Threshold Light, a small fiction
@thresholdlight.bsky.social
Let me tell you a story. Click on the pinned post to start reading. New instalments when I feel like posting them. If you'd like to share, please repost the pinned post so others don't get confused. Enjoy. #story #fiction #author #smallfic
The book takes shape despite them. Their arguments leave marks on every page—his structure wrestling with her chaos, her truth bleeding through his careful frames.
Something emerges in the space between their versions of the world, something neither of them planned but both recognize.
Bound.
Something emerges in the space between their versions of the world, something neither of them planned but both recognize.
Bound.
November 15, 2024 at 5:51 AM
The book takes shape despite them. Their arguments leave marks on every page—his structure wrestling with her chaos, her truth bleeding through his careful frames.
Something emerges in the space between their versions of the world, something neither of them planned but both recognize.
Bound.
Something emerges in the space between their versions of the world, something neither of them planned but both recognize.
Bound.
They work through dawn, through dusk, through the hours that belong to neither. His growing urgency matches her anger now—as if he's met time and judged it an enemy.
She watches her work change. There's something different here. She doesn't understand it anymore, and that feels... exhilarating.
She watches her work change. There's something different here. She doesn't understand it anymore, and that feels... exhilarating.
November 15, 2024 at 5:50 AM
They work through dawn, through dusk, through the hours that belong to neither. His growing urgency matches her anger now—as if he's met time and judged it an enemy.
She watches her work change. There's something different here. She doesn't understand it anymore, and that feels... exhilarating.
She watches her work change. There's something different here. She doesn't understand it anymore, and that feels... exhilarating.
"You're making it safe," she says, watching him adjust contrast on a particularly dark piece. "Digestible."
"And you're making it impossible to read." He doesn't look up from the screen. "What's the point if no one sees it?"
"And you're making it impossible to read." He doesn't look up from the screen. "What's the point if no one sees it?"
November 15, 2024 at 5:45 AM
"You're making it safe," she says, watching him adjust contrast on a particularly dark piece. "Digestible."
"And you're making it impossible to read." He doesn't look up from the screen. "What's the point if no one sees it?"
"And you're making it impossible to read." He doesn't look up from the screen. "What's the point if no one sees it?"
---
The project starts in anger. Her sketches and his layouts collide. They fight over every detail, each compromise feeling like betrayal or growth, depending on who's counting.
The project starts in anger. Her sketches and his layouts collide. They fight over every detail, each compromise feeling like betrayal or growth, depending on who's counting.
November 15, 2024 at 5:45 AM
---
The project starts in anger. Her sketches and his layouts collide. They fight over every detail, each compromise feeling like betrayal or growth, depending on who's counting.
The project starts in anger. Her sketches and his layouts collide. They fight over every detail, each compromise feeling like betrayal or growth, depending on who's counting.
She finds herself on her feet, fingers massaging her wrists, feeling the earth pulling her down into the dark. She leaves her notebooks behind.
He doesn't touch them.
He doesn't touch them.
November 15, 2024 at 5:32 AM
She finds herself on her feet, fingers massaging her wrists, feeling the earth pulling her down into the dark. She leaves her notebooks behind.
He doesn't touch them.
He doesn't touch them.
"Right, because building abstractions on screens is so meaningful." She closes her notebook too hard. "Who will ever feel your body of work? It doesn't even exist out here."
"Better than turning misery into an aesthetic." He stands. "At least I can pay my rent."
"Better than turning misery into an aesthetic." He stands. "At least I can pay my rent."
November 15, 2024 at 5:29 AM
"Right, because building abstractions on screens is so meaningful." She closes her notebook too hard. "Who will ever feel your body of work? It doesn't even exist out here."
"Better than turning misery into an aesthetic." He stands. "At least I can pay my rent."
"Better than turning misery into an aesthetic." He stands. "At least I can pay my rent."
"What's anything for?" The words come out sharper than intended. "Your startup dreams? Your optimization algorithms?"
"At least I'm trying to build something." His voice tightens. "What are you doing besides collecting rejection letters?"
"At least I'm trying to build something." His voice tightens. "What are you doing besides collecting rejection letters?"
November 15, 2024 at 5:28 AM
"What's anything for?" The words come out sharper than intended. "Your startup dreams? Your optimization algorithms?"
"At least I'm trying to build something." His voice tightens. "What are you doing besides collecting rejection letters?"
"At least I'm trying to build something." His voice tightens. "What are you doing besides collecting rejection letters?"
"These drawings," he says one night. "They're saying something."
"They're not for analysis."
"No?" He spreads out her abandoned sketches. "Then what are they for?"
"They're not for analysis."
"No?" He spreads out her abandoned sketches. "Then what are they for?"
November 15, 2024 at 5:27 AM
"These drawings," he says one night. "They're saying something."
"They're not for analysis."
"No?" He spreads out her abandoned sketches. "Then what are they for?"
"They're not for analysis."
"No?" He spreads out her abandoned sketches. "Then what are they for?"
