Tweeted Tales from Twitfics

She writes her secrets on a paper, tucks the paper in a lamp, and sets the lamp afloat on the sea. "Happy new year," she says, looking back. #

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Sometime after the sixth hour

It gets dark here early, she thinks. Of course, what she really means is that it gets dark early this time of year. Were it not for axial tilt, would we still believe that things move in cycles?

She is standing on a scalloped shore and kind of can’t believe she is thinking: I have been here before. There’s even the knowing the place for the first time part. She finds it annoying. You’d think I’d have learned something between then and now.

The tide is coming in. It looks as though the dark water goes on forever, because she can’t see the land on the other side: the islands, or the mountains. Just black waves that come out of nowhere, chase the sandpipers up the beach, and recede.

She does not walk into the water. There are times to enter the ocean, and times not. Now it is cold. It would swallow her whole.

This is a love story, she thinks, and instead turns around and walks away from the sea, toward the place she has learned to call home.

Tweeted Tales from Twitfics

There’s a new ghost of Christmases past, to go with all the others. It’s getting crowded in this house. Next year, we’ll have an exorcism. #

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Dirigible (part 6)

The Phoebus begins a slow, graceful descent. Patrishia guides it smoothly, even though she doesn’t really need to; the Phoebus knows its own way down. This time, however, the conceit of the human pilot is very useful. Resetting the destination is a matter of just one of many button-pushes and following the new plotted course. Easy-peasy.

“Hey, are we landing somewhere else?” The voice of the man the woman in red was talking to is unmistakable. A slight rise in speculative murmurs follows his comment.

“I’m sure it’s just a different approach course,” comes the voice of the woman in red. “They do that sometimes.”

Which is true, but the course they are on will take them nowhere near the Spokane moorage.

Patrishia is formulating her next announcement, the one that will explain the course change, when a shadow rises in her peripheral vision.

Tweeted Tales from Twitfics

On the 25th day, a light burst forth as the gods who had died were reborn. "This is the story," their mother said, "and it is also yours…" #

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Le coeur a ses raisons, que la raison ne connait point

She is a tall woman, dressed in red.

“I’m going to give you something,” she says. She has a heart in her hand, and the heart is made of glass. “This belongs to you.”

“Since when?”

“Since always,” she says, and proffers it with a smile. She smells of roses.

“It looks fragile,” I say.

“It is,” she says. “What. Do you think I am really this delicate? I am not. But someone has to look after the ephemeralities.”

I cradle the heart in my hands. It’s warm, and I imagine I feel a pulse. “I can’t look after this.”

“You have been, your entire life. You just didn’t know it.”

It glows a little, too. “It’s mine?”

“Entirely yours. Take care of it,” she says. And is gone.

Tweeted Tales from Twitfics

"Sled?" "Check." "Reindeer?" "Check." "Red nose?" "Lit." "Sack?" "Check." "Naughty/nice list?" "Checked twice." "Right. Let’s roll." #

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She also tends a hearth

It is in a peaceful space, with music and the sound of falling water. Everything here is soft: the light, the warmth, the places to sit and lie and be at ease. The overall mood is quiet and unhurried. If there is a requirement here, it is that you take your time. Hurry has no place in this realm.

And there is a hearth.

The fire here never goes out, though it waxes and wanes. Sometimes it only warms, a soothing comfort. Sometimes it roars up in a blaze that threatens to consume everyone who comes near it. Sometimes it is only embers.

The woman who tends it is no vestal, but she will smile at you as readily and openly as any girl. This is her house, and the door is always open. Come in. Sit by the fire, and be warmed.

Just don’t get burned.

Tweeted Tales from Twitfics

Because a squid has no bones, it can fit through any space big enough for its beak. Santa’s the same way, but we don’t talk about that. #

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Tweeted Tales from Twitfics

"What’s best about this new reindeer," the elf says, "is it’s self-lighting. Check it out." "Hmm," Santa says. "It’s a very…SHINY nose." #

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