Creative Fiction – Modern Romanticism

Short Prose – 250 Words – “Caretaking Love” – Romanticism – 3/10/2021

He has fed on her stare. Of her smile, too, blossoming from the face, pallid in its ill-like discoloration. Of stare and smile, both. He stays living among wine for his sadness, granting him warmth of vermillion liquid droplets, then to her palms outstretched for his grasp. Of stare and smile that looms, from beneath where he undresses her to be dressed, yet again. A face in so much pain, though keeps itself in the same awe for the observation of what courage he’s achieved.

A fog of his own grief, spilled as uncolored rain from his eyes, growing like dew droplets from the edges of his eyelids. Wishing to the extent of his smile, that the rain can ever be warm, once more. A love that agonizes, washes the hands in the waters that go to beneath his own feet. One solitary love that shelters nothing but the weary form and sobering mind.

To her hair, to which he keeps kempt. Still of its grace in pouring to her neck, where gentle kisses are often laid. These tresses, to him, run in the longest waves, of each strand bringing him closer to the reminiscent vow. A vow to be close, and then, to never depart. To never stand at the edge of the running tides, to then leave.

In pain, he always remains. To the gusts of her open and breathing sighs, in futile sleep, he watches in kindest, though cruelest, silence. Gesturing to his stamping heart, as he does, that the warmth shall return upon when the window that is her mouth, finally shuts.

Short Prose – 250 Words – “Yearn to Touch you” – Romanticism – 3/9/2021

He stands, to then sit. To sit, then stand, again. Restlessness has him writing a letter both upon desk and heart. A signature bends itself, over the letter, to the submissiveness of holding on. Streaks for loving smiles. Futures that can think on their own, though collapse in the rush. Of blood that reeks of the tamed past, among the forgotten current.

Hitting the desk with a stamp, belonging now to the P.O. A face most driven, of silent, anxious sobbing to himself, under the curtain of disarray. He wants.

Wanting so well, to be near to the woman whose hand shall be nestled with a trophy. A circle of gold for the finger, torn free from the dust in his heart. One smile. One beautiful, blissful curve above a chin. A bed for the burning he has kept, as this detail shall not come thwarted. Represent him, oh, world, for the yearning has him spilling his face upon the gravel before his next motions.

Striding without life wrapped in his arms. Walking in a lonely pace, purely held on the love that quenches all this plentiful stares both north and south. To the face of hers, then to the hands to be held outwards. One watching to the great end of that moment, while the other drenches his hands in the trembling. The quake, beating from the heart that knew only loneliness. What a fountain that shall, upon that second in decadence, spout forth the tides to hold her.

It is love that signs the signature, while it is faith that never lets the ink dry. Always a fresh wound, as the greatest reminder to what had been picked up, to then retain the grip.

Short Prose – 300 Words – “The One who Grieves…” – Romanticism – 3/8/2021

He believed more in betrayal, than that of love. Watched, as the stars kissed his cheeks. Waited, as the haze melted him into a portrayal of surrender. Laughed, as the clouds mocked him among their height.

He kept something. A locket. Of a face with two roses for cheeks, blush for the sake of the lips, and two eyes that always made him weep. What a love that lays frozen before the petals. Skipping heartbeats and sadness that stirs in the trenches of his own veins. Blood flows, though to him, remains idle. Just a face that no longer moves. Two eyes, that never truly look back.

Standing before a lake, his heart is now just one more stone at the bottom of it. He wishes to know the world, for its end. Bending a knee, and his hard entrance to the earth will cover him. A minor leak from his eyes, to then regret.

Pangs of dread reveal him to motion, of nothing near. Bright crystal upon the lake that evokes the frozen tension, keeping him drowned. Stillness and itself, of a man with his locket, wastes seconds on the beach where pebbles are scattered at his feet. Precious moments, that could have been given to sheer recollection, rows a boat across this lake of his repeated sighs. Of sighs that whisper, of those that speak themselves in their repetition to shift with the faint hint of fog upon the lake’s surface. He is endless, both in thoughts, among his grief.

Where is the world to embrace him?

Where is the shouting command, from a Heaven that looks down? Where are the waiting arms, to welcome him back to warmth?

Find all else, and then he shall shatter.

Walking without sunlight, battered by the moonlight in his heart, and watered by the endless raindrops that shower from nowhere, he finds himself trapped in the debris. Wasted, with no mouth to truly speak, as there are no eyes to ever read.

Excerpt from a Romantic Novel – “9 Months to Live” – 2/21/2021

“Repetition is a cruel splash of the hardest hail upon our faces. Of life, where moments matter more than dreams. Of love, where sadness speaks more than the moments that indeed fade. For life, a person will always gain. For love, a person will always lose.”
– Peter A.W. Wyatt

Excerpt – “9 Months to Live” – Novel – 1/19/2021

It is to him that this pain, in deepest relation to his wife, can be a thing that reminds him of the moment. As love cradles, so does the ocean become carried with a few droplets that disperse from this man’s eyes, adding more to the flood. For nothing else darkens more of a wave, than the sadness released from a heart. It is here, when Johnathan carries the weak Lisa, that a crown can be placed upon his head, to label him the monarch of this feud between love and the moment. The moment in which tells him to stare to her, contrasting from the future where there are the lowest clouds smearing fog upon the streets of his mind.

A golden moment, where realization stifles the great steps ahead. For it is why Johnathan has not moved, when there is a loveseat before him. A moment where he may give his praise through a simple stare of his two teeming eyes, where a wilderness inside has sunken through puddles.

Here, a reflection may be witnessed from Lisa, the one who is carried, to the man who loves her. A simple gesture, of his quivering lips, then to two more tears that drop from his eyes to branch forth to his lips, is all to realize the deepest emotions he now evokes. He captains a ship of his own, making no remembrance to the world behind himself, though to keep his path at a constant steadiness for what shall transpire. Of a beauty that shall flake off from his grasp, creating a painting or mural of ashes, scattered in multitude. What sticks them? What remains them, to be set in place? It is the mere act of what is “gone”, to then be wrapped in a blanket inside of Johnathan’s basement of the mind.

A kiss. A solitary one. One replacing the scarring emptiness upon Lisa’s forelorn lips. One that keeps her knit, keeps her heart firm and gathered. One that creates the solidarity for which heeds the moment, though wares the future. Not to suffocate that which could collapse in a distant heartbeat that is a mere second across the field of time, nor to give to Lisa’s remaining grace a greater feebleness. Not to shock, nor to confuse, as this kiss goes to merely shed a sameness of himself, of Johnathan, to bury in her the emotion he has felt for this long-lasting moment.

It awakens her. A kiss that awakens her, as she motions both arms about his neck. She swallows his breath, and glides each of the every little millimeter to her tongue within his mouth. A passion that brings her forth, raises her up, and then loosens her. She is alive, though sick. She is sick, though remains with the fire she keeps alive.