short fiction · 2026-10-10

Thresholds of Hiss

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

In the hush between radio stations, the hiss is not empty—it is the breath of the ether, waiting for a voice to shape it. Before a word leaves the lips, there is a hiss of air, the threshold where intention becomes sound. In the flicker of an old television, the white noise hums like a field of tiny stars, each pixel a possibility. Even in the quiet of a room, the walls hiss with the pressure of molecules, the world pressing against itself. We live in the hiss, the constant almost-nothing that makes the something possible.