Alexa Daskalakis
Notes on what it means to be human—
written from the edge of time, memory and silence.
The full archive, from newest to oldest, is on the Archive page.
The compiled work appears first.
The individual entries are the ones I returned to.
A collection (2026).
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A collection of eleven works of literary fiction. This work exists in the tradition of literary fiction and should be received, interpreted, and evaluated solely as such. At the time of publication, the author's margin per copy is $2.43. The platform's pricing structure does not permit a retail price below its current required minimum; the author is unable to set a lower price or eliminate the resulting margin. This work is available at no cost on this site.​
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The word was always the same.
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On a winter that refused us nothing.
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A short story about a friendship.​
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A story about the quiet work of holding what matters.
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A short work of literary fiction about inheritance, silence, and mislabeled danger.
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I didn’t name any of the places. But the memories showed up folded.
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What went out had to come back.
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A buzzing light. An unfinished song. A girl who left quietly.
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She forgot. Her body didn't.
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After someone, there's still a way you move.
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A child who read the room before the page.
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Everything about them was correct.
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A literary winter fable in prose — A man is summoned north to inspect a structure no one admits to building.​
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He said he was only going underground for a while. He called it peace. But to everyone watching, it looked exactly like death.
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A Christmas fable for men who remember what they never said.​​​​​