The Forgotten Jar

πŸͺ

The smell of chocolate chips in Canberra’s town hall was sweet.

Cloying.

Accusing. 

Cookies marched to a precise line-up over long tables, their dark chocolate chips arranged in exact spaces in perfectly pressed dough.

That shaped the baker’s hearts in absolute symmetry – they HAD to get the taste of the cookies JUST SO.

A donation jar was a gracious sentient on a corner table, 

greeted, then ignored.

Because the chocolate chip dough had to rise to yeast perfection.

πŸͺπŸͺ

The judges’ eyes swept with laser exactness over the cookie lines, their nods synchronous- the cookies had to grace the sides of the moulds, with no hint of space. 

The fingers of bakers pressed into dough with near-obsessive force, the thumps of their hearts orchestrating as they eradicate each offensive lump within. 

Their eyes fell quickly on the donation jar. 

That sighed, unnoticed. 

πŸͺπŸͺπŸͺ

The day of the great chocolate chip bake-off dawned, grey clouds masking sunlight. 

People entered Canberra Hall in droves, greeting the immaculate cookie lines with polite applause. 

The sound of the claps fell hollowly on the floor. 

The donation jar stood on a table in the corner, a consummate wallflower observing the proceedings. 

The guests passed it without glance or greeting. 

πŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺ

The day ended, success resounding from the walls of the hall. 

Dusk fell with discoloured red hues. 

The cookies were gone.

The donation jar peered keenly from the shadows. 

πŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺ

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Embers for All

Even the smallest glow can reach every heart

πŸ”₯πŸ”₯πŸ”₯πŸ”₯πŸ”₯

Warm fire steals lost hearts

Smoke going up the chimney

Embers glow for all.

πŸ”₯πŸ”₯πŸ”₯πŸ”₯πŸ”₯

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Imparting Differences

Today is the International Day of Human Solidarity – one when a jigsaw becomes completely fitted.

When walls part, and partitions close.

When differences meet, magic happens.

🌟

The city of Parting was – parted. There were many parts, true to its name.

Every district spoke a different language. And within each language, a separate dialect.

Rules veered like cars as they steered from street to street. Neighbours saw each other – only with their eyes. Glances fleeted, lasting shorter than seconds.

🐾

Kevin frowned at George’s odd dances. Harry squirmed at Sheila’s crooked smile – one fixed on her face due to facial paralysis from an accident.

They laughed at Juno – he wrote, but climbing Everest was easier than reading.

But the little child smiled like an angel.

Then, the Mayor threw them a ball into a curve that was already curvy.

The Day of Differences. A town holiday.

To mark the day and make it as COMFORTABLE for the edgy as he could, he PAIRED the townsfolk.

Two worlds collided in a day.

Leila, the quiet librarian, frowned at George’s heady dance moves. Tom, the straightlaced mathematician, baulked at Ben’s cheeky eyebrow raising.

The differences sounded louder than cymbals.

Hearts listened, though minds ignored.

✨

The diversity blanketed Parting – now Imparting – and beyond.

Leila held Dance Appreciation Days at the town library – with George’s help. Ben spun records at the radio station with the help of a metronome that Tom assembled – after a mouthful of quirky complaints.

And containers were no longer separate – the differences melted hard plastic partitions.

Into nothingness.

🌟

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It Thrives in Darkness

Even in darkness, small deeds shape the world.

πŸͺ±

The pale moon rises.

An earthworm’s quiet burrow.

Body shuns the light.

πŸͺ±

No fancy chorus.

It moves soil with its body.

Without wings for flight.

πŸͺ±

It hears loud footsteps.

Life pressing on its soft skin.

Learns not sounds of praise.

πŸͺ±

Roots sprout where it treads.

The soil recalls its labour,

But never its name.

πŸͺ±

It returns at dawn,

To the dark soil where it thrives

Soil’s breath now relaxes.

πŸͺ±

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The Snowflake Thief

Sharing is the season’s greatest gift.

❄️

A Yuletide snow blanket covered Windleaf Town, turning chimneys, roofs, and roads a dirty white. Holiday lights cast their glow on streets shrouded in frost.

Marlow was the town Grinch – a staunch disbeliever in the Christmas spirit, he kept to himself. No one dared touch the toys in his store – or so he thought. Snow muffled the world’s noise – to Marlow, it was the sound of jingle bells hatching an annoying plot.

Then, Marlow’s ornaments began to disappear.

One.

By.

One.

Right under his nose.

Each missing ornament felt like a tiny stab in his back. Near the cash register, a faint jingle – reminding him of each missing bauble.

❄️❄️

The disgruntled shopkeeper refused to let missing decorations daunt him – he decided to fight the good fight.

