The sky turns dark. Our footsteps hasten, her grip strengthens. Fading sunlight streams in through the rose-tinted windows, illuminating the abandoned terminal with an eerie magenta hue. It’s a pretty look for the end of the world.

The sky hung low and bruised, swollen with the last light of day as Myra slammed the car door shut with a bang. The old Toyota trembled under the force of the blow as she trudged down the street, coffee cup in one hand and her work bag in the other. Swatting at a fly buzzing in her ear, the lid of the coffee cup came loose and a good portion of the coffee splashed onto her white blouse.

As he glanced out the window, he could see the well-lit roads, people preparing for the Christmas season. Christmas trees were set up outside and the streets were lined with decorated houses. However, as he looked back into his room, the dry, grey paint on his walls were peeling off. It was a dark and silent room with just a glimpse of light shining through the glass window through the door. He climbed back into his bed, with creaking sounds, he twitched. He was lethargic and

No one noticed when the list stopped being made. That was the problem. For generations, the idea had been comforting in its simplicity: be good, be rewarded; be bad, be punished. Coal instead of toys. A lesson, not a sentence. Parents used it as leverage. Children pretended not to believe while secretly hoping it was true. But belief is a fragile thing. It decays when it’s left unattended.

He had no idea how he’d feel when the clock struck midnight. Just last year, at this exact same time, he recalled feeling the most wonderful feeling of peace. The scene looked almost the same - heavy snowfall, fire crackling, hot cocoa. Most importantly, his wife was seated beside him, smiling radiantly as he reminisced. He enjoyed their Christmas Eve chats the most. 

“It’s the first snow of the season,” his new father said, handing him a mug of something nutty that warmed his stomach when he drank. “It’s good luck.” His new parents stood close behind him, not touching as he pressed his nose onto the windowpane. They had learnt, slowly, that contact was a language that he did not yet speak.

But there was no kid, and there was no tin left in his hands, but there was one on the ground. Somehow he had slipped his gaze and fled into the electricity, maybe, fitting in with the endless sea of heads and children and the milling, maddening crowds; and the man was standing there, bagel in hand, tin on the floor where the half-eaten sweets were spilt into Central Park, watching the chill of the world fall slower, slower, on the carolling roofs and running, laughing little

The rabbit (or other small game-creature-thing) would be hunted; right after he placed the second cookie in the boot. It was only fair for t