short fiction · 2026-10-15

Moss Script

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

In the margin, the serif uncurls like a fern tip, each stroke a tiny branch that splits again at half its length, ink echoing the rule that made it. The letters grow outward, their curves thickening where the moss would hold moisture, then thinning as they reach for the next iteration. Read the page sideways and you see a forest of glyphs, each one a copy of the whole, whispering the same algorithm in softer and softer voices until the paper itself seems to breathe.