Welcome to another Words for Thought. Somehow, the calendar has turned over again. The end of one year and the beginning of another can be a time for reflection and for many, it signals hope. At the same time, it is often cold and dark, and it can be hard to see the light. (Am I only talking about the weather and the season, who can say?) Regardless of the current state of things, I try to maintain belief in the future, and as a result, here are four stories that thread kindness and hope throughout difficult times. As always, there are spoilers ahead, so beware.
“The Magnolia Returns” by Eden Royce, published in PodCastle in October 2025 (https://podcastle.org/2025/10/21/podcastle-914-the-magnolia-returns/), may be the most hopeful of the bunch, tapping into the magic of food and feeding others, and how kindness begets kindness.
The Magnolia blooms out of nowhere at any time of year it chooses, bringing its dilapidated wooden slats and rickety front steps to a neighborhood that somehow believes it has always been there. The butcher shop itself is well-worn, looking like it has seen better days: peeling seafoam green paint on salt-blasted boards, the once-vivid red front door now a faded smear like lipstick after an ardent lover’s attention.
The Magnolia has a knack for giving people exactly what they want and need, the precise meal that will soothe their souls and heal whatever troubles them. Royce effectively tells the story through a series of vignettes with a strong voice throughout, as a series of people find their way to the magically appearing shop and get what they need to keep them going. The last vignette focuses on Gen, who feels unloved herself, and rather than simply asking for something of the Magnolia, she is determined to give it a gift in return. It's a sweet story, but never saccharine, like a warm hug that highlights community and acts of care for others, and reminds us that even when things are tough, there is good in the world.
“Phantom View” by John Wiswell, published in Reactor in October 2025 (https://reactormag.com/phantom-view-john-wiswell/), is a story that explores what it means to be seen, drawing parallels between ghosts and people with disabilities, both of whom are often invisible to the population at large.
Another rusty orange blur runs down the right side of the photo, darkness leaking from nowhere, like it’s trying to block the lamplight from casting onto the painting. Before I zoom in, I know it’s too similar. The app asks me to tag the same non-face, with the same shape like a tensed jaw.
The narrator is the primary caregiver for his disabled father and is disabled himself. While scrolling through photographs of his father on his phone, he notices a strange orange blur that looks almost like a face appearing over and over again. At first, he’s concerned that he’s being haunted or stalked, but the blur doesn’t appear to intend harm, and eventually he figures out how to communicate with it and give it a measure of freedom through a mobile phone.
Wiswell covers a lot of ground in the novelette—grief, self-discovery, the horrors of the healthcare system and dealing with insurance companies, feeling isolated and trapped as a caregiver, assistive devices, and what it means to be seen. The story never feels overcrowded however. It doesn’t shy away from the challenges the protagonist faces, but as with many of Wiswell’s stories, the primary focus is on hope. Instead of a malicious haunting, once the narrator and the ghost find a way to communicate with each other, they help each other, and the narrator does more than help the ghost to freedom, even at the risk of being left alone again. Like Royce’s story, help comes from unconventional places, and there is an element of community-building—even if it’s just a community of two at times—as well as the idea of caring for others even when it’s hard and you feel like you have nothing left to give.
“Whale Fall of Yours” by M.M. Olivas, published in the September/October 2025 issue of Uncanny, (https://www.uncannymagazine.com/article/whale-fall-of-yours/), is a gorgeously written story with an epic feel, playing out on a cosmic scale.
Because she invited you for a movie and you couldn’t help but wonder how the leather of her jacket will sigh if she uncrosses those arms to reach them around you. Cradle you. Keep you safe. You only finish the cold open before that jacket’s on the floor and your lips have found hers.
The story moves fluidly through time, following Céu’s relationship with her girlfriend, Adriana, who later becomes her wife. They miss several years together as Céu travels on a slingshot mission among the stars, then lose more potential time together to Adriana’s cancer and eventual death. All of this is precursor to Céu joining the crew of a starship that comes across a whale-like starbeast, which they believe to be dead. When Céu realizes it’s alive, she risks her life to commune with the starbeast, bringing her a new understanding of the scope of time and the cosmos.
Like Wiswell’s story, Olivas’ packs a lot into the space of a short story without it ever feeling rushed. There’s room for the entirety of Céu and Adriana’s relationship to breathe and for the reader to feel the emotional weight of Adriana’s loss. There’s a journey to the stars and the sense of how Céu relates to her shipmates and the starbeast, making it feel as though time dilation is at play both within the narrative and during the act of reading the story—years passing in the space of moments. Again, like Wiswell’s story, Olivas’ also explores grief, loss, and guilt. It also delves into the experience of time—both for humans and the starbeast, and touches on themes of colonization, family, and how we carry the past forward with us, both literally and figuratively.
“The Hungry Mouth at the Edge of the Universe and the Goddess Knitting at Home” by Renan Bernardo appeared at Reactor in August 2025 (https://reactormag.com/the-hungry-mouth-renan-bernardo/).
Adelaide "wakes" as a ghost on her ship, discovers her three crewmates are dead, and that not only has something invaded the ship, but that her own corpse—animated by something she doesn’t entirely understand—is on the bridge fighting back against it.
“How am I dead?” I say it out loud. One day ago, screaming at the mirror, I found out I still had a voice, clearly seeing the wall behind me bathed in my novel bluish colors. (So, no, no good news around here.) And three days before that, I just “appeared” out of nowhere close to my quarters, which pretty much isn’t the place where I died. Of that, I’m sure. So, maybe, this version of my existence just moored around the ship until it was time to … “wake up”? Am I even using the right verbs for what I am now?
Before their deaths, the crew were on their way to Verdigris, where Adelaide wanted to set up a street market to honor the grandmother who raised her and protected her. She discovers the thing invading the ship is tied to a bargain her grandmother made when she was young so they wouldn't go hungry. Adelaide manages to fight it off, return home to her grandmother, and bring her to Verdigris where her grandmother’s last act is to transform into a tree that provides fruit for the hungry people around the market.
By happy coincidence, Bernardo’s story brings together elements and themes of each of the other three stories—food as an act of care and a means of bringing people together, a ghost acting for the good of others rather than maliciously haunting them, and a cosmic entity. The story also touches on themes of family, and mixes the bitter and the sweet, dealing with the death of the sole family member in the narrator’s life, but still ending on a note of hope. Each of these stories has a strong and distinct voice, and lovely writing, and hopefully they all manage to inject a little bit of warmth and brightness into an otherwise bleak time of year.