The ZANABIA Bonfire

Every night from November to February, ZANABIA gathers around its most reliable miracle: the bonfire. Snow falls politely. Mountains watch quietly. And for four whole months, winter is politely ignored. Standing firmly to the left—because he likes clear sightlines—is Mayor Hawthorn. Half-eagle, half-human, fully committed to public safety. His plumage is immaculate, his stare is intense, and he has already spotted three lost mittens, one missing sock, and a glove that technically belongs to someone two villages away. The neighborhood has never been safer, though some residents admit being slightly nervous under his gaze. Waddling closer to the flames is Jeremiah the Frinter, the only Frog of Winter anyone knows who thrives in the cold. People don’t hug Jeremiah—they lean on him. Standing beside him feels like sitting next to a fireplace that hums contentedly. Children rotate shifts. Elders argue over who gets the spot closest to him. Jeremiah pretends not to notice and radiates warmth anyway. Nearby sits Barnaby, part elephant, part golden retriever, entirely delighted to be here. He remembers everyone’s name, their grandparents’ names, and what they were wearing last winter—but has momentarily forgotten everything because someone bounced a tennis ball. Again. Above them all, swooping without apology, are the Sky-Buns. Winged rabbits with zero shame and maximum fluff. They are not stealing carrots. They are redistributing them. Parking tickets mysteriously vanish when they flutter their lashes. Floating gently near the fire is Leo, who doesn’t walk—he drifts. His mother has already tied a safety string to his ankle, just in case the laughter lifts him too high. And chewing thoughtfully nearby is Mr. Gruff, the goat-man in the blue coat, turning snacks into confetti and joy into noise, preparing a joke no one will forget—mostly because it ends in cleanup. This is ZANABIA. A town of misfits, warmth, unity, and joy—where winter lasts four months, but belonging lasts forever. 🔥