Silver Enough

February 18, 2026February 16, 2026 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 2 Comments

Ana had little, but enough. Her home was small upon the village hillside, but she had dreams enough to fill its cozy corners with worlds upon worlds, with wonderings that spilled out through the shuttered windows and down through the forest paths. Her clothes were plain and humble, yet ample enough to warm her in the cold of winter journeys, or to protect against the heat of summer sun. Her shoes were patched and resoled, but sturdy enough for her wistful wanderings, fleet enough for her tireless chase after wonder. She had little promise in marriage prospects, yet she had faith enough to believe in fairy tales—to believe in hope and courage and happily ever after.

Yet when her mother promised her to the butcher, she had tears enough to flood the village. Ana wept in earnest amid her mother’s empty words of comfort.

“You’ll never go hungry. You’ll want for nothing.”

Ana knew that her mother feared the empty cupboards more than anything, feared a life of nothingness for her daughter. It was true that the butcher’s home was the finest in the village. No carriage gleamed more brightly than his. No table held more food and drink and decadence. Still, when Ana thought of him—his hands bloody, his eyes cruel—her weeping turned to sobs.

Yet her tears were not enough to turn her mother’s heart. The day passed in weeping, and the evening came with heavy resignation. Despite herself, Ana packed her modest trousseau, gathered her meagre dowry. Her coins were few, but enough. When she counted them in the moonlight, they glowed with silver possibility.

The very young and the very old of the village had long whispered of a moonlit caravan, warned of its silver horses that trotted on moonbeams. The worldly and respectable scoffed, but still the whispers and wonders persisted. Ana had never had courage to test the tales. She had never left her cozy home after nightfall. She had never had reason to brave the darkness for a moonbeam or to worry about the lure of the otherworldly, the warnings against beings that traded unknown destinations for silver. But now the warnings returned to her. And in those warnings, hope.

All she owned was packed for a new beginning. Her mother had dreamed of finer things for her: of clothes and carriages and comfort. But Ana knew there was no love in her fear of him, no love in his hunger for her. She was not willing to lose herself to him, not for all the finery in the world. Ana did not fear empty cupboards, empty tables, empty stomachs as her mother did. She feared an empty life: a future without hope and courage and happily ever after.

Ana had so little, but perhaps enough. Hope enough to dry her eyes. Courage enough to find her way into the night. Silver enough to trade for safe passage on a moonbeam, into a happily ever after of her own choosing.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

The Hunter’s Heart

December 3, 2025November 30, 2025 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 3 Comments

They told tales of her heart. They said she was a wild woman, a hunter, living off of the flesh of her traps. In life, she was little more than a dark spectre moving in fleeting glimpses at the edge of village life. In death, her sightings were all the more thrilling, her tales all the more chilling.

No one quite agreed how she died. Some said it was her own traps that caught her, leaving her prey to the appetites of the wild. Some said it was a human beast that preyed upon her, a lover turned wild by her feral influence. Still others said it was her own dark dealings, dues collected on devilish debts. Yet every story told of her heart: of it beating, even now, out in the shadows of the trees.

He had heard the tales. He had scoffed, yet also wondered. And now, out among the trees and darkness, the stories came back to him. The stories, and the sound. The pulsing thump-thump that seemed to come from all around. From the shadows. From the very trees. Steady, but growing louder. He felt the fear of prey, felt the dreadful certainty of a hunter drawing near. He stood frozen, as though stillness would save him.

But when the pace quickened, he knew too well that the hunt was on.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

The Call of Possibility

September 17, 2025September 13, 2025 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

She had heard it at the strangest times. When she was young, she had heard it one day while digging beneath the playground slide. It was there, in the cool darkness of the sand, deeper than her plastic shovel could go. Almost a song, more of a whisper. She never could dig deep enough to find it. Then, when she was older, she heard it again in the empty hallways of her high school. An uncanny sound, eerie and beckoning. Somewhere just around another corner, always in a deeper shadow than she could reach. There were other times, too. Times when possibilities stretched beyond her knowing. And those possibilities would sing, whisper, beckon.

Yet she had almost forgotten its call. In the years since, amid the certainty and structure of adulthood, there were few softly singing possibilities. But now, again, she heard it. Despite the beeping of machines, the droning of equipment, it was there. Echoing along the hospital corridors, singing from the labyrinth of passages. It beckoned, and though she could not lift herself from her bed, she could feel herself drawn to it. She could hear it becoming clearer. Drawing nearer. Closing her eyes, she gave way to the call of possibility.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Her Place

July 2, 2025June 19, 2025 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 3 Comments

Daylight filtered down through the water’s surface, warm with possibilities that never seemed to quite reach her. The seaweed stretched high above her, drawn to that same light. But she knew better than to try. Her place was here, in the chill shadows of the lake. But even so, she looked above. Watching. Waiting.