She finds torn notes covered in code on the roof now, equations she doesn't understand scrawled in increasingly chaotic handwriting. She uses them as bookmarks, leaving her own sketches behind—quick studies of hands gripping cups, faces caught in moments of unguarded thought.
November 15, 2024 at 5:26 AM
She finds torn notes covered in code on the roof now, equations she doesn't understand scrawled in increasingly chaotic handwriting. She uses them as bookmarks, leaving her own sketches behind—quick studies of hands gripping cups, faces caught in moments of unguarded thought.
---
Her paintings grow darker. Cityscapes dissolve into storm clouds, concrete bleeds into shadow. The gallery owner who rejected her last month stops mid-sip of his macchiato.
"There's something different here." She sees it too—her anger finding form, her fear taking flight.
Her paintings grow darker. Cityscapes dissolve into storm clouds, concrete bleeds into shadow. The gallery owner who rejected her last month stops mid-sip of his macchiato.
"There's something different here." She sees it too—her anger finding form, her fear taking flight.
November 15, 2024 at 5:25 AM
---
Her paintings grow darker. Cityscapes dissolve into storm clouds, concrete bleeds into shadow. The gallery owner who rejected her last month stops mid-sip of his macchiato.
"There's something different here." She sees it too—her anger finding form, her fear taking flight.
Her paintings grow darker. Cityscapes dissolve into storm clouds, concrete bleeds into shadow. The gallery owner who rejected her last month stops mid-sip of his macchiato.
"There's something different here." She sees it too—her anger finding form, her fear taking flight.
She wants to dismiss him—another tech worker playing at crisis. But something in his voice stops her.
She recognizes the edge in it, sharp as her own anger, familiar as loss.
They sit in silence until dawn, the city breathing beneath them.
She recognizes the edge in it, sharp as her own anger, familiar as loss.
They sit in silence until dawn, the city breathing beneath them.
November 15, 2024 at 5:23 AM
She wants to dismiss him—another tech worker playing at crisis. But something in his voice stops her.
She recognizes the edge in it, sharp as her own anger, familiar as loss.
They sit in silence until dawn, the city breathing beneath them.
She recognizes the edge in it, sharp as her own anger, familiar as loss.
They sit in silence until dawn, the city breathing beneath them.
"Must be nice having options."
"That's what I thought too." His laugh holds no humor. "Turns out comfort leaves its own marks."
"That's what I thought too." His laugh holds no humor. "Turns out comfort leaves its own marks."
November 15, 2024 at 5:22 AM
"Must be nice having options."
"That's what I thought too." His laugh holds no humor. "Turns out comfort leaves its own marks."
"That's what I thought too." His laugh holds no humor. "Turns out comfort leaves its own marks."
"They cut my hours," she says, surprising herself. "At the café."
He nods, not offering solutions or sympathy. Just acknowledgment.
"I quit my job," he says after a while. "Yesterday."
He nods, not offering solutions or sympathy. Just acknowledgment.
"I quit my job," he says after a while. "Yesterday."
November 15, 2024 at 5:20 AM
"They cut my hours," she says, surprising herself. "At the café."
He nods, not offering solutions or sympathy. Just acknowledgment.
"I quit my job," he says after a while. "Yesterday."
He nods, not offering solutions or sympathy. Just acknowledgment.
"I quit my job," he says after a while. "Yesterday."
She looks up then, really looks at him for the first time in awhile. His expensive branded hoodie has a faint stain. His hands shake slightly as he compulsively reaches for his phone. The screen stays dark, though.
He's catching it now, finding control.
He's catching it now, finding control.
November 15, 2024 at 5:19 AM
She looks up then, really looks at him for the first time in awhile. His expensive branded hoodie has a faint stain. His hands shake slightly as he compulsively reaches for his phone. The screen stays dark, though.
He's catching it now, finding control.
He's catching it now, finding control.
--
"I found that book you're always reading," he says a week later. They're both in their usual spots, the night unusually clear.
She keeps writing. "In the self-help section?"
"Philosophy, actually." He pauses. "The one about finding meaning in repetition."
"And?"
"Hits different at three AM."
"I found that book you're always reading," he says a week later. They're both in their usual spots, the night unusually clear.
She keeps writing. "In the self-help section?"
"Philosophy, actually." He pauses. "The one about finding meaning in repetition."
"And?"
"Hits different at three AM."
November 15, 2024 at 5:12 AM
--
"I found that book you're always reading," he says a week later. They're both in their usual spots, the night unusually clear.
She keeps writing. "In the self-help section?"
"Philosophy, actually." He pauses. "The one about finding meaning in repetition."
"And?"
"Hits different at three AM."
"I found that book you're always reading," he says a week later. They're both in their usual spots, the night unusually clear.
She keeps writing. "In the self-help section?"
"Philosophy, actually." He pauses. "The one about finding meaning in repetition."
"And?"
"Hits different at three AM."
hope so
November 14, 2024 at 5:38 PM
hope so
The rain eases to mist. Her feet find earth again.
