The stockings were hung with care that's true but old Saint Nick was going to be confused. No tree, no cookies, no dashing up the flue. He's just going to look around and somewhat be slightly amused.
Oh my! Where's Dasher, where's Dancer, where's Prancer and Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen?
No longer slightly, not even amused at all, he reaches into his fluffy red jacket, retrieves his phone for a call, calls himself an Uber, he's had enough, enough of it all.
The city was gone, but the fireplace remained.
Someone had rebuilt it by hand, stone by stone, as if ritual mattered more than shelter. Three stockings hung in the heat shimmer. One for the vanished. One for the returned. One left empty, just in case.
Footprints crossed the ash and stopped at the hearth.
At midnight, the fire brightened. The smallest stocking stirred. Inside was no gift, only a folded note, written carefully, lovingly: We remembered you. That was enough.
By morning, nothing else had changed.
The fire still burned.
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Humanity unraveled. People forgot to name the years. There was only now, and before. Worldwide collapse emerged as EMP bombs dotted the landscape of every nation on every continent, save Antarctica. Nothing remained.
They say he was jolly, whatever that means. He moved quickly. Few saw him. What he created was nothing short of a miracle. A reminder of a time that most only knew through fuzzy memories.
Ashen tracks remained from when he donned the stockings. He left flames of hope and a guiding star for all. "...to all a good night!" still echoes where ruin once lay.
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by BoTank Books
As time went on the holidays began to blend. The traditions of Yule began to seep into the cities through the forest, the Christmas traditions began to seep into the forest.
Joy and peace were the core elements of both, people wanted to be able to feel them all year. A monument to new traditions was created. A beautiful fireplace that combined the fires and pine boughs of old with the stockings hung with care from the new, with candle light to bind the two.
Ghostly footprints of those that came before led the way back to peace on earth.
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The city crumbled down to bones, but the fireplace remained… bricks unmarred, fire warm, waiting. Ash coated the streets like snow. Footprints led inward, but never away.
We hung the stockings ourselves, heavy with gifts no hands remembered buying, proof that even ruin rewards devotion.
We did not save our homes.
We saved the ritual.
We fled gods, family, and neighbors alike, dragging devotion with us until it learned a new name. Now we kneel in the ruins—we are soot-stained and grateful, praying not to be spared—only to be sold to.
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Sahara moved through the run down ruins nervously. She never remembered something like this taking place, so she was chalking it up to some sort of feverish dream. She heard the crackling of a fire off in the distance, but based off her surroundings, she held a slow pace.
As the sound grew louder, she saw a beautifully ornate heart in the middle of the devastation. She tried to look for anyone or anything else, but besides the ruins of a city, she was all alone. Each careful step echoed off the broken down walls.
She saw her name on one of the stockings, so she hesitantly pulled it down only to find nothing but empty wrapped boxes and half eaten candy. With one toss into the fire, Sahara decided she was done with this nightmare and tried to force herself awake. But no matter how hard she tried, she remained in the ruins. She knew then she was in trouble.
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‘Twas the night before Christmas all through the land, With ashes and embers and buildings once grand.
Few people still celebrated with stockings and lights, While St. Nick stumbled through chaos and fights.
He tried and he tried to be what they needed, “Please keep believing,” he begged and he pleaded.
But the people lost sight of a season with wonder, Instead they were dazzled— another spell they fell under.
The children didn’t play
and the grownups all grumbled,
No more happiness or laughter
when society crumbled.
Right now in your hand
you hold the whole world,
Connecting and posting
with access unfurled.
Is that what it means to be lightyears ahead, To ignore those around us for strangers instead?
Please put down your phone, your tablet, your device, Let’s appreciate the people that don’t come with a price.
For soon they will leave us like all people do, Don’t look back and wonder “what if?” or “why you?”
Make those cookies and put up those trees, Dance in the kitchen and make memories.
No one will remember what you posted online, But dear faces and hands will run out of time.
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Fires dot the ruined landscape. Each family claimed a hearth and decorated it with the few treasures they managed to save, clinging to traditions that have faded with time. But the children believe. They leave cookies for Jolly Old Nick.
And the lonely ones answer the call. They are old, yet they carry hope, building toys for the girls and boys.
The eldest, long white beard, baggy red coat—treks through the silent night delivering cheer. He has no chubby belly. No smoking pipe. But bestowing merriment on the precious children is all he wanted to do.
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The stockings were hung with care that's true but old Saint Nick was going to be confused. No tree, no cookies, no dashing up the flue. He's just going to look around and somewhat be slightly amused.
Oh my! Where's Dasher, where's Dancer, where's Prancer and Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen?
No longer slightly, not even amused at all, he reaches into his fluffy red jacket, retrieves his phone for a call, calls himself an Uber, he's had enough, enough of it all.
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