short fiction · 2026-10-09

The Mycelium's Quiet Hold

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

In the dark beneath the loam, threads spread without fanfare, each filament a whisper that holds the soil together.

When drought cracks the surface, they do not scream or break; they thin, they pause, they wait for the rain’s return.

When a tree falls, its weight presses down on the net, the network shifts, redistributes the load, and the forest floor remembers how to breathe.

We are not the stalwart trunk, but the quiet web that lets the trees stand after the storm.