Holiday
Home for the Holidys
Snow blanketed the winding road as Nora drove toward the old family estate, her hands tight on the wheel. She hadn’t been home in years, not since the screaming fights and slammed doors that marked her departure. But her mother’s voice on the phone—quivering, pleading—had cut through her resolve.
By V-Ink Stories2 months ago in Fiction
The Krampus Pact
Snow fell in soft, soundless flurries outside the Anderson family’s house, but inside, the air crackled with tension. Christmas Eve should have been joyous, but years of resentment had turned it into an annual battlefield. The family had gathered reluctantly—mother Janice, father Greg, their teenage daughter Holly, and her younger brother Max—but the holiday spirit was nowhere to be found.
By V-Ink Stories2 months ago in Fiction
5 Minute Fiction: Ring
Snow fell from the deep gray sky. Huge flakes alighted on branches and coated the sidewalk. I stood gazing up at the dense clouds and patches where the starlight shined through. The cold bit at my exposed fingertips but didn’t hurt enough to persuade me to go back inside. Beyond the muffled televisions and thrilled shrieks of children, the sighs of cars over the damp pavement, and the distant hum of caroling was the silence I craved.
By Valerie Taylor2 months ago in Fiction
The Cinder’s Weight
The hearth has stopped its singing.white-ribbed and glowing with a soft, pulsing ache. I am watching the last flame— a tiny, blue-tongued ghost licking the underside of a charred knot. It is fragile, a translucent ribbon fraying against the weight of the coming dark. There is a specific silence that lives here For hours, it was a roar of gold and defiance, consuming the dry cedar of our history, the splinters of every word we ever threw into the heat to keep the room alive. But the wood is spent now. The logs have collapsed into a skeletal geography,
By Awa Nyassi2 months ago in Fiction
THE ARCHITECTURE OF DARK: RITUAL WINTER
The world doe not die in winter, simply holds its breath. Where I live, the transition isn't a gradual slide, but a sharp snap. One morning, you wake up and the air has changed. It no longer smells of damp earth and rotting leaves; it smells of nothing at all. It is a clean, sterile cold that reaches into your lungs and reminds you that you are made of water and warmth—two things the frost wants to take back.
By Awa Nyassi2 months ago in Fiction
The Neighbourhood Christmas Tradition. Top Story - December 2025. Content Warning.
This is Part Two of The Neighbourhood Christmas Tradition. If you haven’t read Part One yet, you can find it here. When I get home, there’s an afternoon breeze, so I decide to eat dinner in my backyard. As I’m sitting at the table, I look over at my empty garden bed and remember that I have to do something about it. It almost looks as though the previous tenant's plants were pulled out and new soil was added, ready for a fresh start.
By Sandy Gillman2 months ago in Fiction
Last Bus
The bus came through my neighborhood every night at 11:47. I knew because I heard it before I saw it. The low engine hum. The soft rattle of windows. The sigh of brakes somewhere down the road. Even when I wasn’t looking for it, my body recognized the sound.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Fiction
Wild Love at Christmas Eve. Top Story - December 2025.
If we grow old together, help me to remember the catch in my voice when I faced this old world anew one Christmas Eve ... Aflock in the town's tavern, my head a mix of love and merry. Downing my glass of Moscato, my head spinning with claustrophobia, I ripped away from the endless whir of clutches and kisses. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, I found relief in the welcome outside air.
By Susan L. Marshall2 months ago in Fiction
