Tags: short stories


4:48 a.m.

The house is chilly, but the furnace is silent.  So too are the those of my neighbors. 


The streets are silent as well.  No one driving at 4:48 a.m.


Outside the air is still and dry; no wind rattling siding, or rain pattering shingles.


Inside, four others sleep without snoring or shifting.  Not a peep.


The faucet drips, creaking joists, and whirring fans have paused.  My house is still.


The cat, normally purring at 4:48, is no where to be found… or heard.


In my closet with door closed, I sit on the floor.  Tired.  Waiting for motivation or energy to kick in. 


I notice the silence.  Total and complete absence of sound.  Absolute nothingness.


It's a beautiful sound.

lady love, little flame of mine.

do you believe in fairytales?

There was once a man who loved three women.

One was an old flame. One his wife. One his best friend.

Some said he was lucky, for they loved him back. What peace he must have, with so much love to give and so much to receive? Others called him names and mocked him behind his back. "Unfaithful man!" they said among themselves. "He disguises his lust under the guise of love. Surely the gods will punish him for this." They prayed to the gods to serve the man what he was due.

One day, his three loves came to him in a fury. The gods had filled them with jealousy and in each, the desire to possess him for herself. They demanded he choose one, just one, to love for the rest of his days. "We cannot stand the torment of knowing you have not a whole heart to present!"

What happened, you ask?

No love is greater than another. A love long lost, a love without conditions, a love between equals.

At the impossible demand, the man stayed silent. The women cried and begged and yelled and threatened, but he would not answer. They left in a frenzy, each blaming the other until the verbal argument became much more, and their lifeless bodies made the front covers of the news.

As for the man?

He remained alone for the rest of his days. Until his dying day, when asked about the unfortunate events, he would close his eyes and smile, a funny little soft smile, and say that he was blessed.

For he had had three great loves, each beautiful in its own way. Won them and lost them, and he could have asked for nothing more.

On his deathbed, he began to write, pen moving across paper, rapidly. He had put this off for too long, and now, it was possible he would not finish before he