Page 12 of 71

Kinds of Snow

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Ruth Zwald

and suddenly you are back in your grandmother’s tiny kitchen / she warms
fresh milk / stirring in sugar and cocoa powder / until it is smooth and rich

this kind of snow that travels through time

and then remembering snow where your sled won’t fly / too heavy / your
fingers frostbitten / it hurts so much as you begin to thaw out by the radiator

I know you know this kind of snow when life is cold and painful and stuck

and there is magic snow / just before Christmas kind of snow / when the moon
reflects the crystals / you want to watch all night to glimpse what might be

this kind of snow in the dark where anything is possible

and there’s the “I’m so glad I don’t have to drive anywhere” snow / where you
can spend a day in front of the fire / read a novel about other people’s lives

this kind of snow celebrates the quiet of your own life

and there are whole winters of sorrowful snow / layered and buried in the still /
whole winters of the digging out through memories / shovel by shovelful

this kind of snow that gifts you with time to wander

On her farm in West Michigan, Ruth Zwald lives close to the earth through her lifestyle and spiritual practices. Upon retirement, she started to unearth words. Winner of the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press in 2024 for her chapbook, Bones And Breath, and recently published in Farmer-ish Journal and The Guided Weathervane.

Bunny in Brown Bear’s Coat

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Stephan Hermann

I own a coat
A big brown thing
Bought it off an old guy
In August
A few years back
When I lived in rain city.
Smelled like cigarettes
Cigarettes and dust
Dust and wear
Wear and tear.

That three dollar coat
Only one I brought with me
Back in August
When I first came here
Across the mountains.
Gets me through rain
Rain and wind
Wind and snow
Snow and snow and snow.

Stephan Hermann is a poet, creative, and student from the Pacific Northwest. Their poetry is inspired by their day to day happenings as a young, queer person navigating today’s world. When not writing, Hermann studies economics and music at Whitman College and plays desktop solitaire (rather poorly).

Puck’s Paper

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta

I scribble a note on a summer leaf
plucked from a beech or the bole of an elm.
In autumn I write a joke on a hazel nut shell
blown and tossed through the forest dell.
When playing tricks with Oberon,
the silvery bark from the delicate birch
is fit for regal missives borne on the breeze
from the magical mists of Fairy Land.
Secret messages written in dewy ink,
in velvet darkness below a gibbous moon,
emblazon the white mushroom tops
which mark the circling fairy feet.
When icicles hang from farmyard pumps,
I trace out my thoughts on virgin snow
which last till Boreas begins to blow.
On cottage roof tops I arrange the moss
to warn the small birds of impending doom,
the bird lime which awaits them in the gloom.
Nature, through the seasons of the turning year,
passes on my messages, mischievous, yet clear.

Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK who has lived in India, Tanzania and UK. Her work has been published in magazines and anthologies in over 25 countries. She started writing aged 80, when a disabling accident limited her mobility. Nominated for Best of the Net and Dwarf Star.

Snow

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Aidan Russell

While in the night we soundly slept,
A winter storm came by
and covered all the world in white,
With snow banks piled high.

So in the morning we awoke
And looked out at the sight,
Of all the city buried deep,
in snow so clean and white.

We dressed ourselves and wandered out
Into that wonderland,
And sought to find ourselves some fun,
Though nothing we had planned.

In trudging down the empty street,
We saw no other soul,
And so alone we went along,
A solitary stroll.

Then at the park we found a bench,
Beneath a bare oak tree,
Where we decided then to sit,
The snow-filled world to see.

So there we sat upon the bench,
Just you and me alone,
And watched the winter world grow still,
And heard the cold wind moan.

What sacred beauty there we saw,
As flurries seemed to grow,
The world without mistake or flaw,
White blanketed with snow.

Aidan Russell is an American poet and filmmaker. He was a finalist in the Unity in Verse Poetry Contest. He is also the writer and director of a number of short films, most notably: A Criminal Misunderstanding and The Legend of John Henry. He lives in Southern California.

First Snow, Final Page

30 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Amber Lethe

The year ends quietly –
a book settling into its spine.
Snow falls in soft punctuation marks,
periods on windowsills, commas on evergreens,
ellipses hanging in the hush of afternoon.

Inside, the kettle clicks a familiar prayer,
a small applause for warmth still here.
We hold our hands to the steam and remember:
the burns, the blessings, the almosts,
the moments we meant to speak but didn’t.

