Book – Modern Romanticism

Day #1 – 600 Words – Writing Prompt – “A Gift for Misery” – Romanticism – 12/5/2020

“How can hope, be this sick?” says he, to the fog of himself, before the mirror’s idleness.

For a reflection’s sake, love is his only teardrop to come forward, marking his humanity into the glass. It is at his feet. It is a puddle, mirroring him.

A photograph. Of a woman, to the world. To him, a young girl. A lovely face, delicate within the shadows that encapsulate where this man stands, in the dusky debris behind an office building. A life of blood stains his hands, though not before the reflection. Criminalized, in behavior, though human, in the deepest stain of his heart. As a sun that sets deep, to light the ocean aflame, drifting tears to the edges of eyelids, soon at the pull of gravity.

Oh, burial of a song. A melody that would break Earth, to bloody Mars, as a longing by him to meet this face on the battlefields of greatest love. In his hand, holds his heart.

One demon, who would be him, the man as a criminal. Just a speck that should be erased, though what does he do? As a criminal, he commits theft, to bloody his hands in murder, to hand narcotics to youngsters at schools. Surely a derangement needing an eraser to rub it away. Though, to the heart that he holds, is not something so buried could become unearthed?

Is there love beneath the ruins? Catching himself, in the sickness of it, he lets bleed the tears onto both photograph and mirror. They’d not be crimson, for tears of that sort would merely blot out the reflection of him, in that murky puddle.

He recedes. This man, of much weariness, finds in him the necessity for movement. One step, before the second one comes dragging and crawling. A need to find food, and dine in a place of shelter. For water might find him, in sleet or rain.

Coldness. Bloodless. Feverish in the open, though of his heart. Still unaware of her face, to its recognition, for the photograph does not bare resemblance upon his memory.

For beauty’s sake, for admiration’s purport, it is something to have for a light on his road.

Battered in the inescapable anguish of not knowing. Not staring into dust for its art, nor seeking downpours to quench thirst, for nothing will make him a rope. Nothing will forge what is meant to tie around, then to pull, a future towards his thin arms. He walks. A movement that is at most, slogged, and at the least, dried. As a river that requires tears, he does cry. He does mimic the floods that the skies echo. He does extend storms from his heart, though soon to back into silence within the trembling shadows.

He loves. A certain residence, in his heart, that has swallowed something he cannot tell. All, but a clarity. Everything to him, but a swell, a surge of something extraordinary.

“Who is she?” says he, on occasion, to the curtain that conceals love.

Remembrance. That is love. Memories that lie as flakes of snow upon the eternally-warm heart, to wake it. Blood runs on. A naked vow into the dirt, at his feet, written with disjointed fingers. Though, no clarity. To him, no memory.

He finds himself repeating words into puddles. A photograph. No answers come aloud, creating cold sounds against warm veins, to shock truth into the blood.

To walk, would mean to go on. Though, in the second of his repulsion, drifting from his endless search, he stares to the beauty of a woman. Of a photograph, where answers never float up from the bright eyes, nor the dark hair, nor the lips that retain specks of highlight.

Short Prose – 450 Words – “A Man’s Love for a Woman” – Romance – 12/3/2020

We cannot look at love as anything other than a mode of stillness. Captivation.

Here, a woman named Lisa breathes, brought down upon a loveseat from her husband, Jonathan, and his hands. He has kissed her forehead, remaining damp to his lips from exertion. A wandering smile, darts from East to West across his mouth, when his gaze steps into her own.

Love does not forget, as it never aims to release, completely. Upon the loveseat, she rests, though in Jonathan’s arms, she remains.

It is a still voyage, where his heart has been dumped overboard as the anchor, from a ship made of gold. Love is that. A stillness. An ocean that remains calm, though by us, can make waves rise towards Heaven encased in a storm. A stillness, though never something to force. It is our emotions that imperfect us, though it is love that makes us realize them in fullness. Love. That which encompasses all emotion, is love, are the words of binding. Of rings that hold the same gold as that ship, so encompassing. The steadiness remains of it, as a surrounding ornament.

