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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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Where the glow of the season reveals what was once hidden.
🎄✨🕯️❄️
Red and green flashes, sparkling eyes, Whispering tales that few dare speak Bright sparks fill winter skies, Beneath their glow, a shadow seeps.
🌙🕯️❄️
Shadows scale the darkened walls Unopened letters on the mantle; Confessions fill the quiet hall Gift-wrapped truths hiding by candles
🔥📖❄️
Ember’s glow lights hidden truths Photos, books beneath dust’s veil; White snow falling from the roof Red tiles that covered untold tales
🏠❄️✨
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.
🎁🕯️❄️
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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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Letting go isn’t the easiest course of action, but it is a powerful one.
Some things are meant to fly away.
🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️
Memories
Fading, stand poised
Pure white wings bend, stiff
Unfurling now with gentle breath
Take flight.
🕊️🕊️ 🕊️🕊️🕊️
Thoughts still
Wind’s breath pulls memories’ white feathers
Rain clouds cover with grey
Blurring edges-
Mind flies.
🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️🕊️
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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.
🕯🕯
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.
🕯🕯🕯
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.
🕯🕯🕯🕯
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.
🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯 If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
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I tread the frost-caked streets Window panes bathed in snow Unwrapped gifts, stacked and neat Flame in hearts aglow.
☃️✨🕯️
A forgotten candle in pitch dark Its wick stays true, aflame Its pure light, a burning spark Remains untouched, the same.
🍫🧸🔥
The flame, it burns, light aglow Shines on life’s small joys – Chocolate muffines, soup on a stove A child’s warm, soft toys.
🌟🍂😊
Beauty beholds in little bites In life’s treats, though small; In a toy, a shirt worn right In simple smiles, for all.
🕯️💫🖤
A single candle in the dark A steady flame, small, but sparks.
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Today marks the day of the Geminoids Meter Shower Peak and the 12/12 portal – associated with transformation and reflection.
Technology and the forces behind it are certainly transforming.
On this day, we remember that stories need souls, not circuits.
✨✨✨✨✨
Story
Machines filled my upscale apartment, their purposeful humming low and efficient. They balanced ledgers in Excel, with uncanny precision. Cursors darted left and right, scrolling to perfection- an ideal I could never reach. My heart drummed, beating an unregulated rhythm.
🌐🤖🌐🤖🌐
The city pulsed with humanity – lifeless, unrecorded, unencoded. Emitting thoughts no machine could grasp.
A bot performed in my son’s AI-generated video, its moves precise and unfettered. I glanced at my physical ledger, its blue ink suddenly turning bright red.
A warmth that the bot would never know came over me. I was far from perfect.
I was alive.
✨✨✨✨✨
What are your thoughts on technology vs. humanity? Do share in the comments!
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Today, 10 December, is Human Rights Day. A day we remember that every human has the right –
To speak and sing.
Sometimes, friendly comparison carries weight. Where expectations run high, we must guard our ground. Protect our boundaries, for they mute our voices.
We often sing for others…let us sing for ourselves.
✨🌿✨
A World of Song
Notes for all to sing-
But the echoes of some drift
Muted by high walls
Lost, faded.
✨🌿✨
I hold these notes close
Trapped within my throat,
Making my lips quiver –
Into nothing.
✨🌿✨
Still others sing freely
Chirps resound, but drowned out –
muted echoes.
✨🌿✨
One note pierces the walls
the still silence
Sweetly singing
Till it’s heard.
✨🌿✨
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Today, 9 December is International Corruption Day – a day we celebrate the rules and keep in check any bending.
But there are times good intentions bend the rules.
🗝️🕯️📜
9th December. The day her grandma passed. Not a day May would forget – for reasons she’d rather erase from memory.
May was a lawyer – and a law degree was the last thing she wanted on her list of accomplishments. The Toh family – hers – had assigned her the unwanted task of settling her grandma’s estate.
🪞🏚️💨
One she accepted – and regretted.
Grandma Toh.
Bukit Boon’s most upstanding council member had taken bribes.
A newspaper article written with words that shamed.
Bribes. Accusations.
Her grandmother – the woman she held in the highest esteem
May sifted hurriedly through the cluttered basement, flicking the dust off each album with hurried precision.
The dust mites parted to reveal her grandmother’s life – one she never knew.
But each album she uncovered wanted her to know.
The ledger glared at her, the yellowed pages aggressively promoting their secrets.
The pages parted with a silent call.
May’s fingers hovered over them, waiting.
📝💰⚖️
They couldn’t wait for very long.
Inside it were documents filled with names and numbers.
Ones that kept increasing.
Her grandmother’s offshore account had accumulated more money than May had ever thought possible.
A hidden account. Belonging to the Saint of Straight-Lacedness.
May’s eyes hovered over that page of revelation, stunned for a few moments.
The Saint of Straight-Lacedness was also the Devil of Crookery.
📜💌🖐️
May fingered the note – and it stayed in place.
It wouldn’t move.
Frozen by surprise – and understanding.
“Aunty Chong,” it read, “Thanks for paying our rent these past months. We would have been evicted otherwise.”
So the money had gone into a dense, grey corridor.
One where mistakes were as striking as good deeds.
Her grandma’s heart had bent where ethics wouldn’t – and saved.
Whether rightly or wrongly was anyone’s guess.
🏡💛🌗
May left the ledger in the basement – she never showed it to anyone.
The bribes – an offbeat act of integrity.
Out-of-sync, but not hurtful.
Her grandmother was but human.
A mix of dark and light.
Able to compromise.
Doing wrong to protect.
🕯️🗝️💭
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 