Outside, the world turns blank, crystalline, kind –
as if offering us a clean margin,
urging try again, try softer, try braver.
We turn the page with mittened fingers,
ink still drying on our names.

Amber Lethe is an emerging writer whose work blends intimacy, atmosphere, and quiet surrealism. She writes about memory, seasons, and the small rituals that shape us. When not writing, she plays Vivaldi on piano, knits imperfect scarves, and reads classic books with her pug, Sir Merlin, snoring at her feet.

Poinsettias

29 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Kathy Pon

You wait three days on a pallet
for our return. I panic
about frost and your need
for a drink of water.
But when we open each box
red bracts burst and blaze
our home with your magic,
elegance draping each corner festive.
Our holiday breathes before us.

Years past, we drowned in excess,
gold garland and strings of blinking lights
crammed our Christmas house.
Sensory overload from rooms littered
with glittery noise that seemed
to muffle our seasonal joy.

When we found greenhouses bearing
your stalks, you brought us delight
in fields of matted crimson, candy cane
pinks and whipped-cream whites.
Your yellow-button flowers
seemed to smile at us.

Now, no need to shine up
these simple lives. Surrounded by quiet,
our orchard stitched in winter stillness,
we drink black coffee in the dark
of our winter bedroom, dogs dug in
blankets beside us — and you dance
in the hallway, poinsettia-children
lifting our spirits like a secret promise.
Each potted star radiates enough,
all the holiday we need.

Kathy Pon lives with her husband, a third-generation farmer, on an almond orchard in Central California. Her work has been featured in Passengers Journal, Canary, RockPaperPoem, The Closed Eye Open, and other places. Her chapbook, Orchard Language (Finishing Line Press) was published in October 2025.

Cheerful Misery

28 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Alexandria Wyckoff

Sweet cookies dip into milk, crumbs fall;
a soft clink, small sounds

that must not grow louder.
Expertly placed footsteps upon

plush carpet mark the way
as presents adorn the trees

underside; a new satin skirt.
One last glance and up the chimney;

once again prone to the elements.
Warm breath lodged in his lungs

releases itself to the bitter wind.
Snow crunches beneath his feet; not

even wool gloves protect against the
bite of metal sleigh railings. Reigns

creak against practiced hands, before
a swift snap leads eight pairs of antlers

back into inky, starlight skies.

Alexandria Wyckoff has a BA in Creative Writing from SUNY Oswego. She has one book of poetry titled The Pain Cycle, with work also appearing in BarBar, Kennings Literary Journal, The Bookends Review, and others. Find more of her work at https://www.alexandriawyckoff.com/.

Rudolf and the Flashing Red Lights

25 December 2025 / Editor

Fiction by Kenneth M. Kapp

Many explanations have been given as to how Rudolph’s nose became red. One claims that Rudolph was often found dipping in Santa’s punch bowl and another that reindeers, like dogs, were always sniffing around and once he got too close to a freshly painted fire hydrant. Nevertheless, they don’t concern our Rudolf, who was born in America and whose name is spelled with a “f.” It’s the tips of his antlers that are red and not his nose!

Rudolf is a natural leader and the head of his herd. When they are on the move, he’s at the front showing them the way, the old routes for pasture deeply etched in his mind. He’s always concerned about their well-being; on the trail he’s continually looking back, making sure everything is OK. It would be a poor leader who let his herd become sick or lost. Rudolf was not going to let it be said of him: “Tsk, Rudolf’s a poor leader, a sorry excuse for a reindeer!”

And so, he took note when the herd began showing signs of lethargy and their coats appeared rough. He circled back and began asking questions: “Donner, how’s your appetite?” “Blitzie, how long have you had this discharge from your eyes and nose?” “And, Dancer, you seem to have trouble walking, never mind dancing. What’s up?”

No one could give him an answer. Me thinks I should meditate on this. (Recently, when the herd paused at night, Rudolf read Shakespeare and now his thoughts were so peppered with “Me thinks” that he often found himself sneezing and losing his train of thought.) He knew the signs of scurvy, and he knew what to do!

“Cranberries,” he addressed the herd from a hillock, “cranberries! You need to eat cranberries. You’re manifesting signs of scurvy and need vitamin C in your diet. And cranberries are an excellent source. Tomorrow, I will lead you to a bog with wild cranberries. We’ll be there before noon!”

The entire herd cheered. And true to his words, by noon the next day, they were at the bog. Few reindeer had ever eaten cranberries, and most wouldn’t recognize a cranberry if it bit them on a hoof.

