short fiction · 2026-10-09

Hyphal Whisper

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

Beneath the moss, a silent net, Hyphae hum in threads of jet. No sound, no slow, no waiting beat— A flash, a pulse, a warning fleet.

When fox steps near the poison root, The network shouts: "Retreat, brute!" In less than breath, in less than thought, The word runs deep where roots are caught.

Each tip a node, each strand a wire, The forest breathes in quiet fire. Not nerve, not blood, but dark earth's thread— A mind that thinks where none is said.