December Aesthetic Novels & Stories

Marek walked toward me carefully, as if the floor were a minefield. “Why do the walls look like winter royalty exploded on them.” “Because I improved the aesthetic,” I said. He sighed. “Aveline, you cannot enchant every holiday decoration. This is a mortal tradition. They do not usually come alive.” “Maybe that is why they look so boring.” One wolf swept a small pile of snowflakes into a dustpan. The flakes giggled and then burst apart, reforming in a larger cluster that fluttered upward like tiny icy butterflies.

“What are you thinking for the stormy aesthetic?” Harper asked curiously, holding up the deep winter swatches which include the colours: midnight, olive, expresso, silver, grey, charcoal, mocha, wine, brick red, ruby, Boysen berry, fuschia, magenta, mustard, honey, Ocea, dark green, forest, jungle, royal purple, mulberry, purple, royal blue, Aegean, and ceru lean. Knox snatched the swatches from her hand, spreading them across the desk like he was dealing a winning hand in a high-stakes game. His parrot green eyes darted over then, his lips moving silently as he processed each colour. “Stormy aesthetic,” he repeated, tasting the words. "Aye, it's got tae feel heavy. Atmospheric. No' just dar

The only difference was that they had almost opposite aesthetics. Aubrey was the pretty, cute lady you had no idea could claw your eyes out. She represented yellow, pink and all things girly, and always had a smile on. Hazel, on the other hand, had a dark aesthetic. Wore dark colours, especially red. Always had red lipstick on. Seductive but sweet, to only the people she cared about. She was also girly, but the other kind. And she would absolutely claw your eyes out. But that was the only difference in them. Their aesthetic. They loved the same things.

"Look at this font instead. Do we prefer the minimalist serif or the bold modern for The Era Society cover page?" ​"Minimalist serif," Bianca answered from her desk, her eyes fiercely focused as she aligned our core budget spreadsheets. She hadn't looked up in two hours. "It keeps the high-society aesthetic. If we're pitching to the student administration board tomorrow afternoon, the presentation needs to look like a luxury lookbook, not a standard campus flyer." ​I forced a tight smile, dragging my eyes away from my silent phone. "Right. Cream, espresso, gold. We present a lifestyle, not a club."

On the desk are autographed photos of some domestic and foreign male stars that she has collected before. Seeing her slightly worried expression, Mark also frowned slightly, then questioned her. “Why, am I afraid to ruin these things myself?” Lisa woke up, busily laughing and explaining. "How is it possible..." "These male stars I all admired when I was young and were ignorant. Now that I'm an adult, my aesthetic has changed for a long time." However, after listening to her explanation, Mark's eyes darkened a bit. Aesthetics have long changed? He had just looked at these pictures and saw that each one was timestamped, the latest one being only half a year old.

December comes with the specific intention of a city that knows how to be December. The lights go up—strung across streets, wrapped around trees, illuminating the facades of buildings that have been standing for centuries. The cold becomes committed, no longer pretending it might reconsider. The Luxembourg Gardens are stripped and beautiful, the bare branches tracing patterns against the gray sky, the specific kind of bare that is its own kind of full. I finish the memoir on Tuesday.

December of the twelfth year had a quality that Ernest tried to describe and found required the full journal entry rather than the accurate sentence. He had been trying to write an accurate sentence for twenty minutes. The sentence would not come. The sentence was too small, too contained, too neat for the thing he was trying to describe. The quality of December was not a quality that could be captured in a single sentence, no matter how accurate. The quality of December was the quality of the accumulated twelve, the quality of the ordinary days that had built something that could no longer be described as a collection of ordinary days but had become something else, something larger, somethi