It was some time before a familiar shadow moved across the rippling sunshine. The light danced and scattered as the shape dove down, its feathered form speeding into the depths with surprising grace.

“What news?” she asked eagerly. “How are things up above?”

“Much the same,” the loon answered. It darted about her, its red eyes watching for food. “The season is warm. The hunters hunt; the fishermen fish. The cycles continue.”

“And what about the searchers? Have they returned?”

The loon slowed for a moment, regarding her. “No one searches. Not since the ice came and went.”

“But surely they’ll be back?” she pressed.

The loon said nothing for a time, and the silence chilled her more than the cold, dark shadows, more even than the rusting chains around her fish-eaten ankles.

“No one searches,” the loon finally said again. “The cycles go on.”

She watched as the loon returned to the surface, returned to the warmth of life. The distance between her and the surface was too great. The distance between death and life, greater still. Her place was here, in the chill shadows of the lake. But even so, she looked above. Watching. Waiting.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Shadow

April 16, 2025April 4, 2025 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 3 Comments

Her shadow was a sneaky thing, not quite doing what it should. She couldn’t say how long it had been acting up. She had been slow to notice and slower to believe. The fleeting movements at the edge of her gaze were too easy to disregard, too easy to dismiss as imagination. When watched, it would settle back into its place, follow her movements with tame obedience.

Or at least, it did. Lately, it had been acting out more. Even as she watched it would twitch and struggle. She could feel it tug on her body as it fought for control, fought to lead her—where? She didn’t dare find out, for deep down, she already knew.

She felt the tug most strongly in the liminal spaces where death was closest. Near the fast-flowing traffic, near the echoing drop of a too-far fall, even in the rattle of a month’s worth of pills. Oh, the shadow pulled hard in those moments. It was a struggle to keep herself safely in the light, safely in control. Tiring, exhausting. But she kept up the tired struggle, knowing that giving in would be the last thing she would ever do.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Hope For Sale

January 29, 2025January 18, 2025 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 5 Comments

Though small, the key was heavy and intricate, almost needlessly ornate. Its tangle of curlicues wrapped and twisted like overgrown brambles.

“Are you sure this is the one?” she asked, turning the key in her hand doubtfully.

“Without a doubt,” the merchant said cheerily. “The key to the heart!”

“To any heart?”

“Perhaps not quite any,” the merchant conceded. “But most, by far.”

She remained unconvinced. “But how would I know?”

“The same way we know anything, my dear,” he laughed. “By trying, and trying again. It will not be long before you find its proper match. It is always nearer than you think.”

She was not quite sure that she believed him. But neither did she wish to leave empty handed. Not when there was hope for sale.

***

Trying proved to be a messy, uncertain process. True, the key fit many a heart. But so far those hearts seemed hollow, more show than substance. She tried each time to imagine she had found her treasure, only to leave with her regrets and that heavy key back in hand.

But worse were the hearts it didn’t fit. The hearts broken and bloodied by trying too hard. She stepped away from another still-writhing body and regretted the blood-stained key that had caused so much pain.

After a time, she stopped trying. She washed the blood from the key’s ornate tangles, polished it as best she could, hoping the merchant might yet buy it back. But she returned to the market only to learn that he had long since disappeared.

***

She wore the key around her neck, not knowing what else to do with it. Not ready to try, but not ready to part with the hope.

She pondered the hearts she had known. The empty disappointments. The broken, bloodied mysteries. What had she hoped to find there? What was it she was missing?

How strange to realize that she did not know. Did she even know the state of her own heart? Could she? Did she have the courage to find out?

Her hands shook as she took the key from around her neck. Looking in the mirror, she traced her fingers down from her clavicle, saw her own locked heart. She thought of the empty many. She thought of the bloodied few. Which was she?

The pain was worse than she could have imagined. Though small, the key cut deep. For a moment, she wondered if knowing was worth the pain. But even in the pain, she felt the contact, the release. She felt her heart opening.

She looked down to see herself, wide and empty and aching. But at last, she knew. She knew that she was empty. And she knew that there was hope. With that heavy key, she could begin to fill the emptiness herself.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Demure

November 20, 2024November 8, 2024 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

The only time I truly feared my wife was when she saved my life. In our courtship, I had always thought her demure. I had thought her propriety was what kept our rendezvous under the bright light of day, where none could whisper of clandestine meetings by candlelight.

Yet even then, in her modesty there was an air of mystery. Of possibility. Intriguing, alluring—a question waiting to be asked.

It seemed more strange, then, when her moonlit modesty extended into marriage. When we spent our wedding night apart, I worried that she may be a question without answer. She set those fears to rest as she woke me with the full heat of her daylight passion, and all thoughts of the cold night were pushed from my mind.

And so our not-quite-typical marriage passed in days together, nights apart, but I was too enamoured to wonder at it all. Why question perfect contentment?

