All eyes on her. Judge, jury, even the blooming journalists. "Mrs Claus, do you plead innocent?" Red fluffy gloves now gone, the tremor in her hands was visible. Left thumb sooting the space between her right one and her index. Her unfocused gaze had not moved from the podium. "Yes." #WriteCBC

Cold. Of course it would be cold, it's Christmas. Or it should've been if not for the extinguished lights of the broken-branched Yule tree, or the blood-soaked stockings, or the trampled presents. It was supposed to be cold. Santa’s meant for good. So why’s warm breath crawling on my neck? #WriteCBC

‘The answer won’t fall from the sky,’ I mocked. ‘Well, the problem did.’ I unclenched my fist to reveal the key. Antique and rusty, it wouldn’t survive a keychain, let alone a door. It reshaped every day, too. Since it appeared, this journey has been nothing but problems without answers. #WriteCBC

Aunt's catalogue, Thea's tapestry, my dreams. This painting was here, too? A phoenix rising from two lovers, colours faded with time. Their embrace like pieces of a puzzle. They fit perfectly. Only melancholy and nostalgia embraced me. Who were these people? Which piece was I missing? #WriteCBC

'Should've gotten a jacket' was my first lesson upon opening the door. I'd been staring at those clouds all day, yet I was caught unprepared. But seeing those warm honey eyes.
'Well, well. Isn’t fate just a jokester, feather?'
Tousled wheat-coloured curls and round eyes.
'Have we met?' #WriteCBC