Prompt for 5 December 2025
Yes, I know it is past 5 December, but last week was INSANE. I hope you find the story worth the wait.
Scoot is taking some time away from providing new prompts, but encouraged his FFF fans to pick and choose from prompts posted throughout the year, listed here. I scrolled around and selected these:
Write about a blizzard
chaotic annotations
“What else is left?”
A character with connections
I also chose this image from Unsplash as inspiration:
Allie fell into the vintage green sofa with a sigh of relief. She had made it to the Carriage House, despite the howling winds and swirling snow. The news predicted a blizzard, and Allie was certain that by the next day she would be snowed in. She couldn’t think of a better place for it.
The Carriage House was her happy place. Cozy and quaint, the owners kept it full of books and record albums. There was internet, but only by request and for an additional fee. Allie never opted for it. This was her place to unplug, decompress, and think. When she stayed there, her mind opened to possibilities that her day-to-day obligations overshadowed. To be snowed in there provided the peace that Allie desperately needed, especially during December. As if on cue, the winds picked up, and Allie dozed off into a dreamless sleep.
Upon awakening, Allie looked out the high window to see a deep blanket of snow. Sighing with relief, she turned on the stovetop kettle for a cup of tea and wandered to the bookcase to see what new delights awaited her. The Carriage House owners kept a few classics on the shelves, but also added selections they knew she would enjoy. Dickens, L’Engle, O’Henry, and Tolkien were old friends with whom she reconnected every year. The newer books, by authors like Richard Paul Evans and Jan Karon, connected her modern mind to the eternal message of the holiday, and she was grateful to make their acquaintances.
Allie had never met the owners, but from what she understood, they were an older couple whose reputation for hospitality kept their bed-and-breakfast filled with contented guests. The Carriage House was the only cottage away from the main house, and Allie loved its solitude. It had a generator for power, a fully stocked pantry, and, most importantly, just enough space to be alone without feeling lonely. Allie discovered it shortly after her fiancé broke their engagement on Valentine’s Day four years before. Since then, she visited at least once during each season. Christmas was her favorite time to visit. All the happy people with their families, all the holiday parties, all the brightly wrapped presents, and all the commercials on television were too much for her. She needed less “Christmas” than she used to, and this space, with its simple pleasures refilled her soul.
As she breathed in the peppermint steam from her cup, she selected a slim volume she hadn’t seen before and curled up on the sofa. Insulated by the snow, she listened to the crackle of the electric fireplace and opened the book. She was disappointed to find only blank pages; she had just gotten comfortable and hadn’t expected an empty journal. Unfolding herself, she stood to replace the journal and choose an actual book. As she lifted the little journal to the shelf, a key fell from an envelope taped to the inside of the back cover.
The key was old and felt heavy in her hand. Adorned with a glass bead that shimmered in the glow of Christmas lights, it seemed to invite Allie to participate in a scavenger hunt for the lock that the key would open. She smiled at the proffered quest, but since part of her need for time away was to refresh her mind, she decided to release her rational, modern sensibilities and follow her imagination.
Allie started with the bookcase, looking on, in, and behind it for a mysterious keyhole that might unlock a portal to another world.
“Not Narnia,” she thought. “No wardrobe here. And no looking glass, either. But something new and delightful.”
Giving up on the bookcase, Allie searched around the tree, behind the couch, and in the darker corners of the room. Just as she was about to give up and laugh at herself for listening to a key, she spied an unimpressive brown box under an end table. She sat on the floor and pulled the box to her and saw the lock on the side. Glass beads like the one on the key surrounded the lock, and Allie heard the click of the release when she inserted the key and turned it.
She wasn’t sure what she expected. Maybe her imagination told her that the box would open with a light and fairy dust or a magical genie, but all the box held was papers. Old papers, some falling apart at the edges, all yellowed and dusty. Allie’s happy anticipation turned to disappointment and she started to close the box. Before she fully lowered the lid, one of the papers seemed to separate from the others. Allie knew that it was probably because she had shaken the box a bit when she opened it, but her curiosity got the best of her, and she opened the box fully again.
The first paper was a letter in script that she found hard to read. It was faded, but also handwritten with flourishes that made her think a little of the lettering used by generations from a hundred years or more before.
“My darling,” the letter began. “The days may be long and cold here, but when I think of you, my heart warms until I hardly notice. This war must end, and I will return to your side. Until then, know that I think of you with the sunrise and pray for you every sunset. Yours, Arthur.”
Allie looked again at the date: 1 December, 1914. That date captured her, and within minutes she stacked the books on the end table and replaced them with the box. She made a fresh cup of tea and immersed herself in the letters from a soldier on the Western Front to his young fiancée back home in England. Many of the letters were faded and stained and impossible to read, but she read enough to follow the young man’s experiences in the trenches: cold, hungry, and surrounded by death. But his letters were always hopeful, never bitter. He wrote of how his faith sustained him, his daily Bible reading, and his hope to be home soon.
