Eight O'clock In The Morning Short Story Novels & Stories

[113. Delicious cookies] Next day morning Oak woke up with a heavy headache. He sat up on his bed groaning whilst rubbing his forehead. He sometimes gets headache when he drinks too much or when he stays awake at night for too long, reading. But that's not too intense like today's. Yesterday he slept at 2:30 Am. And the lights went off soon after 12. So he read for almost two and half hours in the dim light of his study lamb. Maybe that's the reason for this head ache. He turned his head and saw the time was almost 8 Am.

•ODESSA POV• I wish the ground would open up and swallow me. That’s the first thought I have when I wake up. The second thought is eight o’clock. His voice from yesterday, saying it. Dinner is at eight. The red dress is on your bed. Wear it. I haven’t moved from the floor. My back hurts. My head hurts worse. I can’t stop hearing him. If you’re not at my table when the clock strikes eight, I’ll come up here. And you don’t want that.

Xiao Yu woke up in the morning with slight pain all over her body. First, her mind went blank when she noticed the light in the room. Her eyes instinctively moved to the clock on the wall. It was nine o'clock in the morning. Her eyes opened wide in fear. It was Monday morning. She was supposed to be at work already. She reached for her alarm clock on the bedside table. She hadn't switched off the alarm. Why didn't she hear it? She wanted to get up, even though she knew clearly that she wouldn't make it to work on time.

The car was where we had left it. We drove. The city at this hour was different from the city in the day, the streets emptier, the lights having their full effect without the competition of daylight, and I looked at it going past the window and felt the thing I had felt on the plane, the moving toward rather than away. "Dr Anand's mother," I said. "Eight o'clock," he said. I looked at the time. Quarter past ten. "We have time to sleep," I said. "Yes," he said.

Every morning. This is what the last chapter is: every morning. Not a specific morning—not October the fourteenth or the first Tuesday or the morning after the wedding or the Alentejo morning with the Atlantic light or the morning they brought Reed home or the morning after the argument that had taken three days to resolve—every morning. The accumulated mornings. The ordinary, irreplaceable, ongoing mornings that were the actual substance of life. The mornings that would never make it into any story, because stories are about beginnings and endings and the mornings are about the middle, the long middle, the part of the story that goes on and on and on.

The mechanical ticking of the digital clock on the mahogany desk felt less like a standard tracking of time and more like a heavy, metronomic count down toward an absolute corporate execution. It was exactly 8:53 AM on Monday morning. The narrow, cold beam of high-altitude winter light that managed to slice through the heavy motorized velvet drapes had crawled further across the dark grain of the timber, illuminating the rigid gray ink strings of Ava Osborn’s bound hundred-page ledger like a permanent legal indictment. Inside the sealed perimeter of the study, the air remained entirely frozen, trapped in a predatory silence that completely choked out the domestic noise of the luxury penthous

Millions of people were waking up now getting ready for work pouring coffee completely unaware that this was the last normal morning they would ever see. I looked down at my phone screen. The digital clock read: 06:00 AM. Sixteen hours left.. So I thought. "I'm ready " I said to the room, my grip tightening around the handle of my knife. "Let them come." Suddenly the quiet morning air was shattered. It didn't start with a scream. It started with a sound that vibrated through the concrete floor beneath my boots, a heavy shaking that made my teeth rattle.

"Sometimes betrayal doesn't arrive like a storm. Sometimes it arrives as a hundred tiny moments you keep telling yourself don't matter." KIVA. The next morning I woke up before sunrise. For once, I didn't mind at all. I was out of bed before I had fully decided to be, my feet on the cold floor and my heart already moving faster than the hour warranted. The room was grey and quiet, the kind of quiet that belongs to very early morning before the house has remembered itself, and I stood in the middle of it for a moment just breathing.

“I never knew. Will you tell me about some?” She glanced at the clock that read 1:45 a.m. “Only if you agree to go to sleep within the next half hour. You have work tomorrow.” “Deal.” Grandma ended up telling me so many stories. By the time I managed to go to sleep, it was already three a.m. I had set an alarm but somehow, when I woke up, it was already eight. I cursed and started to rush only to realize that everyone, including my father was seated comfortably eating breakfast.

he says confidently, turning to face me with his hands in his pockets. “Then start at the beginning.” “I woke up at 3 am this morning–” “Exactly 3 am?” “Does it matter?” He asks in confusion. “Every minute matters, so I’d like you to be as specific as possible,” I instruct. “I believe the clock said 3:08.” I nod, “Continue.” “I woke up because I heard the sound of breaking glass. I rushed downstairs and saw a man in all black and a ski mask rushing out the patio door with my Roman vessel in his arms.”