Excerpt – Volume Two – Chapter III – “A Dream once Loved” – Romance Novel – 4/10/2020

Petticoat and petticoat, as is the collection for a woman’s wardrobe, during this hearty time of the 1950’s. Paris is a splendor for attentive glances over the shops. What is there for glimpses, other than what leaves treasured scents from neck and cheeks as deep in pallor with white as a silken blouse? Love leaves itself open for our eyes, in this reveal.

There is a child near a stable. Let him graze as much as the animals do. Let him feast, and then let him wander.

There is beauty to be seen for the girls whose adolescence is there in radiance and fullest glimmer of their innocence. Once in the eyes, protected from robbery, thus only given to an honest sort.

Why do we succumb ourselves to beauty of this degree, if not to give ourselves less of what we may aspire to be? To be selfless among beauty, is there to care for it. For if a woman decides herself to be beautiful, then she should not say to the man wishing to care for her, “I am no petal in a garden, needing care, needing worry, because the rose indeed has thorns.” The rose, for what it’s worth, still may receive water during a drought. A drought consists of, in this sense, a lost feeling of life. That is when defenses feel like barriers.

Can’t we imagine the lonely man about the home of his, solely remembering the rose for what it represents? Being, the lost love of his heart, as he waits for that organ to quit its humming beats against the singular wall of his chest. That lonely man cares for the rose, knowing it may prick him. It sits upon a mantle above a hearth, in a vase as old as himself.

Beauty has defenses, though the drought will leave them absent. Beauty is so much the defender of a heart, as the hands and arms are the defenders of both.

“Glue me to the tracks, why don’t you?” may whisper beauty, beneath the wind as it captures the golden texture of the sun. Though, when strength falters the movement of the gust, strength goes to free beauty.

We are, as we may, the helpers of our own selves, though cannot resist the attraction of trust.

The pull of it, for we become the weight for it, the anchor for it, as heavy as the anvil to the entire galley above the waves. We are brought down to trust’s fingers, when trust wishes to see what it has caught.

Love snares, because it is strength. It does not let go, because it is loyal.

Prose – “Her World was the Last Quake to Manifest” – Romance – 4/10/2020

What I didn’t die for, was what I lived for.

Though, who I loved perhaps caught my attention enough to want to lay to rest myself in her arms, and never awaken.

There were lies caught in her hair. I had to remove them.

There was pain so golden that she held upon, in a hand with thinnest fingers. I sought to take that hand with the widest rope, and strap herself to me. I sought to carry what I found to my room for love-making.

A beauty who held herself upon wings as cold as the water beneath my eyes. It was when I did not know her, that I was dead. Though, when I loved her, that was when I was revived.

Life holds no trumpets for the wedding to begin. Love has bracelets, and love has rings. Life is merely the pyre to burn the dead.

“Don’t come so close,” I once said to her, because I thought she would burn against me.

So loose in the eyes of her, I was a miracle for her, in her woes. No longer, when I shifted my position in life to her, that she ever cried. Hope sprung up. Love lifted her on wings as hot as the iron for her hair, and the lips that were pressed against mine.

Though, were they?

Lips so wanted by me. Lips so needed by me. I wanted a vision of paradise to my eyes. I wanted warmth. And so, I ask again what kind of life is dead, while alive? And, what death is ever starved of life? I was the former, while she was the latter.

Novel Opening Practice #2 – “The Blind Way of a Man” – 4/8/2020

He sees what little he can see, of her in the dimness of their shared room. While blankets and quilts adorn the corpse of a fallen woman, her hair blinds her eyes, too. No one has entertained themselves in the maneuver of lifting that disordered veil, from the vision that sees no longer. Life has left the form, and the spirit has left her. Here we see this man who has haunted himself in just one moment after her passing.

One moment in the haunt, to not move towards her, to see the eyes that may indeed still be open. To close the lids would be like closing the casket, folded over her body with as much grace as death could have of itself.

Novel Opening Practice – “The Thought of a Heart Healed” – 4/8/2020

All that appears to be broken, can somehow be fixed. Although, all that has been broken of a heart, cannot be mended, if impossible. Do not repair what rips the wound open, further.

Please, if you may, ascertain the fallen leaves for their cast shadows. Know the pain by the many wounds. Your droplets will only create rivers beneath eyes, and not breathe the whole ocean into a void. Draw upon mercy as though it were your final sliver of wisdom, for your attempt to heal is an attempt to hurt.

Prose – “The Black Rose” – Romance – 4/7/2020

She flew about the room with as much grace as could the swan find its course through the beaten river. For her eyes were laced with as much sadness and pity for herself, like a cat that had been extracted of its claws. She could not fight against the pushing tide of pain, coming to swarm her in either direction, both left and right, for she was swollen. Swollen with the shame that has lasted for many long and loathing years.

