Short Story

So I had this great idea for a short story the other night.
I wrote it and it was raw but something in it glittered.
So then I revised it and polished it and it started to shine.
I discarded, I condensed, I amplified. I smoothed out rough edges. I ministered to flaws.
The story started to fly, the prose looped the loop, the characters yelled like the living.
I stood back. The tale sparkled with anger, with tenderness, with honesty, with hard-won joy.
With truth.
Dawn broke and I was hungry, I was tired, but I was at peace. All that searching had led to gold.
To hell with everything, with love, with work, with the world outside. Here it was. Here was enough.
Then I deleted it, because the last line was, you know, predictable.