Writer of chaotic elves, dystopian escapists, immortal warriors, and a raccoon therapist who should absolutely be stopped. Stories live here. So does poetry. And Carl's terrible advice. Welcome to Aetheriaism.
Christmas
The Ornament Sorting Room was massive—floor to ceiling racks of shiny, fragile spheres, each one enchanted to NOT break unless handled by someone extremely stupid. Unfortunately… The Chaos Four were exceptionally qualified.
Christmas
Their skin was the color of expired marshmallows. Their fingers bent like frozen breadsticks. Peppermint’s teeth were still chattering. Buttercup’s eyelashes had icicles. Mason had turned blue (he insisted this was normal). And Joe—sweet, quiet, emotionally-fragile Joe—had reached his limit.
Christmas
They bundled up in scarves, coats, mittens, and one suspiciously crunchy hat Mason crafted from candy wrappers. They trekked through the snow to position themselves behind a drift with a perfect view of the Christmas Kitchen door. Peppermint whispered, “This is it. Today we use patience.”
Christmas
Deep beneath the North Pole, a giant conveyor belt carried sugar, flour, and sprinkles from the cookie factory into the Christmas Kitchen. It had never carried elves. Until now.
Christmas
Peppermint was dragging. Joe resembled a haunted candy cane. Buttercup’s hair had drywall still in it. Mason had soot fingerprints from the pantry explosion even though he showered twice. They all agreed in unison: “Fine. We need a break.” But breaks hate them.
Christmas
Mason led them to the base of Frostbite Peak — a jagged monstrosity of ice that was actively snowing upward. Joe stared. “…The snow is going INTO the sky.” Buttercup slapped his arm. “Stop questioning magic. It gets offended.” The journey began badly and only worsened:
Christmas
The Chaos Four crept along the snowy wall of Santa’s private wing. Peppermint climbed first, moving like she remembered her acrobat days fondly and inaccurately. She popped the window latch with a hairpin and slipped inside onto a wooden ceiling beam.
Christmas
Buttercup tapped the map with her headlamp. “This is a forgotten tunnel the Naughty & Nice Oversight Committee used during the Great Cocoa Famine of 1812. It runs directly underneath Santa’s private quarters.”
Christmas
The Chaos Four gathered in the courtyard, snow crunching under their boots, breath puffing in the freezing air. Two enormous snowmen guards flanked the back entrance of Santa’s private kitchen—silent, stoic, vaguely menacing.
Christmas
Peppermint hit the tuba with such force that the instrument let out a long, mournful “BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAP” that echoed across the courtyard like a dying moose. Choir elves screamed. One fainted into a xylophone.
Christmas
Buttercup unveiled her plan: A giant candy cane catapult. To launch Peppermint directly through the kitchen skylight. Peppermint fainted. Mason cried happy tears. Joe said, “This is the worst idea you’ve ever had and somehow I agree with it.”
Christmas
The Walk of Confidence They approached the Christmas Kitchen entrance with: Straight posture Serious expressions A synchronized speed-walking formation Mason humming what he claimed was “stealth music”