Aspen Noble
Bio
I draw inspiration from folklore, history, and the poetry of survival. My stories explore the boundaries between mercy and control, faith and freedom, and the cost of reclaiming one’s own magic.
Achievements (10)
Stories (106)
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The Map of All the Conversations I Never Had
I have always been the kind of person who remembers the shape of things. The outline of a face. The tilt in a voice. A doorway someone leaned against years ago. But the things I remember most clearly aren’t objects or rooms or even the people themselves. They’re the moments where I almost spoke and didn’t.
By Aspen Noble2 months ago in Humans
Private Window
The husband hired me to prove his wife was cheating. I didn’t expect her to be the only one innocent. You learn to keep your voice low in my line of work. Not just in a hallway outside a hotel room or on a stairwell while you count the steps. Inside yourself. The private investigator who shouts in his head misses the small things. The blink of a light. The dip in a timestamp. The way someone looks at a doorknob like it’s an audience. Nobody pays for your opinions. They pay for the small things.
By Aspen Noble2 months ago in Fiction
Twin Paths. Winner in Parallel Lives Challenge.
In the high country where the mountains hold their breath, there is a village you could pass through in a day and still carry for the rest of your life. Wind moves through it, a careful hand whispering through your hair. The river braids itself into three silver strands before it slips away into the lowlands. And in the loft above the temple, where cedar rafters smell of rain and beeswax, there stands a loom older than anyone dares to remember.
By Aspen Noble3 months ago in Fiction
Threshold. Runner-Up in A Knock at the Door Challenge.
Every night at 3:03, my door remembers a hand that isn’t there. The first time, I sat up in bed convinced I’d dreamed it. The second time, the sound was so exact that I reached for my phone before my eyes opened, thumb finding the clock in the dark. 3:03. One knock. Not a rattle or tick of old pipes, not the sloppy stutter of someone stumbling down the hall. A single, patient knock. As if the night had put a finger to its lips and then tapped once to say hush, listen.
By Aspen Noble3 months ago in Fiction
