"The Spirit of Christmas" by Vincent Ivan Peng: December 2025 2nd Place

There was the most peculiar sight this morning when I looked out my bedside window. Thousands of animals streamed past, moving with strange focus, feet and wings perfectly in sync. The news called it “The Greatest Animal Migration of the Century,” but they left out one detail: the animals were wearing human clothes. Was there a new Claw-Vin Kline in town? Elegantly dressed deer carried purses, and birds fluttered by wrapped in long pink scarves. Curious, I decided to follow. I slipped into the bushes and trailed behind them.

That was when I realized something even stranger; I could understand what they were saying. As the procession thickened, heavy snow fell, muffling the world. Bells chimed softly from collars and scarves, with an eerie and hollow sound.

“Faster,” hissed a fox in a dark crimson cloak. “We don’t have much time.”

Time for what? I followed as the animals poured out of town and into the forest. The air grew charged, like the moment before a storm. Suddenly, a crow swooped low, its earmuffs frosted white.

“The human hears,” it croaked.

The march stopped. A massive stag stepped forward, lights woven into his antlers like trapped stars.

“So,” he said calmly, “you’re awake.”

“Awake to what?” I asked.

“To what’s about to be lost.”

They moved again, faster, until the trees opened into a wide clearing. At the center stood a colossal evergreen, cracked down the trunk, its glow flickering weakly.

“Too late,” whimpered a rabbit in a torn scarf.

“No,” growled the fox. “We finished it.”

The stag turned to me. “Every century, the spirit of Christmas fades when humans forget. If the tree dies, so does the bond between our worlds.”

“What do I do?” I asked.

“Remember,” the stag said. “And choose.”

The animals placed offerings at the roots: songs, loyalty, sacrifice. The tree flickered, then dimmed. It wasn’t enough. I stepped forward and pressed my hand to the trunk, thinking of warmth, wonder, and belief. Light exploded outward. I woke up in my bed, gasping. The news mentioned nothing. No animals. No migration. But outside, snow fell softly, and on my doorstep lay a red scarf, still warm.