Nobody said anything. October filled his wooden mug with apple cider when he was done, and drained it, and filled it again.
"It was a story," said December. "I'll say that for it." He rubbed his pale blue eyes with a fist. The fire was almost out.
"What happened next?" asked June nervously. "After he went into the house?"
May, sitting next to her, put her hand on June's arm. "Better not to think about it," she said.
"Anyone else want a turn?" asked August. There was silence. "Then I think we're done."
"That needs to be an official motion," pointed out February.
"All in favor?" said October. There was a chorus of "ayes."
"All against?" Silence.
"Then I declare this meeting adjourned."
They got up from the fireside, stretching and yawning, and walked away into the wood, in ones and twos and threes, until only October and his neighbor remained.
"Your turn in the chair next time," said October.
"I know," said November. He was pale and thin-lipped. He helped October out of the wooden chair.
"I like your stories. Mine are always too dark."
"I don't think so," said October. "It's just that your nights are longer. and you aren't as warm."
"Put it like that," said November, "and I feel better. I suppose we can't help who we are."
"That's the spirit," said his brother. And they touched hands as they walked away from the fire's orange embers taking their stories with them back into the dark.
Via A Spot of Whimsy