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Short story: <i>Love Letter</i>

My love,

I fear that you have tired of me, grown weary of the love that I cherish so, that you are spurning my gifts and advances and wish to be free of your commitment to me.

I realise that I am far older than you, far more sedate, far more set in my ways. My whiskers are grey, my forehead lined, and my hands, while still strong, have worked through the days.

It may be for this very reason that I find your sweetness compelling, your youth intoxicating, and your pale soft hands beyond compare.

It may be irresponsible of me to tie you down this way, to keep you as my chattel, as it were, when there would be many younger, more able men vying for your affections were you free.

Word has reached my ear that there may be another, courting you, whispering at the peach skin behind your ear, stroking your unadorned finger while my engagement band burns in your pocket.

You must make ammends for your transgressions. Drastic measures must be taken.

It may be irresponsible of me to tie you down this way, but can see no other solution. Screaming is of no use. You shan't be heard.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: tired, realise, irresponsible, drastic, and ammend.

Image courtesy of Dan Coulter.

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