His solution was simple: traps and a little subterfuge.

Armed with a little strategy, he placed them where kleptomaniac fingers would pinch.

Near his Christmas tree.

Near the window.

Near the cash register.

Near the mouse hole (just in case).

Traps carefully set, he waited with trepidation – his heart thumped with hope, not fear.

Trap evidence brought in the usual suspects -brown mice with cheeky grins, a gust of wind, and human footsteps craving for warmth long absent.

Then, Mary, a long-time customer, brought in a bauble.

“Doesn’t this belong to your tree?” She shot him a quizzical look

He shot her a puzzled one of his own.

Mary was a retired widow whose husband had recently passed.

Then, a nutcracker, brought in by Tim.

A man who called park benches his home.

And a little angel – whose place was the top of his tree. Brought in by Katherine.

“Is…is…this…yours?” The sentence emerged, though with some effort.

Then, mid-craft, he dropped his tools with a jolt.

Not in anger, but in realisation.

His ornaments had gone to the hands of those who needed them.

And the gruff grinch understood the gift hidden in his loss.

❄️❄️❄️

Project Catch Bauble Thief went on for two heart-stopping days.

For a grinch who often felt his heart on the wrong side of his chest.

Then – payoff.

On the store’s CCTV camera was little Elvie, placing the ornaments in gift bags, bow-tied with meticulous precision.

Sending them to the lonely and needy with thoroughness that spoke ‘care.’

He made his move on Christmas Eve.

The little boy gasped mid-gifting and dropped a bauble.

Marlow the Grinch fixed the little pilferer witha penetrating gaze.

On his face was his signature scowl – one that he dropped after a while when he thought of the little boy’s heart.

One that knew that gifts should be held by the hands which needed them.

❄️❄️❄️❄️

The grinchy shopkeeper succumbed to Yuletide’s resonating charm – he drove Elvie to homes that needed seasonal cheer.

His shop opened to customers with an unfamiliar glow.

Warm and welcoming.

It had never felt fuller or readier for a new start.

For a grouchy shopkeeper, sharing had become the season’s greatest gift.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.

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Gift-Wrapped Secrets

Where the glow of the season reveals what was once hidden.

πŸŽ„βœ¨πŸ•―οΈβ„οΈ

Red and green flashes, sparkling eyes,
Whispering tales that few dare speak
Bright sparks fill winter skies,
Beneath their glow, a shadow seeps.

πŸŒ™πŸ•―οΈβ„οΈ

Shadows scale the darkened walls
Unopened letters on the mantle;
Confessions fill the quiet hall
Gift-wrapped truths hiding by candles

πŸ”₯πŸ“–β„οΈ

Ember’s glow lights hidden truths
Photos, books beneath dust’s veil;
White snow falling from the roof
Red tiles that covered untold tales

πŸ β„οΈβœ¨

Stories told by a hearth that’s warm
Tales embracing hope and peace
Snow scales soft, the open roof,
Tales, now told, and minds at ease.

πŸŽπŸ•―οΈβ„οΈ

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Whispers of Evergreen

Today is Small Town Election Day – when small communities vote on what matters.

Small voices matter – when sounded together.

🌳

🌿Evergreen was a town at almost perpetual rest – one where activity crawled. Shops opened late; restaurants shut right after dinner.

And its people seemed to tread with the help of walking canes.

A dense forest fringed the edge of the town, its thick shrubbery rustling like gentle whispers. The weight of generations-old trees, leaves brown with age – pressed on one’s shoulders.

Its reputation? For taking what it shouldn’t have.

38-year-old Clara Moon, school teacher and avid history buff, wanted to give these tangled murmurs a more audible voice. She sensed the gravity of stories etched on every tree bark.

She was wilful about it. And notorious for that.

🌳

🌿It was time for Evergreen to make a decision; election fever hit. Townsfolk assembled in droves at the polling station, their voices tinged with raspy excitement. The station’s hall resounded with their whispers.

To preserve – or not.

Developers gathered at the gates, plans in hand. Then, quiet, materialistic murmurs about profit.

Clara’s eye fell on Little Elliot. The child had wandered into the forest, his teletubby legs wobbling after a rabbit. Before long, bramble bushes grasped his ankles.

A hush fell over Evergreen. The forest had opened its mouth for –

Its prey.

Clara bit her lip. This was more than a child losing himself in the forest-it was the forest’s refusal to release him.🌿

🌳🌳

🌿 Clara rushed into the forest, hoping to grab the child before the forest swallowed him completely.

She did discover – not a child, but a sapling grove no one thought existed.

Baby trees shaped like infant animals.

