A different Christmas

Thank you so much to those that took thetime to write a short story about a different Christmas 🎄 your stories are so beautiful, thank you for sharing them with us!

Remember You Differently

- Kay McKenzie

The first time Kiara heard Blue Christmas by Elvis Presley, she was eighteen and hopelessly in love with Cillian Green. It was playing on the old stereo in his mother’s kitchen, a faint crackle under Elvis’s velvet drawl. Snow fell outside the window, thick and soft, as if the world was tucking itself in for the night. Cillian was leaning against the counter, grinning in that easy, crooked way that made her heart stutter.

"Sad song for Christmas, huh?" he'd said.

She'd laughed, brushing flour from her hands. "Not sad, just honest."

That winter, everything felt honest. They worked together at the town bakery, rolling dough and sneaking sugar cookies while the radio cycled through carols. They'd drive home in his rusty pickup, the dashboard lights flickering, the world outside painted white. Sometimes he'd reach across the seat and turn the volume up when a love song came on, pretending to sing just for her.

By the time she turned twenty-one, they were both different people. Kiara was studying in the city, chasing something she couldn’t yet name, freedom, maybe, or a sense of herself beyond the small town where everyone knew her father's laugh and her mother's pies. Cillian stayed behind, working at the mill, his hands growing rougher each year. They saw each other less, but every December, she'd come home, and they'd find each other again, under Christmas lights, beneath the same sky that had once felt infinite.

But time has a way of changing the lyrics.

The last Christmas they spent together, the air between them felt brittle. Cillian had stopped singing along to the car radio. He talked about work, about bills, about how she'd "changed." She wanted to tell him that's what growing up was supposed to mean, but she didn't know how to say it without breaking something fragile.

On Christmas Eve, they sat parked by the frozen lake, the truck engine humming. Blue Christmas came on again. This time, he didn’t smile.

"You’ll forget me when you move to the city for good," he said quietly.

Kiara turned to him, her breath fogging the window. "No, I’ll just remember you differently."

He looked at her then, the kind of look that feels like a goodbye you don't want to give. When he kissed her, she tasted peppermint and sadness.

The next morning, she left before sunrise. He didn't call. She didn't write.

Years later, Kiara found herself walking through a crowded mall on Christmas Eve, holiday music tumbling from every speaker. Then, just for a moment, Elvis's voice cut through the noise. "I'll have a blue Christmas without you."

She stopped, her heart tightening. The memories didn't hurt the way they used to. They just felt…warm.

Because that was what first love really was, not forever, but the song that teaches you how to listen.

Kiara smiled, whispering to no one in particular, "Not sad, just honest."

And then she kept walking, the snow falling soft and endless outside the glass doors...

The white cat of Christmas

Elizabeth Knox

I woke that night to the soft hiss of dying embers and the glow of a fire. Dazed, I felt the delicate warmth of something curled on my lap, purring quietly in his sleep.

The white cat.

The clock above the fireplace brought me back. Its ticking sounded as hollow as my heart. Almost midnight.

Earlier, the snow had been merciless. Somewhere between dreaming and despair, I heard a cry — mournful, as though calling me from another life. I raced downstairs, certain whose voice it was. And there he was, sitting in the blizzard at my doorstep.

I sighed. “I didn't agree to this arrangement for every winter, you know.” Those silver-blue, piercing eyes, held mine. Something about them seemed to be begging for recognition. “Fine.”

I relented, as always, and set him in a basket of blankets by the hearth. Unable to face the empty bed, I curled up on the armchair. I must have dozed off while watching the flames dance. But the clumsily draped blanket hadn’t been there.

A thought escaped me. Trembling, I touched the edge of the blanket. Warm, but not from the fire — from a familiar touch, from care. As if hearing my thought, the cat lifted his head, eyes searching mine. Eyes that had seen me cry at the grave, scream in the dark, and still refused to leave. And then, I truly saw him.

The car spun. The metallic scream, the taste of iron, the smell of gasoline. His hands, bloody and trembling, tore my seatbelt free, reaching for me through the smoke. “Go, Elisa. Please, go,” he had said, hoarse with pain. I had screamed for him to come, to run, but he just smiled. “I love you.”

I buried him near the church where we had said our vows, under a sycamore. On his birthday that January, I found this cat sleeping atop his grave. He had followed me home, though I told myself I couldn’t take him in. He was only sheltered through the winter, in my garage, where I kept him safe.

And yet, somehow, he stayed close throughout the year. Waiting. Now here he was — inside. Warm. Watching me as though he had known this moment would come.

My chest tightened. “Cain,” I whispered. The sound of his name nearly undid me. The cat answered with a low, contented sound and pressed his head into my palm. The gesture was so familiar it hurt. The same way Cain used to nuzzle my hand when words failed him, when love spoke quieter than language.

“I miss you,” I said quietly.

My vision blurred. I thought I saw him, sitting where the cat was, the same shape, the same gentle eyes that always softened when I cried. The warmth spreading through me wasn’t grief this time. It was something gentler, something that breathed back. For the first time in a year, I didn’t feel alone.

The cat looked up, and in his gaze, the blue shifted, just enough for a flicker of red to catch the light. Like Cain’s eyes when he said, “I love you,” through tears. And in them, I saw him.

