4:14 AM

She opened her eyes and looked at the big glowing numbers on the clock: 4:14. She extracted herself from the arm encircling her and started pulling on her clothing. Stirring behind her made her turn and say, “I’m leaving now.”

“We can’t keep doing this.”

“I know,” she said. “We have to think about what to do. It’s my fault – I’m too cowardly to take care of my own situation.” She . . .

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “4:14 AM.”


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

3 thoughts on “4:14 AM”

  1. The 4:14am train was always late. No matter the weather. No matter the day. No matter the season. Until one day the newspaper was picked up. Oh. What a dope! I forgot! The train station is just ‘ther side of the river. You see, the river sets aside one time zone from the ‘ther. Until again…

  2. 4:14 AM

    I’m awake again.
    What time is it?
    Should I lay here or get up?
    I keep strange hours.
    Is God speaking?

    I’m listening for a song, a noise, an instruction.

    It’s 4:14 AM.
    It’s really early.

    What should I do?
    Write, drink coffee, pray?
    I close my eyes.

  3. It was the same story everyday. She would get up with a start. Look at the clock. 4.14. Dot . It was uncanny. As if someone woke her up . Somedays she would almost hear the doorbell ring . Deep down she knew , it was a dream . Still , she would go shivering onto the balcony and watch the trucks trundling past on the national highway .

    The whole world slept . Her second born would stir , snore , turn , mumble something , pull covers upto her chin and sleep again .
    It was lonely and liberating to wake up at that hour .

    Till the day she smelt cooked meats and alcohol , talcum and perfume , heard inebriated heated exchanges wafting in from the neighbouring apartment. It was scary .

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