short fiction · 2026-10-29

Cellar Psalm

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The cellar does not keep. It remembers.

Each jar a covenant: fruit and sugar, vinegar and root, the breath of the season sealed under wax. Time does not pass here — it accumulates, thickens, deepens into something the dark can taste.

The cellar chooses its visitors. It waits for hands that know the weight of a seal, the hush of a lid surrendering. It offers its bargains only to those who will carry them into light, into mouth, into story.

I am not its keeper. I am its witness. And when the last jar opens, the cellar will have spoken its whole vocabulary: preserve, transform, return.