I knew her. I knew her, just as easily as the last man had taken her in his arms. For a night, we all can kiss her. For one sweet night, we all can hold her, like we hold our own scepter to our own war.

Love is not the closest companion to God, but the imperfection to his creation. Man. The image of His image, the imperfection that continually turns away from the sun. It is the imperfection that turns eyes down into the abyss of something made for the burial, not the remembrance. Of one’s own pain, of one’s own past, one lets go, though cannot forget.

A beauty of indescribable nature, within each crease to her lips, and each height to her brows.

There had been of her, as I once knew her, the only state to know her in. Though, her beauty matched whatever bride God held for himself, as best as I could imagine it.

A face where each cheek seemed as though the world could fall over either end, and crash where nothing matters except the hair that glistens in the rain of sunshine. Each tress comes curling over her chin in fewest idle strands, as though stuck there, without tiniest motion. I saw of her eyes, the pain brought forth with the display of tears, though could easily recede from it to find something a bit more shallow. Shallow, though not in the slightest way undignified. For I saw of her eyes, appearing as a set of coals, the blackness of something far more infinite than the broken aspects of her soul. I saw what mused me, being what could grow from anything as black as the fertile soil of dried molten rock.

I reached to place what little I could, into her open heart, upon the night we laid on the embers that so many lovers know of. Life grew silent during the moments we rolled in them. Death was in our hearts, for we knew not which direction the world spun. Death was our comfort, because silence was all to hear.

I reached to place comfort, despite how comfort could not matter. I allowed her hair to fall like needles over my skin. I breathed her scent, that which was a fragrance of something that sheds vulnerability. Like an open wound, it stunk of the iron, running loose like that shrieking metals upon the tracks, going to a destination of nowhere.

Excerpt – “A Dream once Loved” – Novel – 3/10/2020

Love is the most successful tormentor, for even those who succeed within it, are tormented to belong to it. When a relationship fails, it is humans who have failed, not love.

We are attached to love, giving into the torment, because flesh is more vulnerable than a home.

Love cannot deceive, though love will also never reprieve. It will not leave the person from their suffering in its realm. Why do we suffer? We suffer, in love, because we feel the most vulnerable, in it.

It is especially a man who feels the vulnerability. He is soon cloaked by it, by the weakness that had always remained alien to him.

Love does not have flesh. It has wings.

A beloved does have flesh, and such flesh of a man will be strong. Then, to be weak, is a time where he no longer fights. He no longer fights for himself, though for someone else. As a man was the sole person to enter warfare, it was to fight for someone else. It was as Hellish, as it was romantic.

Blood holds the same color as the ruby-red lips a man aims to kiss, of a woman. What does the soldier see, whose mind is wrangled?

Men have an inherent instinct over failure. Men have an instinct over guilt, when it comes to action. Should their actions be minimal, then they will feel the failure through its driving winds.

What pertains to a man’s pain, in love? What pertains to our character, Alessio, and his pain, when wanting love? It is the vulnerability that makes a person wishing to be found, upon a road where their tracks are lost from falling snow.

We are never vulnerable when we love. We are, however, vulnerable when we are loved.

Excerpt – “A Dream once Loved” – Romance Novel – 2/24/2020

Alessio recalls a woman, a time when guilt was not a thing to be considered, when intimacy struck a chord in both minds, both hearts. He lifted a hand to be placed on her thigh, and then pawed a soft stroke across it. Like a sailor waiting for a wind, alike a gentle sigh, to move his boat across open waters, it was much like this. Much like how Alessio’s hand runs across her thigh, runs across like a boat upon the surface of water, and raises just a portion of the fabric to her dress above her ankle.

She blew a fragrance, sweet as the sound of it, to the openness about her. Lovely and lively, was this moment between the two. But truth was about to be spilled from flesh, torn through with pairs of eyes, and cut through with multiple caresses.

It is indeed a spectacle of lust, for our beholding. Truth is enveloped by eyes, love is no more for the moment, and each secret is given. How does seduction work? All submit to the word, itself. Words are whispers, when heat embodies bodies. Breath is wind, and a house called a body or form, is never defending itself against the storm. Love transforms into lust, and in Alessio’s recollection, her coldness from a Southern end, from an arctic, melted of all its glaciers and snow.

He landed another kiss to each eyelid, and two more to each cheek. He landed four more to each lip of hers, before riding the current of her repeated breath with one elongated kiss. One kiss, that flew into time.

Chapter II – Rewrite – “A Dream once Loved” – Romance Novel – 2/22/2020

Love is the element, the emotion, that relieves the oppressed mind from fear. True love, for true oppression, is the relief. For what is meant by “true”, is to never compare such things to the word “illusion”.