She found herself weeping more than once. What must it be like to be so loved and cherished? She had not allowed herself to dwell on the break-up of her engagement. Friends tried to get her to talk about it, and her family insisted she go to therapy. She had acquiesced, but stopped after the first few sessions, telling herself that lingering in the feeling of abandonment only made her feel worse. She determined to move through the ache and to something new. Until she started reading the letters, she thought she was over the relationship and that she didn’t need to rush into the dating world again. She wasn’t sure she remembered how to start a relationship; it had been too long. These letters, however, with their warmth and hopeful love, reopened the wounds.
Allie decided she needed a break after the first ten letters. Carefully placing the ones she had read inside the empty journal that she had never returned to the bookcase, she stretched and peered out the window again. The winds and snowfall had given way to sunshine, which reflected off the snow in a blinding white light. Despite the sun, it was clear that she wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Snow was piled well above the door, and it would be days before any plows made their way to this remote place. She felt relieved that she could stay in this cozy place while she immersed herself in a historical love story even though her own heart remained broken.
A pen on the end table caught her attention. Made of the same glass as the key and the lock, she wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. She picked it up, feeling its smooth grip in her hand. The journal lay beside her on the sofa, beckoning. Without thinking, Allie opened the journal and began to write, pouring out her sadness, her insecurity, and her desire to be wholly loved without reservation. She wrote about being blindsided by the break-up and by the loss of friends that followed when she was no longer part of a couple. She cried as she wrote about her dreams for a family that seemed impossible now. Her childhood faith reasserted itself here and there, and she wrote about why she had felt it necessary to dismantle her beliefs and pursue the things she could see and hold in her hand: her job, her hobbies, her fiancé. As she wrote, Allie felt the superficiality of her life and the trivial nature of the things she held important. There was something about the letters that seemed deeper and more substantial than her real life. Completely spent after writing for so long, Allie climbed in bed, falling into a deep and healing sleep like she hadn’t experienced in four years.
Allie was awakened by the ringing of the landline phone in the little kitchenette. It had never rung before, but then again, she had never been snowed in, either. She knew from the registration materials that the telephone connected only to the main house, and when she answered, she heard the warm voice of one of the owners.
“Good morning, Miss Allie,” he said. “I hope you are warm and comfortable?”
“Oh, yes. I am delightfully cozy and feeling well rested for the first time in a very long time,” Allie replied, slightly surprised by the truth in her words. She did feel rested and in a strange way, at peace.
“Most excellent. The plows should arrive to our area this evening. The storms are over for the moment, and we expect our guests should be able to begin traveling by tomorrow afternoon. There is no hurry to leave, of course, so enjoy this last day without options of coming or going,” he chuckled a little at the last statement, a cheerful low laugh that made Allie smile.
“Thank you. I have some reading I want to do, so a day without the option to do anything else is perfect for me.” Allie returned the handset to its cradle and made her morning tea. She wanted to keep reading the letters from Arthur to his true love, not knowing what to expect, but feeling open to whatever effect they might have. She already recognized that there was something in this young man’s faith that she needed for herself, and she hoped another snowed-in day might reveal it.
“25 December, 1914
My love, I had written to you of the discomforts of this life in the trenches, but today I write of the most extraordinary sight of my life. About 10 o’clock yesterday morning, I looked over the parapet and saw a German waving his arms about, outside the trenches on that side. We began to prepare to fire, but one of my mates stopped us, because they were not carrying rifles. One of our men went to meet him, and before long, we met the German soldiers on the ground between our trenches and theirs. We only stayed out half an hour or so, but I was struck by the normal relations between us. What is this war?
Last night, you will not imagine the moments, when we remained billeted, I heard a voice floating across the field. A lovely tenor was singing, “Stille Nacht.” It was so cold that the sound was crystalline, almost angelic. My trench mates all stopped what they were doing to listen. For just one moment, I felt transported to that silent and holy night so long ago, when a babe lay in a manger as the hope for the world. The Prince of Peace come to save us. Darling, I am forever changed by that moment, and praying for His peace to come soon. I long to be reunited with you forever. Yours, Arthur.”
Allie read the letter three times. She had heard of the Christmas truce, but it was just another story told at the holidays. In her mind, it was part of the pageantry that drove her to this Carriage House for respite, away from the chaos of activity. This letter, from one who was there, stirred her heart. How would a Prince of Peace be present in the middle of a war? How could someone sing about a holy night and then in a few days, take up the rifles again to kill the same men with whom they had exchanged gifts in no-man’s-land?