The grief that had devoured me all year loosened its teeth, and in its place came warmth. Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing the earth in forgiving silence. Inside, time held its breath. In that stillness, something inside me mended. Not perfectly, because grief never does, but enough for the ache to turn into something beautiful.

Hugging the cat close, I closed my eyes and whispered, “Merry Christmas, Cain.”

An Unusual Christmas

By Gretchen

          The old man got out of the taxi and stood facing the dilapidated house.  “You sure you want to get out here?” the driver asked taking the suitcase from the trunk and setting it beside the old man.

          “Yes,” he said simply as he paid his fare, “this is it.”

          “This place’s been vacant for over a decade…”

          “I know,” he gave the driver an extra couple of bills, “Come back tomorrow?”

          The driver looks over the cash, “Sure, buddy,” he tipped his cap as he headed back to the driver’s side, “Ah…Merry Christmas?” he tried to smile but looked at the house again before getting back into the cab and driving away.

          The old man picked up his suitcase and headed to the front door.  The snow started to fall in earnest, “This’ll make a right proper Christmas,” he muttered as he fumbled for the keys in his pocket.  After a few tries, he found the right key and let himself into the house.  The acrid smell caused him to pull a face before he closed the door behind him and reached into his bag, pulling out a small bundle of sage, a lighter and a flashlight.

          He lit the sage first, letting the smoke waft around him as took a few steps around the house, taking in the heavy dust and cobwebs, “Nothing’s changed,” he sighed as he moved further into the house with is flashlight.  He went down a small hallway to a room at the back, the door closed.  Opening the door, he was met with a perfect Christmas setting although covered in dust, a bittersweet smile crossed his face.

          He went back to the front door for his suitcase and brought it back to this room.  Opening it, there was a small portable generator and a doll.  He hooked up the generator and plugged in the Christmas tree; the lights flickered to life.  He then spent some time wiping off the old couch and coffee table and then the rocker, settling the doll there.

          He checked his watch then started a fire in the old fireplace before settling onto the couch and bringing a crumpled paper bag from his bag.  He set out a small meal on the coffee table, taking a few bites and checking his watch periodically.  As the time ticked closer to midnight, suddenly the grandfather clock in the hall chimed twelve and he sat upright, starting at the doorway with bated breath.

          Despite the warmth from the fire, he felt a chill and his face lit up, “Is that you?”  He tried not to show too much excitement but sat still.

          Light footsteps sounded from the stairs and down the hallway, getting closer.  He saw a faint glow approaching until he saw the figure in the doorway, a young girl looking first at the Christmas tree, her eyes wide and happy.

          “Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he smiled and motioned to the doll.

          The girl giggled, “Merry Christmas, Daddy!”

Christmas Crisis

By Stacey K.

Everyone in the grocery store was staring at her, but Carol was too busy with her emotional meltdown to even notice. She didn't care that she was sitting on the floor, the ass of her jeans soaking wet from the shattered, 2 litre bottle of soda that slipped from her hands seconds earlier.

It was December 24th, and having finally got off work after seven straight 12 hour shifts as a nurse at the local hospital, she was trying to gather up her, again, solitary Christmas dinner.

She was painfully aware of being single, but the hours she worked left her very little time to meet other people.

She did have Frank. Frank loved to cuddle on the couch and was the best listener she ever knew. He also never complained about her long hours away at work.Unfortunately, he did have some flaws. He was an extremely picky eater, and tended to wreak havoc in the middle of the night while she was trying to sleep, but she knew that when she adopted him. Cat's were weird.

Chris, the store manager, looked down at the woman sobbing uncontrollably on the floor of the soda aisle. He bet that when her face wasn't covered in tears and snot, she was quite pretty. A nurse. He could tell by the scrubs she was wearing. It takes a special kind of person to do that sort of thing. He motioned to his stock boy to go get a mop, and politely shoo-ed the small crowd away.

“The store is closing in 20 minutes,folks. Best finish up with your shopping.” Chris encouraged as he crouched down to Carol's eye level.

“Hi!” He said with a gentle cheer in his voice. “I'm Chris, the store manager. Is there anything I can help you with today?”

Considering the circumstances, his words hit her with such absurdity, that her sobbing instantly stopped. She sniffed hard. “I'm sorry?”

Carol was confused, and momentarily had forgotten that she had melted down in aisle 5 of the Handy Mart.

“Would you like me to get you another bottle of Coke?” Chris calmly asked, as he tucked a damp lock of her hair behind her ear. She screwed up her face and immediately untucked it. Chris smiled to himself.

It was at this exact moment that Carol realised what she was doing, and scrambled to get to her feet as she flustered, “Oh my God, I am SO sorry!” She took the hand offered to her, and once safely back on her feet, didn't actually let it go.

She stammered, “I'll pay for that.”

“Don't be ridiculous. It happens all the time.” Chris offered in hopes of easing her embarrassment.

The look she gave him spoke volumes, so he added with a smirk, “OK, maybe not the sobbing on the floor in a puddle of pop, but people drop bottles all the time!”

He politely shook the hand still holding his, “I'm Chris Saint, the store manager.”

Carol looked down at their joined hands, but still didn't let go. She liked how safe she felt with his fingers wrapped around hers.

“Carol…” She looked him in the eyes and momentarily forgot how to speak. “...Hunter.”

Frank never stood a chance.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!