar ritual of systems checks and data verification. His cadence is steady, soothing, a rhythm to anchor herself to. She imagines him on the ground — headset askew, coffee cooling beside his keyboard, eyes turned skyward.

When the checklist is complete, he says, “You’ll have sunrise in about ninety seconds. You should see the aurora from your position.”

“I see it already,” she whispers.

Below her, ribbons of green and violet curl across the poles, shimmering like breath against the night. It’s not the first aurora she’s seen from orbit, but this one feels different — brighter, alive. She thinks of the Christmas lights her father used to hang along the eaves of their house, blinking patterns that never quite synced. He’d laugh every year and say, “Perfection’s overrated, sweetheart. Just make it shine.”

And she had.

Now, decades later, she’s circling the planet he left behind, bathed in the glow of a light show that no human hands arranged.

“Houston,” she says, “if you’re getting video, you’ll want to see this.”

“I am,” he answers. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

She could tell him yes, but it feels too small a word. Instead, she just listens — to the hum of the ship, to his breathing on the line, to the faint crackle of cosmic radiation singing between them.

“I think,” she says slowly, “that for the first time in a long time, I know what it means to be home.”

“Copy that, Commander.” His voice softens. “Merry Christmas, up there.”

Her throat tightens. “Merry Christmas, down there.”

Outside the window, the aurora shimmers brighter, wrapping the curve of the world in living green fire. The station drifts steady through the dark, and she lets the silence fill her, vast and bright as home.

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.

Outside, the church bells strike midnight — exactly on time.

Inside the café, the world softens around the edges. The espresso machine has gone quiet, its metal belly releasing one last sigh of steam. She wipes down the counter in slow, practiced circles. When she finishes, she pours herself a small mug from what remains in the pot — lukewarm, but still comforting — and brings it with her as she turns.

He’s still there.

Coat folded over the back of his chair, the sleeves of his blazer worn thin at the elbows, chalk dust or flour or some other pale powder clinging to the cuffs. His notebook lies open beside a half-finished cappuccino, the foam long since collapsed into faint rings. He looks up at the shift of movement — or perhaps at the weight of her gaze — and starts to gather his things in a gentle, apologetic flurry.

“You don’t have to rush,” she says. “I’m closing, but not throwing anyone out.”

He pauses, half-smiling, half-wincing.
“I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“You’re not,” she replies, sipping from her mug. “You’re keeping the place company.”

The remark earns her a small smile — not quite shy, not quite confident, but warmer than the room had been a moment before. She walks to the back table and pulls the chessboard from the small bookshelf beside it.

“Stay,” she says, setting it down. “One game. I’ll even let you go first.”

He hesitates in the doorway between leaving and lingering — then rises, stretches, and joins her.

“I should warn you,” he says as he sits, “I tend to overthink my openings.”

“I work with caffeine for a living,” she replies. “Patience is a professional hazard.”

They begin in a hush broken only by the soft click of pieces meeting the board. She likes the way he studies the positions — eyes narrowed, mouth slightly open, as if listening for the logic rather than calculating it. She suspects he used to play piano, or perhaps still does.

Between moves, conversation emerges naturally: literature, mathematics, the best temperature for steaming milk, the yearly misery of daylight savings. He admits he always means to grade papers earlier, but ends up wandering the neighborhood instead — the mind needing air. She tells him she once majored in theatre before life demanded something steadier.

“Do you miss it?” he asks.

“Performing? Sometimes,” she says. “But a café’s not so different from a stage. There’s an audience. A rhythm. A script you can rewrite on the fly.”

“And what am I?” he asks, head tilted. “The critic?”

She shakes her head. “The recurring character.”

That earns her a fuller smile, bright enough to reveal the faint crease at the corner of his mouth.

When she finally checkmates him, he laughs softly, running a hand through his hair. “I teach logic, and yet…”

“Emotion trumps logic more often than not,” she says, beginning to gather the pieces.

But he reaches out — a light touch, just two fingers resting over her hand — and asks, “Another round?”

Her pulse flickers. “If I say yes, I’ll have to brew another pot.”

“Then yes,” he repeats.

Outside, snow begins to fall: hesitant flakes drifting past the windows, melting as soon as they touch the pavement. Inside, the air smells of cinnamon, espresso, and something newly awake.

Hours slip by unnoticed.
They play until the clock over the door insists it’s past two.

He helps her stack the chairs, fold the cloths, and set the alarm. At the door he lingers, breath blooming white in the cold.

“Same time next week?”

She nods, fingers tucked into her sleeves. “Bring your overthinking.”

He inclines his head, that amused glint returning. “And you bring the patience.”

The door closes behind him with a soft chime. She watches him retreat into the snow, coat collar turned up, shoulders curved like a thoughtful question. After a moment, she locks up, turns off the lights, and stands in the quiet warmth he’s left behind — a small ember glowing gently in the bones of the room.

When she finally steps outside, the bells begin again, slow and solemn. Midnight, or maybe something older.

And for once, she feels perfectly in time.

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 think she’s never on time.

Every year, someone laughs about it — her sister, a coworker, the neighbor who still calls her “kiddo” though she’s past forty.

“You’d be late to your own funeral,” they tease, and she smiles and shrugs and lets them believe it. Every Christmas, every birthday, there’s another clock: elegant wall pendulums, modern minimalist cubes, one shaped like a cat with eyes that swing in time with its tail. Her house ticks like a forest of mechanical crickets.

She doesn’t mind. The noise anchors her, reminds her where she is.

But they’re wrong, of course. She isn’t late — she just doesn’t stay in one version of now.

Time, for her, is elastic. Sometimes it stretches, gossamer-thin, like taffy pulled too far, and she can walk its length to touch the moment when her mother bent to kiss her scraped knee, or the instant she first realized she’d fallen in love. Other times it snaps tight and whips her forward, years ahead, where she sees a conversation that hasn’t happened yet, the face of a friend she hasn’t met.

When she was small, she thought everyone did this. She’d speak of something that “will have happened” next week and be scolded for talking nonsense. Eventually, she learned to keep quiet, to live as linearly as others expected — or at least to pretend.

The clocks help. They keep her tethered to their rhythm. But even that tether frays.

Last spring, she found herself walking home at dusk and stepped — only for an instant — into another version of the same street, where the houses were younger, trees sapling-thin, the air thick with the tang of woodsmoke. A child ran past her, laughing, and she caught a flash of her own face, eight years old and free of all the later weight. Then she blinked, and the world reset: streetlights humming, a grocery bag in her hand, the modern night reasserted.

She wonders sometimes what would happen if she stopped fighting it. If she let herself drift fully backward or forward and stayed. The idea tempts her — not escape, exactly, but alignment. She suspects Time wouldn’t mind the company.

Tonight, on Christmas Eve, her house is full of ticking. Every gift clock is wound and running, marking hours she doesn’t quite inhabit. She pours tea, sits among them, and feels the familiar shimmer begin — that soft stretch, the hum of a thousand parallel seconds brushing past.

One by one, the clocks fall silent. Not broken — merely pausing. In the hush, she hears it: the heartbeat beneath everything, the pulse of the world breathing.

She closes her eyes and lets go.

For a moment, she is everywhere — childhood, tomorrow, yesterday’s snowfall, next summer’s rain. She stands at the center of it all, a still point in a turning sphere, and Time — ancient, patient, amused — wraps her in its arms.

“You were never late,” it whispers. “You were simply elsewhere.”

When she opens her eyes, the clocks resume their ticking, each one perfectly synchronized.

And outside, the church bells strike midnight — exactly on time.