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it was the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. But wait! A low thump and a soft thud came from the roof, A sound like a sleigh, giving instant proof. The sleepers below were all nestled in beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads. But the mother and father, quite weary and worn, Had forgotten the fire, that had started to burn A little too low, so the chill started creeping, While the house remained dark, and the whole family sleeping. Suddenly, a shimmer of gold by the grate, A tiny new flame, to avert a sad fate! The embers that glowed, grew instantly bright, Casting a warmth and a welcoming light. A shadow of red, and a beard white as snow, Had slipped down the chimney, moving steady and slow. He looked round the room with a twinkle and sigh, And placed all the gifts with a practiced sharp eye. He saw the low fire, the reason for freezing, And knew that the morning would be far from pleasing. He knelt by the hearth, and with mitts big and brown, He stacked up the logs, and he gently pressed down. With a puff of his breath, the fire roared bright, Giving instant relief to the cold Christmas night. Then, swift as a flicker, he turned to the tree, And placed the last gift—a small book—with a plea: "May the warmth of this fire, and the joy of this night, Bring comfort and peace, till the next Christmas light." He sprang to his post, to the chimney he flew, And giving a nod, he was gone from the view. But they heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight— "MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!" Happyprox

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Blackwood Creek celebrated Halloween with a peculiar silence, shrouded in a cold, damp fog. Lena wasn't here for candy; she was here for The Collector’s Curiosity, a junk shop said to open only on Halloween night for those who "truly seek something." Inside, the shop reeked of dust and forgotten time. There was no owner, just endless shelves of broken clocks and rusted tools. Lena was drawn to a small, plain brass music box resting on a stool, engraved faintly with: Tempus Fugit. She reached for it, and a quiet, raspy laugh echoed from the shadows. Ignoring it, she opened the lid. The box played a melody she hadn't heard since childhood—a melody only she could know. As the familiar, unsettling tune played, the air grew thick. Tiny slips of paper—old receipts, faded notes, postcards—began to lift from the floor, swirling around her like dark moths. With each note of the music, the papers dissolved into nothingness. Lena realized with terrifying clarity: the curiosities were not for sale, but for purchase. The price was not money, but memory. The music intensified, becoming a frantic, mechanical shriek. Images flashed through her mind—her first day of school, her grandmother's face, the smell of her childhood home—all vanishing along with the scraps of paper. The box was stealing the substance of her life. Screaming, Lena slammed the lid shut. The music stopped instantly, and the satisfied, deep laughter returned from the darkness. She fled the shop without looking back. Once home, safe, she felt a profound, chilling emptiness. She tried to recall the melody, the one only she knew, but found only a silent, blank space where it should have been. A faint, new wrinkle marked the corner of her eye. Lena knew her Halloween gift was a new, cold fear: the terror of living a life where parts of her past simply ceased to exist. Happyprox

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