It is love that we are blind to, while engrossed in fear. Our realization for who we love, comes upon when we are trapped by them, embraced in arms that do not release, completely.

Beautiful, though abominable, are we, without love. Though, with it, we are understood of each imperfection, disguised over as we did with scars.

Love cannot manipulate, as when Jonathan can see Lisa, has knowledge that he cannot move her limbs of his own accord. When it is that a person can pray for love to move the dead, it proves always fruitless. Love cannot manipulate.

Love cannot raise form, though spirit. Through Jonathan, to his aching wife, Lisa, there is a captured memory of her, always entangled in his mind. Without a need to unbind her from his own cranium, he lives with the thought. For in love, there is no desire for a release, for a complete one. Even of her, whose own limbs have become disarranged by illness, love yet rests.

He loves her. Jonathan loves his wife, and from a simple glance to his face, can be understood of his loyalty to her. Of vows, of a loving heart, of a part to him that will not ever quit, he remains. Beauty for him, of a woman who has not gained a year upon her features, to his eyes, keeps the smile glowing upon these lips. Of his lips, smiling as they are at this moment, is one that cannot melt from neither sigh of grief, nor exhalation of exhaustion. He smiles, because he loves.

Short Prose – 350 Words – “Lost in your Arms” – Romance – 12/1/2020

A burial. You are my tomb. My place, in the world, is forsaken. Upon you, I will rot, decay and slumber. In your arms, I am lost. I do not heal, for I am lost.

I have always burned a trail for my feet to carry me. I have executed innocents, for the sake of my path. I did not look over my shoulders, to see their shoulders. To see the weights pressed upon them, I did not look. I did not wish for, in my time of pain, to see theirs. On my path, I went straight to your arms. In them, I last little more then a petal without its parent corolla. Though, I will die, treated by your last kisses.

I contemplate over my endless end. It is just a second more, though it is infinite. A pallid reckoning that sweeps me, as you do, gently to its reverse, in force. The love of you, attempts to bandage me. I cannot be bandaged, as I cannot be healed. Look at me, like an infant, aborted. Release me, as though you never loved me. Leak me out of you, like something to forget.

Draw me in the sand, though let the winds sweep the dust away. Place a curtain atop my demise, to then set a fire upon it. Let me not be known to you.

Diseased, as I am, living in times so natural to me. Loving you, as you love the dead.

You are weeping. Tears exit your eyes like dewdrops hanging from the ends of grass-blades. How many dreams must imagine themselves, for you to set your own path? Could you lose yourself on another mile, upon another extensive cloud?

Cross yourself as ivory in the dirt. Make yourself the purity that becomes known, to the world among its filth. Lift yourself. Send yourself, and do not look over your slender shoulder to see me, wasted in the wreckage.

You are the pathless angel, who must discover a course with your wings. Find utmost certainty away from me. Help the devils, driving empathy into them as a nail.

Excerpt – Prose – “My Anger, the Addiction” – Romance – “A Description of Anguish” – 11/25/2020

Of her, I see something starless. Still, the shadows come to me, as they ache their remorse. For I have guilt that would set an ocean atop a scale, and weigh it to Heaven. Nothing could challenge the departure of myself to where I see, with eyes that are frail, the face of her at a certain place, a certain doorway. Love lives in it, as hearts beat soundly along the walls, within. Love is the certainty that challenges my clarity. For I am blinded by my sadness, as I am left to wipe tears with something so solid.

So solid, yet so weightless. It is fire that burns in my chest, leaving ashes to spread. Winds pick up what is left to be freely moved. As winds do carry what has been scorned, of what has been lashed by this hot sun in me, it was soon her who fled. Her face seared in anguish, while what a heart she possessed had been stung by hornets with venom.

I did love, yet I loved with a banquet of tears to consume, both of her and my own.