For Alessio, nothing is realer than the feeling, itself.

Something is lost to him, meaning that something is meant to be remembered. It is the morning, and despite him holding a mug of caffeine in his hand, there is a bottle before him, filled with half its liquid. Intoxicated upon pessimism, and now we see Alessio’s gaze hovering upon it, that bottle, like two subtle sunrays peering through dense clouds.

Like a singular beaming of light from his head, the tip of the lighthouse, reaching to a ship, as if whatever is reflected is his very felt emotion.

Then, as if he’s a captain upon that lonely vessel, without even a crew to lift his morale, he is faced with the temptation. To reach for it, take a swig from it, and perhaps bleed just a few tears from slits in his eyelids.

As if being the captain, who wishes to abandon what is fated to sink, and that is the definition of the pessimist.

To sink or to swim, as is typically is the case of the survivor, and that is the definition of Alessio Neil.

What of that portrait upon the wall?

In a previous moment, his eyes were upon her eyes. A woman’s eyes, as we have said her appearance is very much identical to Alessio’s own.

He has torn away his stare. Was it too painful?

He becomes mirthful, in this moment, as though some imagined thought brought him to thinking on another minute in time, but drunken.

Love has a humorous way of telling a tale, weaved on a path where stones and rivers do not make their own sounds. Motherly love. That is the love we mean, when Alessio parts his lips to say aloud, “Mother,” with a face so stern, still with eyes upon the bottle.

Another word comes forth, “Loneliness,” and as if to blink, he does this, though holds his eyelids closed, as if remembering something.

The painted face. The woman’s face upon the wall. Is it his mother’s face? It must be his mother’s face, for who else would it be?

She is not at all talkative, as simply an image on the wall, painted with strokes like delicate motions of a hand. As if the artist was either paid to be careful, or was careful of their own accord, and it does not matter which. The care to this painting is apparent, and so much the choice of the artist, so much the choice of a woman to have care for such a face. So beautiful in every inch of her porcelain skin, and the ruby cosmetic applied to her lips.

She would have been young when the painting was made. Crafted by an artist, with the result allowing each viewer to be in awe and admiration, as it must have been during its initial showcase.

Love has no right to be forgotten. Though, it is a privilege for it to be captured.

Chapter I – “A Dream once Loved” – Romance Novel – 2/13/2020

Memories are there for the mind to soak itself, in waters so murky or translucent, that feelings will continue to haunt and create sensations for the body to feel.

Alessio is feeling upon this day the pain of hardness. Though, it is in a meditative state. For he is sitting with his eyes buried in the written words of a newspaper, and his right hand touching a cup of coffee needed for his morning to be wakeful. The newspaper is laid upon the table before him, and his apartment creeks with the groans of oldness, what with the season out-of-doors being Autumn. For it is that the wind is brushing itself, as though to kiss, the exterior of this abode.

He had moved here from Italy in the act to escape from a past ridden with needless complexities. And, for another reason, that is to begin his own life, without the former reason keeping him from pursuing new interests.

From Italy to France, and now in the blooming city of Paris, Alessio foresees various changes, each in swoops and climbs, in what he has noticed from the newspaper. Changes, each with their own motives, of politicians and businessmen alike, waving their hands to enunciate and add effect to their words of boldness. He foresees various changes for his life.

To view the paper with eyes that surface the words, like a fishing rod that now has the bobber floating upon the water, drenches his mind with such foresight, that he relates what is read to his life.

Whether that foresight be from paranoia, or from a simple guess, it is not clear.

Though, to what pain he feels in his hardness can indeed be assumed by his countenance, that reveals sternness. Though, to also assume his age, is to say he is in his mid-thirties, and indeed not in any time to be appropriately feeling stern, like the oldness of a man with so much history.

His hardness, though, does stem from history. And, when his left hand, not upon the coffee, clenches the page of the newspaper to turn it, he finds an article that speaks of a past event.

As his eyes gaze over the words that speak of a business that had fallen a few years ago, his face grows in the sternness. His eyes narrow in their viewing, his jaw tightens, his brow furrows and narrows, too, in the distance between them. A business, much related to the success of longevity of a person, as each of us are knowledgeable, when relating to fear, of the things meant to last.

Alessio tears his gaze away from the paper, to see a portrait upon the wall. It is a painting of a woman, with eyes crystal, not in their color, but of their clearness in perception. He sees the woman’s face, and there is indeed a relation between her and Alessio. “My mother,” begins he, and adds, “You are but a memory deeply locked within me. Do I remember you, and remember you with fondness, even though all you are is a stagnant image that cannot grow any older?” And, he ends his speech with this, after he leans his seated form closer to the portrait, “It is only that my memories have any feeling, while you remain with a stuck feeling of perpetual contentment, written over your lips and across your gaze.”

