It's Winter in Georgia

Mythic Picnic

My tendency toward the peculiar tops the tree in “It’s Winter in Georgia”.

The story is one of my favorites and has become even more so since publication by Mythic Picnic (7/30/2025).

Tara Campbell - who curated the “From Earth and Elsewhere” anthology - tweeted these insights regarding publication on the platform formerly known as the blue bird.

I’ve been a Mythic Picnic fan for a long time, long before this platform became...what it’s become. Mark has been keeping the Mythic torch lit within these echoing ruins, so when I got the offer to edit a micro collection, I jumped at the chance to gather up a torch of my own. These stories from writers around the world are proof that we creatives can bring the light and heat under any conditions.

#MythicPicnicTweetStory

Thank you, Tara Campbell and Mark @Mythic Picnic for including “It’s Winter in Georgia” alongside fellow “From Earth and Elsewhere” writers who choose to hold their space.

Links embedded.

Mythic Picnic

@MythicPicnic

@talktomememe

@cliftongachagua

@MandiraPattnaik

@Fade_to_Zach

@IvyGri

@wunderkind100

@bsherm36

@fendysatria_

@missus_caramel

@ZaryFekete

@The_Booky_Man

and Namyalo Claire

As always, thank you for reading.

Best of wishes for you and yours. Be safe.

Shared Madness will return New Year’s Eve.

Public Domain

It’s Winter in Georgia

We thrift the tree. It’s fake. It’s pink. Flamingo pink. We fluff out the tree on the front porch. Branches fall off. No one gets out of here alive, we say and stab the branches back into the holes. Deep. We stand back and nod, looks good. We look at the front door, at the tree, back at the front door. Measure the tree width, then the door width with our hands. Shake our heads. Not gonna happen. We could squeeze it through. We could barrel it through. We could start over inside. We look at the tree. The branches wave at us. The tree likes it outside. We hang glass bulbs on its wiry limbs with tiny hooks. We have more green than any other color and hang most of those in the back. Later, looking out the window, we will mistake the fake tree for a fir tree. The top, we leave vacant for angels passing through. The tree shivers. The sun is going down. We wrap a winter white tree skirt around its three metal feet. On three, we illuminate the tree with flashlights. The tree throws on a pair of shades. We switch on music from the eighties. We screech beehive high. We shake and shimmy with the tree, its moves limited. We grab coffee and watch the tree bot the robot. In May, we will add a crown of ribbons and skip and braid and skip and braid until Pink cries uncle.