Though, I walk on, without her near. I walk, with a gait that slows to then speeds, upon a path where I’ve come to say is “familiar”. A familiar path? Oh, if all my world could cease where grows pain in my heart, I’d send her back. Just a flaming dove, with peace to behold, and still can set the sun apart from Earth.

Excerpt – “My Anger, the Addiction” – Description to a Woman – 11/20/2020

Beauty is born upon her, with marks to her fields of skin. Imperfections that amount to the truths of this once-wounded woman. Cured by absence, though remains scarred in this man’s heart. Remains treasured more in his mind, than that orb of red. Of memories within bleakest stains, that never fade. They are the shadows. They are all the blows to which he simply tolerates. Of love, to which never reminds him it is fine to hurt. There is something that remains in him, of living sickness that borders upon her haunting appearance.

She could remind any man of something once there, though now not. Of someone to be led to safety, reprimanded for her idealistic and punishing ways. Of someone whose eyes were blank, though now are to be filled with the same security the man has deposited into himself.

For she reminded this man of life. Of its cruelty, of all barbaric minds that nestle within its light. Of shadows that leak through the radiance. She reminded this man of life’s toil, though now to be coursed upon a different direction, from the extended sickness.

Of beauty that descends itself through curl of tress, with plainness of attire. Brown to white, with a former entrance to the hair that runs over an erected neck, with loving smoothness. Brass to the discoloration of a non-pigmented flesh, for she is as pale with death like all fallen birds. Brown hair to pale skin, to plain attire, with of the second mentioning as identical to a dress without design.

What one somber bird she was to him, with a face that startles the sun in him to set, loosening tears over the edges to silenced eyes. He could kiss, as he could drown in her storm. He could draw from her the waters, to consume with gusto that which could not be elsewhere noticed. To beauty’s beyond, of a horizon that had set her light, to shadows that are now limitless.

Curl of tress, to plainness of attire, then to a smile that warps itself as a frozen curve. To remind him of a street that rounds in the winter, born of ice, healing like warmth, though never fades.

Philosophy – “Why Human Responsibility is the Enemy of Progress” – 11/11/2020

“No human could immediately correct themselves, without needing convenience. Whereas, no human could form wisdom, without an extended time in suffering.”
– Modern Romanticism

To think science would be needed, if there was a way for all humans to “grow up”, is the definition of ignorance. All humans, when errored or imperfect, displaying such in their actions, when observed by scientific eyes are granted as an idea for a correction. A correction. For to correct the error of a human, is progress. Is it “progress” to say that a human has been corrected of their error, through immediate convenience. We can also say that the human form, full of errors, is the definition to things so instantaneous, like lust, exiting as quick as it entered. As it is, all human bodies enter and leave this world like the flicker of lightning. To differ the body from the mind is to differ a “temporary” aspect from an “infinite” aspect.

We could not be errored beings, without our bodies. Not at all could we be understanding of our imperfections, of our flaws, without in the knowledge that such is seen in the mirror. Of our flesh, of what has been sculpted, perhaps to the detail of an amateurish artist. We can protect, out of love, though against what if we never interact, if we live alone?

Human interaction is the necessity to which a person finds error. Through observation, we see error, we criticize it, and then find a need to correct. Though, on the side of progress, wisdom is never for its sake. As in, wisdom does not heed progress’s wish. That is, for progress seeks correction of every imperfection, instantly. It is to the same example of a wound, needing its bleeding to quit. For when the act of pressure to the wound was performed, it was immediate in its desire, as quickly as the wound was observed to be severe.

Wisdom would tell a person to find a dutifulness in responsibility. Wisdom would tell a person to not commit the same fault, twice. Wisdom would tell a person that error is inevitable, and thus, should not be believed it can be extinguished, in absolution. It would be the case, upon two occasions: love or death, making either the time when we stop seeing errors, and consent to the outcome.