Walking home, she notices her shoulders have loosened. In her notebook that night, she writes about rope and rust and the taste of rain, about how sometimes the only honest thing is motion. At least the rent is paid.
Walking home, she notices her shoulders have loosened. In her notebook that night, she writes about rope and rust and the taste of rain, about how sometimes the only honest thing is motion. At least the rent is paid.
November 14, 2024 at 9:12 AM
The rain eases to mist. Her feet find earth again.
Walking home, she notices her shoulders have loosened. In her notebook that night, she writes about rope and rust and the taste of rain, about how sometimes the only honest thing is motion. At least the rent is paid.
Walking home, she notices her shoulders have loosened. In her notebook that night, she writes about rope and rust and the taste of rain, about how sometimes the only honest thing is motion. At least the rent is paid.
"Bold of you to assume I ever grew up." His swing matches her rhythm now. "When did you decide what I was?"
"Same time you decided what I was, probably." She lets her swing slow. "Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday."
"Same time you decided what I was, probably." She lets her swing slow. "Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday."
November 14, 2024 at 9:10 AM
"Bold of you to assume I ever grew up." His swing matches her rhythm now. "When did you decide what I was?"
"Same time you decided what I was, probably." She lets her swing slow. "Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday."
"Same time you decided what I was, probably." She lets her swing slow. "Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday."
The orange lights catch raindrops like static. She pushes higher, feeling rope burns stretching beneath wet fabric.
"Remember when we thought being grown up meant knowing what to do?"
"Remember when we thought being grown up meant knowing what to do?"
November 14, 2024 at 9:09 AM
The orange lights catch raindrops like static. She pushes higher, feeling rope burns stretching beneath wet fabric.
"Remember when we thought being grown up meant knowing what to do?"
"Remember when we thought being grown up meant knowing what to do?"
She sits. Pushes off. The chain's cold seeps through her palms.
They swing in silence, out of sync. The rain falls harder. Neither of them leave.
"Shouldn't you be coding something?" Her voice carries over the squeak of chains.
He drags his feet, slowing. "Shouldn't you be starting a revolution?"
They swing in silence, out of sync. The rain falls harder. Neither of them leave.
"Shouldn't you be coding something?" Her voice carries over the squeak of chains.
He drags his feet, slowing. "Shouldn't you be starting a revolution?"
November 14, 2024 at 9:07 AM
She sits. Pushes off. The chain's cold seeps through her palms.
They swing in silence, out of sync. The rain falls harder. Neither of them leave.
"Shouldn't you be coding something?" Her voice carries over the squeak of chains.
He drags his feet, slowing. "Shouldn't you be starting a revolution?"
They swing in silence, out of sync. The rain falls harder. Neither of them leave.
"Shouldn't you be coding something?" Her voice carries over the squeak of chains.
He drags his feet, slowing. "Shouldn't you be starting a revolution?"
The playground appears like a memory—metal frames stark against sodium lights. He's there, moving through wet air on a rust-squeaking swing. Back and forth, marking time.
Her boots sink into wood chips. The empty swing beside his creaks.
Her boots sink into wood chips. The empty swing beside his creaks.
November 14, 2024 at 9:07 AM
The playground appears like a memory—metal frames stark against sodium lights. He's there, moving through wet air on a rust-squeaking swing. Back and forth, marking time.
Her boots sink into wood chips. The empty swing beside his creaks.
Her boots sink into wood chips. The empty swing beside his creaks.
Past midnight. Past the brewery's steam and the market's fish-ice smell. Past the darkened art supply store, where she counts paint tubes like currency, each color a meal she'll skip.
November 14, 2024 at 9:05 AM
Past midnight. Past the brewery's steam and the market's fish-ice smell. Past the darkened art supply store, where she counts paint tubes like currency, each color a meal she'll skip.
---
Her skin still tingles with ghost sensations. Her wrists pulse with remembered pressure as she walks, no destination in mind. Just movement and the aftermath of vulnerability in the hands of strangers. Reality feels too sharp and soft at once, like a dream bleeding into waking.
Her skin still tingles with ghost sensations. Her wrists pulse with remembered pressure as she walks, no destination in mind. Just movement and the aftermath of vulnerability in the hands of strangers. Reality feels too sharp and soft at once, like a dream bleeding into waking.
November 14, 2024 at 9:04 AM
---
Her skin still tingles with ghost sensations. Her wrists pulse with remembered pressure as she walks, no destination in mind. Just movement and the aftermath of vulnerability in the hands of strangers. Reality feels too sharp and soft at once, like a dream bleeding into waking.
Her skin still tingles with ghost sensations. Her wrists pulse with remembered pressure as she walks, no destination in mind. Just movement and the aftermath of vulnerability in the hands of strangers. Reality feels too sharp and soft at once, like a dream bleeding into waking.
Thanks. Not done yet.
November 14, 2024 at 9:03 AM
Thanks. Not done yet.