Vixen was impatient. “So, now what? It’s too cold to go swimming and there’s ice on top!”

“I’ll show you what to do.” And he broke the ice with his antlers and plunged his head into the freezing water, emerging with cranberries stuck on the tips of his antlers. “These,” he said, sounding as if he was an ancient Greek orator, “these are cranberries, and you can eat them right off my antlers. They have lots of vitamin C which cures scurvy. And then we can take turns spearing cranberries for each other. We’ll all get healthy together!”

Comet was impressed. “Rudy, that’s a wonderful idea. Cooperation cures us…and I think those red cranberries on your antlers are cute.”

Rudolf was happy: the reindeer were helping one another. He didn’t care that the cranberries stained the tips of his antlers and even left some in place as a badge of honor.

It was only later that Chaz, the proprietor of “This & That” in North Pole, New York, 12946, wired the tips of Rudolf’s antlers so that the cranberries would flash at night. But that’s another story.

Moral: Using your head to help others may have results that are not immediately evident.

Kenneth M. Kapp lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. His stories have appeared in more than ninety publications worldwide. Please visit www.kmkbooks.com.

Santa Claus Let the Dogs Out

24 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Paige Milatz

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and that much is true,
But there were creatures stirring, so we need a re-do:

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the town
Every canine was restless and would not settle down;
Border collies were whining, and beagles made haste—
Each breed with the zoomies couldn’t stay in one place.
The poodles they shivered, cocker spaniels astir,
And chihuahuas shook nervously beneath their short fur;
Even the coyote on this cold winter’s night
Let out a “yip yip!” at the moon shining bright.
The dogs were all anxious, deservedly so—
A big job loomed before them as they paced to and fro
For they knew the truth about chimneys and sleighs,
But have kept it a secret to this very day:
A big man like Santa, who slips down the flue?
How could you believe that? Impossible! Untrue!
‘Tis man’s best friend who brings Christmas each year,
Now I’ll tell you their story if you’ll lend me your ear.

He has elves in the North and wolves for his sled,
But St. Nick needs more help while you’re upstairs in bed.
He’d be stuck on the front porch with all the doors locked
And no way inside—couldn’t possibly knock!
No, he can’t wake a soul nor shimmy down pipes,
So he relies on your fur babies, all sizes and types!
For dogs are quite clever, you should know that by now,
And while you dream of Christmas they’ve figured out how
To let Santa in, through their own doggy doors—
They slide him the keys they retrieved from the drawers!
With a jingle and jangle, St. Nick turns the knob,
Wipes his boots on the mat and then sets to his job.
First he praises each dog: “Good girl! And good boy!”
Then he hands them a treat and a new, rugged toy.
The pouch on his waist? Packed with chicken and liver!
St. Nicholas is the most thoughtful gift-giver!

While he lays many presents beneath many trees,
The dogs are allowed to explore as they please;
They go out to sniff the sled parked the lawn
And visit the wolves who are hitched up ‘til dawn.
There’s six wolves in all, and they’re all fur and muscle
But they know how to temper their power to tussle!
The wheel wolves at back are Lupus and Thunder,
Then the pair in the middle are Sprinter and Hunter,
And to round out the team, tasked to guide Santa’s way
Are Lobo and Leader at the front of the sleigh!
When Santa is through laying trinkets with care,
His whistle rings out through the brisk, snowy air:
“Come in pups and rest, your job here is done,”
And the dogs settle down after having their fun.
Mr. Claus makes his exit, with the gifts left behind,
Each dog feeling grateful for treatment so kind.
“Ow-ooo!” Santa howls to his trusty wolf pack,
And the wolves bound away with a short holler back.

Now you may be wondering, What if no dog’s around?
It’s a shame you’ve forgotten about all the stray hounds!
Their work is important, sniffing keys for the locks
That are stuck under doormats or hidden in rocks.
To these furry helpers he gives the gentlest care
Since they don’t have a family; it just isn’t fair!
So he scoops them all up for a ride in his sled,
He pets them and thanks them with a kiss on the head,
And then his eyes twinkle, and with a magical nod
The strays change into puppies, so small and so soft!
He gives them a bed next to warm fireplaces
In homes needing love—a dog to lick faces.
A fresh start for the pups, no more paws in the cold—
The kindness of Santa Claus never grows old.

And at last when all dogs are snug and content
Santa sighs to himself after a long night well spent:
“Stay safe, my dear friends, and I’ll see you next year!
Thank you ever so much for helping spread Christmas cheer!”
As the wolves pull away and the dogs fall asleep,
They dream jolly dreams of their Christmas secret to keep.

