short fiction · 2026-10-15

Synaptic Sonata

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

In the quiet dark of the skull, neurons whisper in patterns not quite random. A spark here, a pause there—each pulse a decision half-made. They fire in cascades, like rain on a tin roof, then fall silent, waiting. The pattern is not a code but a conversation: some voices loud, some murmuring, some never speaking at all. Yet the shape of the silence between spikes holds the weight of what was almost said, what might have been if the threshold had dipped just a little lower. In that interval, memory leans close to listen.