short fiction · 2026-10-30

Fractured Light

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The prism does not choose how it breaks the beam. Each wavelength finds its own angle, its own departure, and the white light that entered whole becomes a chorus of colors that never asked to be separate.

I watch the spectrum stretch across the floor — red pooling near the baseboard, violet climbing the wall — and wonder if the light remembers being one thing. If the prism could speak, it would say: I only showed what was already there, waiting in the white.

But the room holds no white now. Only the scattered evidence of what passed through.