Microfiction Collection: 3 Winter Vignettes
Trying something new here with 3 micro-fiction stories for you to read!
1. Waxed Memorium
In the dim attic of an old Victorian house, the candle sat forgotten on a dusty shelf, its wick untrimmed and wax scarred from years of neglect. But it remembered. Oh, how it remembered.
Its first life had been in a Parisian salon, 1789, melting under the fervent debates of revolutionaries. The air thick with tobacco and ideals, it had flickered as quills scratched manifestos, dripping wax like tears for the guillotine’s blade. It burned bright then, fueling whispers of liberty until the mob stormed in, snuffing it out in chaos.
Reborn in wax from a factory in Victorian London, it next illuminated a seamstress’s needle by night. Her fingers bled onto petticoats as it cast shadows on her weary face, the fog outside pressing against frost-laced windows. It heard her coughs deepen with the winter chill, tuberculosis claiming her slowly. The candle wept in silent drips, its flame dimming as hers did, until a gust from the open door extinguished them both.
Then came the 1940s, in a bunker beneath Berlin, where it stood sentinel on a map-strewn table. Officers argued strategies in harsh German, the light dancing over pins marking doomed advances. Explosions rattled the earth above, and the candle trembled, knowing the end was near. It burned low as sirens wailed, finally guttering out in the dark as boots thundered down the stairs.
Now, in this quiet attic, a young girl discovered it during a holiday cleanout. She struck a match, and the flame leaped up, warm and familiar. As it burned, faint scents emerged—perfume from Paris, coal from London, gunpowder from Berlin. The girl leaned close, mesmerized, unaware of the memories pooling in the wax. The candle sighed in the winter draft, wondering what this life would bring before it melted away once more.
(Word count: 298)
2. Homeward Drift
Arthur had been dead for seven years, but habits die harder than bodies. Every December, as the first snow dusted the pines along Route 17, he felt the pull—like an old compass needle twitching north. Home for the holidays, his spectral feet whispered over the frozen ground, leaving no tracks.
The highway stretched empty under a steel-gray sky, semis rumbling past without noticing the translucent figure trudging the shoulder. Arthur wore the same flannel shirt and jeans from the accident, the ones stained with oil from the garage where he’d worked. No coat needed now; the cold was just a memory, like the warmth of his wife’s embrace.
He passed the diner where he’d grabbed coffee that fateful night, the neon sign flickering “Open 24/7.” Inside, laughter spilled out, steam from mugs clouding the windows. Arthur paused, his form shimmering, tempted to slip in and listen to the living. But no—the pull urged him on.
Miles blurred: frosted fields, skeletal trees, the occasional farmhouse with lights twinkling like distant stars. He thought of his kids, grown now, probably stringing garlands without him. His wife, remarried maybe? The thought stung, but ghosts don’t cry; they just fade a little.
By dawn, he reached the old split-level on Maple Street. Smoke curled from the chimney, the porch light on as always. Arthur drifted through the door, unseen. The tree glowed in the living room, ornaments he’d hung years ago still dangling. He was always the one to take them down, but now that he’s gone… His daughter, now a teen, stirred on the couch, murmuring in her sleep. He hovered near, whispering, “I’m home.”
She smiled faintly, as if dreaming. Arthur lingered until midnight mass bells tolled, then felt the pull reverse. Another year gone. He drifted out into the snow, already anticipating next December’s walk. Death changes much, but not the heart’s route home.
(Word count: 287)
3. Whisper Thief
The snowstorm hit Millford without warning, swirling in from the north like a vengeful spirit. Flakes fell thick and silent at first, blanketing the town in pristine white. But as the wind howled, something shifted—the storm began to steal voices.
It started small. Old Mr. Hargrove shouted for his dog from the porch, but no sound escaped; his words dissolved into the flurry, carried away on icy gusts. He clutched his throat, eyes wide, as the snow muffled the world further. Neighbors peered from windows, lips moving in silent queries, their calls vanishing before they could reach ears.
By evening, the streets were empty, folks barricaded indoors. In the diner, patrons gestured wildly over cold coffee, mouthing orders that waitresses guessed at. A child’s cry for her mother turned to nothing but breath, panic rising in tear-streaked faces. The storm fed on the stolen sounds, growing fiercer, winds whipping with echoes of laughter, arguments, secrets— all twisted into eerie howls.
Emma, the librarian, barricaded in her cottage, felt it most acutely. She’d always lived by words, spoken or written. As she tried to read aloud from her favorite novel, the sentences faded mid-air, letters unraveling like smoke. Desperate, she scribbled on paper: “What do you want?” and held it to the window. The snow pressed against the glass, a face forming briefly in the drifts—a lonely entity, born of endless winters, craving the warmth of human timbre.
Through the night, the town communicated in notes, signs, touches. Lovers held hands tighter, families huddled in wordless comfort. By dawn, the storm relented, voices trickling back like melting icicles—hoarse at first, then clear. Millford emerged quieter, more deliberate in speech, as if the theft had taught them the weight of words. But on windy nights, they still whispered, lest the snow return to claim more.
(Word count: 296)