Until that night of the broken glass. The fear woke me before I could identify the sound. Muffled by distance, but sharp and sure. I moved to the door without thinking, driven only by my deepest fear. Not for me—but for her.

At the end of the corridor, the glass glittered in the moonlight. But there amid the light was a darkness—a person. He looked at me. And lunged.

I hit the ground with such force that my breath left my body. As his hands wrapped around my throat, I was not sure that I would have the chance to draw breath again. He was bigger than me, stronger than me. But then a still-larger shadow fell across us.

I do not know which chilled me more: the scream or the growl. His weight was lifted from my body, and I gasped for breath. But as I watched him flail against the hold of teeth and claws, I felt a new breathlessness overtake me. His blood pooled dark in the moonlight. His flailing shuddered and stopped.

I could not move. Not as the great shadow tossed his body aside. Not as the creature turned towards me, its fur darkly gleaming, its eyes bright, its muzzle bloody. It moved slowly now. Sniffing at me gently, softly. Demurely.

I reached out slowly, and her massive head nuzzled against my hand. My fingers were lost in the warmth of her fur. Her eyes were changed, but she looked at me with a love that I knew well. And in that moment, all my questions were answered.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

A Slow Thing

August 21, 2024August 13, 2024 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

It was a slow thing. A subtle thing. Almost imperceptible. If he had tried, or so they said, he could have pretend it wasn’t there. Just try. Try harder. And yet, there he was—and there it was. Almost close enough to touch, but only almost.

It was that dread that unraveled him. His unraveling was another slow yet inevitable thing. The moodiness. The sleepless nights. The pacing hunt for peace.

He never said what it would be, if it found him. He only spoke of escape. Away, away—but to where? No one had the answer.

That was the mystery of my father. The mystery of his hunted life. His tired, tired life of running from something no one could name, running to somewhere no one could find. He died scared. Terrified.

And now, I feel it. That slow, inevitable thing. And try as I might, I know there’s nowhere to go.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Nostalgia

May 22, 2024May 4, 2024 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

What I remember most from my last relationship is his eyes. They were blue – pale at the center, dark around the edges. Sometimes they would change, lightening when he would smile or darkening when he was angry. Oh, how I miss those eyes!

Well, missed those eyes.

I fixed that problem soon enough. Now I can see his eyes whenever I like. Of course, it’s not quite the same. They don’t change when he smiles, but then again, he doesn’t smile these days. Instead, I keep them in a jar, hidden away in my room. I take them out every now and then, for old time’s sake.

But not too often. I don’t want my new boyfriend to get jealous. As it is, I’m worried that things aren’t going too well between us. And I must admit, I would really miss his lips . . .

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Dance

February 28, 2024January 31, 2024 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 5 Comments

He had never learned to dance. Perhaps a lack of skill, perhaps a lack of opportunity. Perhaps only a lack of courage—he did not know. But he felt his lack most keenly when he watched the others. They moved without thought, without fear, without shame. He wondered what that must feel like: a body unencumbered, a mind unbridled, a life untethered. His wonder reached out to them, but his fear drew him back into himself.

Perhaps . . . he thought. But it was always an unfinished thought. Instead, he hid himself and watched the others from his secret place.

The village was filled with stories of the others, but no one claimed to believe. Those who knew best said that the others were only air and tales, only good for filling the empty spaces, for filling the hollow places in village life with imagination and possibility, for filling the dreams of the gullible with childishness and fancy. Yet all those wise and worldly minds did not risk going out in the rainfall, did not dare to visit those places where tales danced at the edge of the wild. No, for all their certainty, they did not risk encountering those things they did not believe.

And so he always came alone. The forest was dark and dripping around him, alive with the sound of rainfall. Yet he did not mind the wet chill as he crouched and peered out into the clearing. He only saw the others dance when the raindrops fell. He could hear their footfalls among the patterings of rain as they danced between the drops. They moved like a mist, furling and unfurling beneath the moonlight, their mesmeric undulations filling the empty spaces. He crept through the trees and shadows to watch—alone, but not unseen.

She was fresh as the rain, ancient as the rain, timeless as the rain. She knew all the creatures that scurried through her forests, and he was no exception. She had seen his soul-deep hunger, seen the joyless scraps life had fed him. Through the music of the rain, she could hear the rasping, rattling knell of his spirit’s hunger pangs. It was a sound that she knew too well: time after time, soul after soul. Souls that had found their way to her forests, begging for scraps of a new beginning. Souls that had struggled, choking, against a life too tightly wrapped about them. Souls still young, still fledgling, encaged in bodies of dust and bone and age. Countless souls she had gathered into herself, tended, restored. Lost souls, now found.

On these nights, she breathed those souls into the rainfall, spun them amid the falling drops. There, they found their steps, their freedom, their life. There, they would soon find him, recognize him as one of their own. They would be the ones to draw him in, step by dancing step. But she would be the one to draw him out—out of his mortal vessel and into their endless dance.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison