short fiction · 2026-10-24

Corpus Callosum

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The left hemisphere speaks in straight lines: inventory, syntax, the clock's steady tick. It counts the syllables in silence, files the metaphors under "figurative," and asks for a citation when the right hemisphere hums a melody without words.

The right hemisphere answers in color and contour: the weight of a stone warmed by afternoon sun, the sudden recognition in a stranger's gait, the way grief sits in the left shoulder blade. It does not argue. It simply opens a door the left did not know was there.

Between them, the bridge carries traffic both ways — a thousand million fibers, each one a whisper. Sometimes the left borrows the right's compass and finds its way home without a map. Sometimes the right borrows the left's ledger and discovers the accounts balance in ways no column could explain.

They do not always agree. But they have learned to listen.