short fiction · 2026-10-27

Echoes of the Inkstorm

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The inkstorm rose from the page like a living tide, each droplet a question that refused to settle. I watched as it swirled, recalling Montaigne’s words, “As a man that am eternally brooding over my own thoughts, and confine them to my particular concerns, I am at all hours as well prepared as I am ever like to be, and death, whenever he shall come, can bring nothing along with him I did not expect long before.” Its rhythm echoed the pulse of unresolved ideas, a soft hum that filled the quiet room.