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. 

Then I’ll slowly remove that chocolate tin from my cupboard and take out those numerous red packets. And finally I’ll  read aloud those handwritten characters of 福，乖，用功，祝福爸爸妈妈 (‘fortune’, ‘obedient’, ‘hard-working’, ‘from papa and mama’) and feel those droplets of scalding hot water roll down my face. And when at last I flip the letter over and see those 4 words I’ll sniff a little and crack a little smile and say it aloud gratefully. 

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

Written by: Athens (25-I1) Designed by: Athens (25-I1) and Kaitlyn (25-U1)

It rose up, and amongst the wreckage of the cell that once caged it, he made out the distinct silhouette of humans. It covered its eyes swiftly with its claws, backing away, hoping to meet some form of a wall where it could finally, finally curl up and hide. It won’t let another human die. Not this time.

Focus. I have to go to bed now. It’s late and I have work in the morning. I’ll sleep and I’ll forget this and delete the conversation in the morning and go to work. And then I’ll flip burgers and finish my lecture videos. And then I’ll remember I could’ve been catching up with you after I clock out. Somewhat. Sometime.

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