It is then that wisdom makes the human not needing progress, not needing science. For if all humans were wise, heeded the need to be responsible, no immediacy of science’s offered conveniences would be necessary. It is rather a petty revelation, to which science only exists to offer convenience, at the absence of wisdom, and the continued existence of human error. For the more errors that scientific eyes can notice, the more there is to correct. It would indeed take more time, to form wisdom. Though, to what science offers, makes time our greatest impatience, and the immediate moment making our greatest desire for a cure.

Short Prose – 350 Words – “For No One Else” – Romance – 11/11/2020

How upon a river, when that stream comes as tears, you’d ever be swept aside? My hands are disfigured, so unlike yours that bare themselves to the sunlit moon. Mine do tremble, beneath my face that has been smeared. Smeared by ash, while your hands are not with scars, though with the purity I’ve kept.

Can I love until the bleeding stops? For no one else, and for everything more, have I always loved you. My pain is an empire, of its own. My love is a woe, of its own. Though, to your safety, have I’ve continually kept myself beaten down.

Like one hollow demon, devoid of his healing, there is nothing to raise me. I accept that, when the stars do not look like fruit to my eyes. For your delicate consumption, you can pick one to hold, when I lift your heavenly form.

For not my pain to heal, though for yours to be sealed, can I always remain this way. Just a droplet from a raging pour of tears, who never mattered to himself. It is just, for this is the way. This is the way the stars align. Your face, the skies, among the hanging boughs of the birches, as each thing burns a vision for my stare. We are not clothed by our remorse to the past, though by our hopes for the future.

Sing to me, dear one, that you know my pain never mattered. Live for me, when you stand above, knowing that my tears will be lost. I have always lived at your side, growing love with thorns that scrape my flesh. Let us live with the sickness of words, among the proof of action. My pain, is my demonic self. For my anger, I do become something else. Though, for no one else more, can I become something born into the arms of a woman. As you, the love I have kept upon the curves of the Earth, seeing each thing that passes among everything that arrives.

Will you ever love with contempt, to me? I have been terrible, upon a time, though only to never see the demonic appearance, of me. I reject healing, for yours.

Novel Concept: “No Love Barred” – Romance – 8/28/2020

This tale depicts a mentally ill convict, who represents the anti-hero, who cannot help but to feel immediate regret for the disgrace he has placed upon his wife and daughter. For the certain mistake and crime he made, he has been placed in prison for 10 years.

At the beginning of “No Love Barred”, the anti-hero receives a final visit from his wife, who places both her wedding and engagement ring before him. She tells him that she has filed divorce papers. She abandons him. A strong scene ensues of the husband pounding at the glass wall before him with his fists, pleading for her to return.

Throughout the 10 years confined in a prison, the anti-hero continually wonders on the state of his family. He becomes refined through the guilt and the worriment, to build a better state of mind.

After the 10 years elapses, he exits from prison to search for his family.

The daughter, who plays a pivotal role in “No Love Barred”, acts as the main connection between the anti-hero and his wife. She was only 3-years-old when he was incarcerated, and 10 years later, she is 13.

The daughter’s connection is displayed in terms of physical and metaphysical properties. As in, her face likens to the mother’s own, while her wonderment over a missing father becomes paramount. Her curiosity makes her search, on her own, for information on him.

All information is hidden from the daughter, by the mother, and any attempt to ask her about him, is met with vagueness.

This novel shall have a focus on “slow emotional development” of the anti-hero and his family. A duality of perspectives is to be shown, here, with a similarity by the father’s searching, along with the daughter doing the same.

How to Write a Good Heroine – Author’s Note – 6/21/2020

I will say now that to write a “good heroine” goes beyond the bonds of complexity. What is meant by that is that a female character should be direct only ever in the telling of her tale. For a male character will create the complexities for her, though the female character will simply represent the truth for whats she is, at heart. She may be the confusion, the agonies for the novel, the pain and everything that merges in it, though to what the reader screams at her to do, turns her towards that clearness for her truth. All should understand what a female character must do, command her to do, even when her mind is toiled by the story’s conflict.

For we understand of a female character, of all the insecurities of a woman, that for her to do or for us to show her what to do, creates that clearness.

