Her mother’s voice rose up in her mind, soft and warm and carrying the cinnamon scent of the kitchen from decades ago: Put your finger right there, sweetie. She could still feel her own small hand, steadying the ribbon the same way her daughter was doing now. She hadn’t thought about that moment in years—not really—but suddenly it was as clear as the afternoon it happened.
The transformer outside gave a low, uneasy hum, faltering just long enough to make her pause with the mixing bowl in her hands. Then the lights blinked once — sharp, warning — and everything went dark.
Her husband—“Santa” to the winking masses—sits in his study polishing spectacles, pretending not to hear. He hates this part. Always has. Kindness comes naturally to him. Old power does not.
One by one, they step into the starlit desert. Their glow grows brighter as they move away, pale lights bobbing like will-o’-wisps across the dunes. She watches until they’re only a constellation of tiny sparks at the edge of sight.
The circle widens, ripples spreading, and the two species drift into a shared rhythm — some with hands, some with arms, all with joy. In their mingled glow, something ancient rises, older than language or gravity: the understanding that warmth is not bound to flame, and family not bound to form.
“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.”
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.
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."
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.
Description: Welcome to the Dog Days of Advent. 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 […]
This is how it ends. This is how it always ends. ✨ Mirror, Mirror runs throughout October on Tales from the Tub. Subscribe so you don’t miss a reflection.
When your reflection says “tomorrow,” believe her. #MirrorMirror #monologues #podcast
In a late-night New York newsroom, a journalist discovers his reflection has a byline—and it’s writing his secrets.
The glass is thin. The month is short. Our hunger is long.
Last week, I saw him in it. Not young. Not ghostly. Him, as he was, lines and all. He looked straight at me, raised his razor, shaved.
That night, in the latrine, my reflection saluted. I hadn’t raised my hand. He held the salute until my arm went up, too.
I live alone. Widowhood makes silence heavy. The bathroom mirror became company. You nod at yourself, say good morning, pretend it answers.
Outside time, the mirrors grow full on what we’ve given them—our faces, our fears, our faith in the glass. They’ve been recording us all along, and now they’re hungry. ✨ Mirror, Mirror runs throughout October on Tales from the Tub. Subscribe so you don’t miss a reflection.
In a Boston dorm, a student learns that some mirrors don’t just reflect—they breathe. And sometimes, they want company.
In St. Louis, an EMT discovers that shattered glass remembers every face it’s ever seen—and some are still watching. ✨ Mirror, Mirror runs throughout October on Tales from the Tub. Subscribe so you don’t miss a reflection.