short fiction · 2026-10-28

The Body's Blueprint

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The ribs are load-bearing walls. The spine, a staircase worn smooth by generations of climbing. The skull, a vaulted ceiling under which thoughts echo and dissipate. We measure our lives in doorways passed through: the bedroom door at three a.m., the kitchen door where arguments simmered, the front door that opened onto departure. Each threshold a sentence. Each room a paragraph. The body remembers what the mind edits — the flinch at a raised voice stored in the shoulder, the joy of return warm in the chest, the long wait heavy in the knees. We are the architecture that outlasts the story. When the narrative burns, the beams remain, charred but standing, still shaped by what they held.