Welcome to this week’s story, ranging in length from 100 words to 500 words.
With each story we hope to deliver a little whimsy into the lives of our readers.
UNDER THE WINTER MISTLETOE
Everyone in Briarfield knew never to stand beneath the mistletoe after dark. It wasn’t for kissing—it was for calling.
Marin ignored that rule.
The night of the Winter Feast, she lingered outside the lodge, the candlelit laughter muffled behind her. Snow drifted silently along the eaves. A single sprig of mistletoe hung over the doorway, pale berries glowing faintly.
“She died under one of those, you know,” someone whispered behind her earlier. “The girl who vanished last winter.”
Marin brushed it off. Ghost stories were for children.
Now, alone in the cold, she felt something shift in the air. Like breath on the back of her neck.
She turned.
No one was there.
The mistletoe berries brightened, pulsing with a heartbeat not her own. A drop of clear sap slid down the stem, thick and shining like a tear.
“Marin…”
The voice was soft, familiar, and wrong.
Her breath hitched. She hadn’t heard that voice in a year.
“Elsa?” she whispered.
Her sister stepped out of the shadows, barefoot on snow, wearing the same dress she’d gone missing in. Her skin was pale as moonlit ice. Frozen mistletoe vines wrapped around her wrists.
“You left me,” Elsa said, her lips barely moving. “Come stand with me. Just for a moment.”
Marin backed away. The snow behind Elsa cracked as if something crawled beneath it.
“Don’t be afraid,” Elsa murmured. “It only hurts the first time.”
Vines shot from the mistletoe sprig above the door, snaring Marin’s wrists, her throat, her waist. The berries burst open like tiny white mouths.
“Come with me,” Elsa said, reaching out a hand that wasn’t entirely human anymore.
Marin screamed, but the snow swallowed the sound.
By morning, the mistletoe sprig had grown another blossom—new, fresh, heavy with frost. And beneath the ice, if one looked closely, a face seemed to sleep inside it.
Briarfield added another name to the stories told each winter.
And the mistletoe listened, hungry for the next.
Robyn Wangra is a South African writer, spoken-word poet, and emerging legal scholar studying toward her LLB. Her work explores themes of healing, identity, folklore, and the quiet magic woven through ordinary life. She coaches public speaking and drama, tutors commerce students, and participates actively in leadership and creative initiatives. Robyn’s writing draws inspiration from South African landscapes, emotional resilience, and stories of transformation. She hopes to merge law, literature, and advocacy to create meaningful impact.
If you enjoyed this story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash anthology.
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