We comprehend what she must do, where she must go, or where she must remain, for that portrays a good female character, for her truth.

A good female character is, therefore, a comprehension of what is complex, only within the tale, as we immediately understand what’s needed for her relief. A good female character demands attention onto her, so that we comprehend what solves her conflict. We understand, as a reader, perhaps are even spoiled before it is shown to us, that what will ease her pain, her worries, has been known by our offered attention.

We are not distracted from the female character, for it is our direct attention upon her that creates her direct choice for what is needed. What is needed, to relieve her conflict, makes us follow her along as though she is the very truth of the whole story.

Romance Novel – Chapter Excerpt – Chapter VI – “To not Sink a Friend” – 6/19/2020

He speaks directly to her ear, “You are still so small, my child.”

She withdraws to peer upwards to his gaze, with quivering lips and weary stare, to then commit a moment in a burning. She kisses him. Upon the lips, smooth with each waxen mouth that fires up a fever to the downing daytime. It leaves her mark upon his own, with red upon his porcelain.

Her passion wields fire, has carried a torch through to him, ignited the smallest areas without a flame. Love bounces through to him, playing chords on whatever harp can be envisioned for his heartstrings.

“I am not the enemy of yours,” says Lisa, gravitating her tone through a certain sweetness. “I love you, with all of my yearning heart,” she adds, without notice so much to Joel, both through her tears and the shades of the night. She says, next, “Why do you block so much of me?” in an ever sweeter tone, laughing next to the words, to then add, “I was aiming to go around you, until I saw you. Then, I stopped, and placed myself in an awe I could not escape from.”

“You are still so beautiful, Lisa,” says Joel, wandering between his own words, like the confusion in them, meagerly transparent. “My apartment is near. Will we enter?”

Her cheeks flush with the red crimson of one new morning sun, at the sound of those words. To wrap her in arms as wide as wings, from the eagle as Joel, determined of eyes to have a glimpse of possession. He can count droplets of sweat upon her brows. A scent raises itself to him, enticing him by the need to devour.

What love is, by the torch of trust, raised high as the flag with spread-about coloring. What wields Spain, by Spanish passion? Fire is simple, and to the two that are presented here, their lives have been transfigured for this endearing moment. For this moment, among all moments that will climb over to the next, a future can wait. They trust, for the moment, because the many more in the future, are patient when the moments wish to then move onward. Trust is the flame for the present, revealing the future by the light such a torch can emit.

Her breath comes through from ruby lips that have been smeared, in the rouge once-applied. Her eyes have glanced over to the side of them, while remaining in his grasp, her form leaning into him.

Love has a flavor. Blissful, while radiant, in all emotions and complexions, exposed for a future’s sake. To Joel, a future is as uncertain as his own love, his own heart, his own purpose. He has expressed this, as we know from him, as his words resonated with the stubborn, thumping heart inside his chest. Beyond the flesh, beyond the walls of him, a fear resides, blanketing the needed fervency for heartfelt devotion.

Romance Novel – Chapter Excerpt – Chapter V – “To not Sink a Friend” – 6/19/2020

Walking upon the Calle Mayor, passing the red of nearby buildings, a thumping heart swells so wide. He wants, as he could think on it, to see over his shoulder to a past, igniting his eyes with all he once had. For he says, “I love. Though, do not love enough to be stable, in it, as I want to be.”

Instability in love, is better than no love. A requirement of strength, is meant to wrap itself over bleeding arms, over aching legs, as the moonlight is swept aside. Our pain, gradually loosens, to wander itself over the barest stretch of cliffs. We cannot die by love, unless we are willing to empty ourselves to be carried by winds. A freedom, a certain merging with the wandering of ourselves, is us as the pain, flooding over cliffs like waterfalls. We give to the Earth, our tear-stains, as we quiver from such a swollen, beating heart.