Hoping for more insight, Allie looked in the box, but there was only one more letter, a telegram that began, “Deeply regret to inform you…” Allie refused to read any more; she knew that there wouldn’t be any more letters. She also knew that the girl whom Arthur loved had her own heart broken by his loss. The circumstances were vastly different, but Allie felt connected to the girl, whoever she was, understanding how hard it can be to heal. She leaned back into the sofa cushions, wiping her eyes.
“What else is left?” she wondered. “Is there no peace? Is loss the only connection between people, even in love?”
She looked into the box again. There were no letters, but there was still a small, battered, leather-bound book. She picked it up and read the gilt letters, “Holy Bible.” It fell open to Luke 2, covered in chaotic annotations, and the phrase, “But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart,” was both underlined and circled. The annotations were written in two hands: one in the familiar script of the letter writer, and the other, a much more feminine cursive that made Allie’s heart leap. The girlish annotation, “cf Is.9:6,” sent Allie flipping through the little Bible, with its fading golden edges. As dust puffed from the pages, Allie located the verse,
“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”
There it was again. “Prince of Peace.” In the margin, she noted another annotation:
“He came to give His people peace, but not absence of trial or war. Cf. Jn 16:33”
Carefully, Allie followed the cross-reference to the gospel of John.
“These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”
Allie set the little Bible aside. She didn’t want to damage it, and she needed to write and process what she was thinking. With a fresh cup of tea in hand, she moved the journal to the little table in the kitchenette. She found a new Bible in the bookcase that she hadn’t noticed before, and decided to follow the girl’s train of thought in the newer version and protect the little book that was over 100 years old. Allie briefly wondered how the Bible and letters had remained in decent condition over a century, but set that aside for later. How the fragile papers survived was less important than what they said—and why she found them during this particular trip to the cottage.
She searched the newer Bible for more connections about what the Prince of Peace meant. How did this girl manage to focus on finding peace when war had taken her beloved? What did Isaiah mean about a Prince of Peace yet to come in the middle of a war-torn and exiled people? How could anyone find peace in trouble? Allie wrote, asking questions in the journal with the glass beaded pen, and flipping from the gospels to the prophets, searching for an answer that would heal her own broken heart.
She jumped when the telephone rang again. “Miss Allie, I just wanted you to know that the plows came early and the roads are clear,” came that warm voice once again.
Allie wasn’t sure what to say. “Thank you, sir,” she finally said.
“Have you done the reading you hoped to do? Are you ready to return to your real life?” The voice on the other end of the line did not pressure or demand, merely opening the door for a conversation. Allie suddenly realized that she wanted that conversation.
“I would very much like to meet you and talk about the reading I’ve done. I have so many questions, and I think you might know some of the answers. You put the books and the box in the Carriage House for me, didn’t you?” Allie’s question was more statement than query. It occurred to her that every time she came, the new books spoke into her heart exactly what she needed in that visit. She was certain that the owners were intentional with their selections.
The deep voice responded, “I did put them there, but I never know why the Spirit nudges me to choose certain things. I do know that our guests seem to find something in the books that helps them find hope and maybe even a path to faith when they stay long enough to reflect on the words they read.”
“I knew it. The key in the journal, the box, the pen—they are a set and put there for a purpose. The letters—does that kind of love still work in the world? The Bible—is that kind of peace still possible?”
A laugh burst through the handset. “Yes, Miss, I can see that Spirit is at work. Come to the main house for lunch and the missus and I will try to answer as many of your questions as we can. We don’t know everything, but this I can tell you for certain: the love you need and the peace you seek are waiting for you to say, ‘yes’ to an invitation that Arthur knew well.”
Allie gathered the journal into her arms, but before leaving for the big house, she carefully replaced the Bible and letters in the box and locked it.
“Thank you,” she whispered to Arthur and his love. “I think I’m beginning to understand that peace does not depend on circumstances. Beyond that, I don’t know, but I am ready to find out.”
With that, she closed the door.
While this story is fictional, the Christmas Truce of 1914 was real. British and German soldiers along several different places along the Western Front stopped firing at each other and instead came together in no-man’s-land. In some places, the truce started with carols, including “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht” (”Silent Night, Holy Night”). Other soldiers played football (soccer) with their “enemies.” They exchanged gifts, smoked and drank, and helped each other bury the dead. The truce only lasted two or three days and was never repeated.
Resources:
The Bible. King James Version, BibleGateway, https://www.biblegateway.com. Accessed 8 Dec. 2025.
“The Christmas Truce | What really happened in the trenches in 1914?” YouTube, uploaded by Imperial War Museums,. Accessed 8 Dec. 2025.
“The Real Story of the Christmas Truce of 1914.” IWM, www.iwm.org.uk/history/the-real-story-of-the-christmas-truce. Accessed 8 Dec. 2025.
So beautiful! What a great response from the prompt. I knew of that truce, like the little children in them came together in the innocence that remained in them from childhood.