3rd Rewrite of Opening – “A Dream once Loved” – Attempting a Hook – 2/13/2020

Memories are there for the mind to soak itself, in waters so murky or translucent, that feelings will continue to haunt and create sensations for the body to feel.

Alessio is feeling upon this day the pain of hardness. Though, it is in a meditative state. For he is sitting with his eyes buried in the written words of a newspaper, and his right hand touching a cup of coffee needed for his morning to be wakeful. The newspaper is laid upon the table before him, and his apartment creeks with the groans of oldness, what with the season out-of-doors being Autumn. For it is that the wind is brushing itself, as though to kiss, the exterior of this abode.

He had moved here from Italy in the act to escape from a past ridden with needless complexities. And, for another reason, that is to begin his own life, without the former reason keeping him from pursuing new interests.

Chapter I – Rewrite – “A Dream once Loved” – Romance Novel – Attempting a Hook – 2/11/2020

Love is the most important universe for the star.

For the simplest sake of finding himself least important, least to be recognized as weak, a man will, or should, send himself into a whirlwind to protect the endangered.

For love’s sake, beauty is contented to show itself.

A star, like the many of them, is most for the loyal, when the universe can see one star as different from the others, and fall in love with it.

A man will, or should, fall in love with his choice.

Love has a breath, and it is always upon stone. His hardness is a seed, for a man always makes it a habit to retract into himself, in moments he cannot understand.

Raise yourself to see the stars, as a human, and you will see so many to lose count. Raise yourself to see the stars, as something with God’s heart, and you will see one, among the numerous.

Love does not lose, so long as love is attached, from within.

Why does a man hold a craving for success? Why is it, that in our modern world, some may wonder on this? It is so, that a man only ever succeeds in trivial matters, because he has not fallen in true love. In true love, he will drop all meager things he once thought were important, for the oneness that he now finds most important.

Our man, Alessio Neil, is one such man, though has found himself still in his early years, blocked before a blockade in his existence.

All things discovered in his early time upon Earth, seem only wanted to make an excuse for their importance.

Love was once felt, for him. Though, it had been the case, that love has left him. By this, we mean not the person to love, but the feeling, itself. It is guessed by typical people, of a man’s pain, that he will not show it to anyone besides those he chooses. Such a sight for expressed pain, may indeed be his reflection. Before a mirror, a man of a sorry past, is lost to his reflection. A road for his life, that is, and there is only darkness in the expression he shows through the mirror’s glass.

Alessio has many reflections, though he is not at the age to dive deep into them and be forced to recollect his past.

A woman perhaps will, during her times of knowing her tragedies, commit to the miserable task of picking up the broken pieces of her heart, and placing them in order, with no one’s aid.

Alessio’s reflection is upon a heap of existence, is upon a tide of yesterdays that seem to flow into the tomorrow with as much pressure, as has always been recognized. Like love was never present to accompany him on the paths he’s traveled.

Like love was never there to send the right sort of sickness into him.

Like never a woman could be there to show him the proper dosage of color, inject that into his veins, so that his mind could come to life. Without the continuous dwellings, without the continuous needless reflections on the things never done and never understood, without the employment of his urges on agonies not felt, because he was merely a child, at the time, and all felt alien.

Like nothing to take a man’s mind away from black and white, into the green lands and blue waters of Earth, for all that a woman has birthed.

He made her, and her gratitude comes from what she appears. A woman holds onto the desire for gratitude, in the sake of her own beauty.

Like love that can only hold hands with another emptiness, in the universe, and never a star was present.

Does such an emptiness exist, even in death?

Novel Concept/Current Project – “A Dream once Loved” – Romance – 2/9/2020

Frenchman, and a hardened veteran to a life of loss, as each thing lost had always been familial to him. His mother, drowned. His father, dead by his own hand. There comes to this Frenchman, a lesson learned in love, through the eyes of a beautiful woman.

Of a sudden, his heart opens up, like closed doors, to the feeling of pain.

But, to his confusion, the pain seems different. Love is now a shock to him, a place so alien, though the gentleness of this woman has met him with a dream, to see her always alive.

A dream, where loss is not something to be tolerated. Love is now for this man, a realm he both cannot escape from, and a realm he’ll now allow himself to sink within, to discover everything. His heart has opened to the softness of love. His heart, so hardened by loss, is now loosened of each attached chain, so that it runs free, among where he can be innocent like a child.

And, he becomes weak before her kindness. Like when she touches his chin, upon when he is on his knees, in tears, and leans herself down to kiss his quivering lips, he aches.

Would such weakness be his poison, or come to him as the recollection for what is important?