“I recount the days when I had something for the scenery of fields, when I could see the beyond, and had no sting to my eyesight. My freedom was enjoyable, in all I could witness. She was there, beneath the moon, and my feet were free. I could roam, I could breathe the scents of her carried by the wind, to me, while her world and mine, collided,” says Joel, while he stops to look upwards at the fading daylight. Though, the season is summer, and the month is August, there is a sweetness like autumn, rushing up the nostrils of this dreaming man.

Flowers adorn the sides to the walkways, parted from the path of walking. Their magnificence is coupled by their charming aroma, becoming the intake for Joel’s sense of smell. A sweetness, airy in its Nature, all of stem, leaf, and petal, gives to Joel the remarkable sensation of a slight pleasantness.

All the oncoming stars, blinded somewhat by light pollution, dots the current wash of navy blue, being merged in with the stain of a hovering moon. It is that Joel is staring upwards, that he does not comprehend what is before himself, hovering in an even greater wielding of darkness, than ever this night could be acclaimed of showing.

She stands, at once, before him, hazy like any mist that overwhelms a glade. Her complexion, observant as the moon, yet ablaze like the sun, is there to rain bleak torment upon who she espies. She is beautiful, colored by the summer heat, agleam by exercise, and charming in the arrangement to her attire. Flaps and folds extended so vertically to her feet, though leave shoulders bare to the remaining daylight. She is so revealed by her face, that she might be seen for the greatest of beauties to grace the whole of Spain. Why to not love this woman, of her marvelous presence, though here to shove melancholy in the direction of Joel?

It is that Joel had been staring up at the night sky in the time that Lisa had stepped from the shadows, that he is unaware of her presence.

He is unaware of the mood that has been lifted to fit this environment, narrowed and narrowing further, between Joel and Lisa. She steps to the closer presence of her beloved, held arms out to the spread of his shadow. Not him, though to the what’s not meant to be of him. His darkness, as it is seemingly bright to her, bright to the eyes that are amber in coloring.

She steps to him, landing in his grasp, weeping an overjoy of emotional benevolence directly down into his arms. Love weeps, as a love weeps, as a beloved weeps, and pounding hearts are astir. She cries morsels beyond the lids to her eyes, sweating dark to the light of the moon. For it stretches through to them, the boldest array of gleam.

She cries. She weeps. She elapses time to the many seconds beyond, where night can wash itself by her sobs, can rise its dark hands by those flooding cheeks.

“Hold me!” she cries, and says, “For once, do not let me go!” breathing inwards and outwards the choking sobs, as it is that her heart beats to a rapidness, so unlike the stilled one of Joel.

He is looking upon her with a simple and pitying expression, not revealing the needed sincerity for all that is occurring.

Novel Concept: – “To not Sink a Friend” – Based on Blogger’s Personal Experience – 6/10/2020

“To not Sink a Friend” is a tale of a man’s battle with his mind in his sudden need to revel in anger, raised against his negligence to befriend a beloved who he once placed all devotion.

A tale of misunderstood manipulation from said once-beloved, in the wrong belief that she is at fault. A tale of a man drunk on his rage, plagued with swarmed illness of the mind. A tale of depression as this man’s now-closest companion.

Throughout “To not Sink a Friend”, this man follows two paths that war with each other. To love or to betray a woman, whose love for him extends so vast, beyond normal human appreciation. Their love, broken, and his heart, shattered. Her heart, mended, though only in the face of his eternal care, his eternal devotion, once experienced in fullness in a romance. His care, his devotion that remains, is an entrapment, to only him. To her, it is a special talent of him.

Her heart, mended. His own, remaining destroyed by a mind that compels him into fits of rage. Emptiness is all he feels.

To sink her, would mean to depart, would mean for him to say the final word, “Goodbye” directly to her, ultimately leaving her to no one. For of a violent family to her, of a mother and a father, estranging her, and of addicts of other members, there is only the two. Of them two, both the man and the woman, once romantic lovers, now confused enemies. Would they remain to fight, or to one day love without restriction, in the name of friendship?

It is, to him, a shallowness, an emptiness, to not share his bed with her, to not kiss her, to not caress her. Love is of her. Anger is of him.