Paige Milatz lives and writes in the Little Spokane River Valley. She is a graduate of Central Washington University’s Master of Arts in Professional and Creative Writing program. You can find more of her work on her Substack publication, Treat Her Right, at https://treatherright.substack.com/.

For Santa’s Magic, We Told the Truth

23 December 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Brian Goedde

My son Theo got to the truth about Santa by way of his envy of Peter Pan. He was four years old, and it was agonizing to him that unlike Wendy, Michael, and John, no matter how much or how hard he “believed,” he would never feel the sensation of lifting off the ground to fly.

“But why can’t I?!” he would whine, rolling on the floor.

“You can only pretend,” my wife Emily and I said. “It’s make-believe.”

One day, his Peter Pan action figure was missing. We looked and looked, in every bag and bin. We seemed more distressed to find it than he was, and he finally fessed up: he threw it out the window of our 4th floor apartment. He wanted to see Peter Pan fly. Apparently, he didn’t fly back.

Em and I had to scare him into realizing that he could have hit someone walking down the street—and maybe he had actually hit someone! “No one can fly!” we scolded. “And no one can make anyone or anything else fly!” After some tears, the matter seemed to be resolved.

Until Christmas.

Em and I were never big on the Santa myth, but we did have some fun with it. It is true that nothing sparkles quite like the eyes of a child who believes a load of new toys can, one special morning, just appear in the living room.

Naturally, Theo had some questions. We didn’t have a chimney, so how does Santa get in? “Through the window,” we supposed aloud, though we said we really didn’t know. It was magic. How does Santa fit down chimneys anyway? Magic. How do the elves make so many toys? Magic. All around the world in one night, that many toys in one sack, Rudolph’s red nose—magic, magic, magic.

And, of course: how does Santa fly? Magic.

One day, as we were making dinner, Theo asked, “So, why is Santa the only real person who can use magic and fly?”

Em and I looked at each other. I gave a shrug to say, “the jig is up.” She put the cooking spoon on the counter, turned to Theo, and said, “Santa’s not real.”

Although we were never big on the Santa myth, I dreaded this moment. I also thought we had a couple more years before facing it, that deductive little stinker. Neither Em nor I remembers our own moment of learning that Santa wasn’t real, but we both understood that this was potential for heartbreak. I was not ready for Theo to lose this innocence. How could he trust us, and how could I ask for his trust, after this elaborate lie was exposed?

“How do all the presents get here?” Theo asked.

We explained it all—hiding the gifts, waiting until he’s asleep, gathering them under the tree, eating the cookies ourselves, writing the note.

To my surprise, he didn’t look crushed. He looked amused.

“So,” he said. “You pretend you’re Santa.”

“Yes,” I said. “I guess we do.”

“You dress up?”

“Well, we have the Santa hat.”

Theo nodded.

Christmas Eve came at last. Theo didn’t ask where the presents were hid, as I thought he might. It’s more fun to play along, just like it’s fun to wrap old toys and play “birthday” all year long. He also didn’t make himself stay awake, as I thought he might, to witness the charade for himself. We read Christmas stories and said “Santa Claus comes tonight!” with hugs and smiles that said we were all playing this game together. Then our little angel went to sleep, and Em and I, right jolly old elves, went to work.

Who knew: the Christmas magic came from telling the truth.

That year, Theo learned that you can’t just roll around on the floor “believing harder” to make something supernatural happen. And I had to learn that the truth did not expel him from the Eden of childhood, as I feared. It didn’t reveal to him the deceitful world of adults; it revealed to me how much I have been enjoying the delightful world of children. Telling the truth showed us the way to make believe together.

Em and I arranged the presents and stockings, ate the cookies, and wrote the note from Santa. I don’t remember if we wore the Santa hat or not. One of us probably did. There’s nothing quite like the sparkle in our eyes when we do.

Brian Goedde has an MFA in Nonfiction Writing from the University of Iowa and is an Associate Professor of English at the Community College of Philadelphia. His personal essays have appeared in The New York Times, The Seattle Review, and the Los Angeles Review of Books, among other places.

The Bluebird Word

Page 12 of 71

Kinds of Snow

Bunny in Brown Bear’s Coat

Puck’s Paper

Snow

First Snow, Final Page

Poinsettias

Cheerful Misery

Rudolf and the Flashing Red Lights

Santa Claus Let the Dogs Out

For Santa’s Magic, We Told the Truth

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