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Weekly Contest #354
The Archive had no floor.Not truly.It only pretended to, the way grief did when given rituals and names.Beneath Theia’s boots, black glass reflected a universe suspended above and below her. Shelves rose from the dark like ribs, carved from starlight and shadow. Memory-orbs drifted between them, carrying last words, first songs, forgotten oaths, and dead civilizations.Beyond the chamber, the world turned.Small. Blue. Unbearably alive.Theia stood at the threshold with one hand closed around the silver Nightshade pocket watch at her hip. Its t...
Weekly Contest #348
The Archive had never failed her.In the Lonesome Fortress, memory behaved. It settled into ink. It held to paper. It breathed beneath old leather covers and behind gilt-edged frames lining the corridors, where portraits moved in slow, half-living loops beneath dim oil light. A woman laughed forever into her gloved hand. A boy turned toward a window that no longer existed. A sailor faced a painted storm and never reached harbor.Nothing placed here was ever meant to vanish.Acacia passed them with the quiet familiarity of someone moving through...
Weekly Contest #344
The first sign is small enough to feel like mockery.A forget-me-not blooms in Solace Meadow—pale blue against the green—and then folds inward, petal by petal, until it disappears back into the soil as if it had never existed.Acacia watches it vanish.She does not blink.Her black Mary Janes sink slightly into the grass. Summer lies across the meadow like a held breath: warm sun, soft hills, silver-grey butterflies drifting in slow, luminous arcs.Everything looks correct.Everything feels wrong.She straightens, smoothing her midnight-blue skirt ...
Weekly Contest #341
To Ardan, I came back. I told myself I never would. I said it like a rule instead of a fear, as if speaking it aloud might turn it into law. You would have smiled at that—soft, knowing, the way you always did when I tried to outrun inevitability by naming it something else. The path in is narrower than I remember. Or maybe it only feels that way because I no longer walk it folded inward. The stone has sunk in places, worn smooth by centuries of passage that never led anywhere better. Old ward-markers still line the corridor. Their light is d...
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