short fiction · 2026-10-13

The Flavors of Silence

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

At dawn, silence is cool and metallic, like the inside of a seashell held to the ear—waiting for the first bird to crack it open with song. By mid-morning, it thickens, sweet and viscous as honey left in the sun, pooling in the corners of empty rooms where dust dances in forgotten light. Afternoon silence is sharp and citrusy, a sudden zest that cuts through the hum of distant lawnmowers and the idle chatter of passing cars. As evening approaches, it mellows into something earthy and deep, like wet soil after rain, holding the day's warmth in its dark pores. Midnight silence is aged and complex—like a fine whiskey left to breathe in a crystal glass—revealing notes of smoke, vanilla, and the faintest bitter almond of dreams just beyond reach. And in the hour before dawn, when the world forgets to turn, silence returns to its pure state: clear, tasteless, and utterly transparent, a blank slate upon which the next day will write its first word.