At the periphery of her vision – chainsaws and axes.

Developers and dismissive grimaces.

The trunks of the saplings twisted towards them, like sentinels marching to an errant beat.

Clara’s eyes darted from one sapling to another. They stared back at her, leaves parted, almost pleading.

She wanted to help them. But that meant exposing Evergreen to their truth –

One the backwater town was not ready for.🌿

🌳🌳🌳

🌿Clara was torn.

To preserve? To tell the truth?

Her solution – a new approach.

The savvy schoolteacher arranged tours for a few of the town’s more open-minded residents.

Some backed away when they saw the saplings, their mouths open.

Others reached out to the leaves – and fingered them gently.

Clara faced those who dared touch – and cajoled.

“Such green magic is rare – your children need it in their meals daily, to grow.”

She turned to the others, their mouths still agape.

“They frighten you. But they also protect you – your peace.”

A few days later, the vote passed. Thinner than a blade of grass.

Plight mattered more than a fight. 🌿

🌳🌳🌳🌳

🌿Clara showed the way with soft hands – and won the vote.

The forest had parted its leaves quietly, revealing a clear path.

Not just one leaf or tree – piles of them.

It wasn’t just one sapling that marched – they all did.

To a single beat that played in perfect rhythm -for the greater good. 🌿🌿

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Whispers of Forgetting

Letting go isn’t the easiest course of action, but it is a powerful one.

Some things are meant to fly away.

πŸ•ŠοΈπŸ•ŠοΈπŸ•ŠοΈπŸ•ŠοΈπŸ•ŠοΈ

Memories

Fading, stand poised

Pure white wings bend, stiff

Unfurling now with gentle breath

Take flight.

πŸ•ŠοΈπŸ•ŠοΈ πŸ•ŠοΈπŸ•ŠοΈπŸ•ŠοΈ

Thoughts still

Wind’s breath pulls memories’ white feathers

Rain clouds cover with grey

Blurring edges-

Mind flies.

πŸ•ŠοΈπŸ•ŠοΈπŸ•ŠοΈπŸ•ŠοΈπŸ•ŠοΈ

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Glow in the Silence

It takes one to burn…and the flame spreads.

πŸ•―

In a silent corner of a snow-caked street was a lone candle -sentient, it seemed to have a watchful eye.

Laura first observed it from her apartment window. It never burned out. But glowed brighter when someone walked alone. A crying child covered in frost. A young lady walking alone. An old man hobbling with a cane, trekking the pavement without help.

Curiosity poked its head from the recesses of her mind.

πŸ•―πŸ•―

She left a warm loaf of sourdough she had just baked outside her door. The candle sparked -swaying in an almost-dance of approval.

It was one of encouragement; Laura did a jig herself.

She thanked the shopkeeper who kept his store open over Christmas. She gave a knitted sweater to the little boy who wore too-thin layers.

And the mailman? She put the dog away so that it wouldn’t jump.

And the candle almost did the Macarena.

πŸ•―πŸ•―πŸ•―

The candle’s glow wrapped the sidewalk on Christmas Eve; the whole street was bathed in its light. Neighbours came out of the shadows, beckoned by its warmth.

πŸ•―πŸ•―πŸ•―πŸ•―

Frost remained until the next morning, holding blades of grass with icy, white fingers. Then a knock on Laura’s door.

The store owner, with a cut of Christmas ham that reminded her of a mini Everest.

Another knock.

It was the child she gave the sweater to. He approached her, a cheeky grin framing his eyes. He had a scarf in his hands.

Another knock.

The mailman – with a packet of kibble endorsed by a bow.

Laura grinned. She kept a candle burning by the window.

Someone would bask in its glow.

πŸ•―πŸ•―πŸ•―πŸ•―πŸ•―
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The Last Flame

Joy is in the little things.

πŸ•―οΈβ„οΈπŸŒ™

I tread the frost-caked streets
Window panes bathed in snow
Unwrapped gifts, stacked and neat
Flame in hearts aglow.

β˜ƒοΈβœ¨πŸ•―οΈ

A forgotten candle in pitch dark
Its wick stays true, aflame
Its pure light, a burning spark
Remains untouched, the same.

🍫🧸πŸ”₯

The flame, it burns, light aglow
Shines on life’s small joys –
Chocolate muffines, soup on a stove
A child’s warm, soft toys.

πŸŒŸπŸ‚πŸ˜Š

Beauty beholds in little bites
In life’s treats, though small;
In a toy, a shirt worn right
In simple smiles, for all.

πŸ•―οΈπŸ’«πŸ–€

A single candle in the dark
A steady flame, small, but sparks.

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