Tag: Flash Stories

Flash Fiction – 650 words – “As the Two were Leaving” – 3/28/2022

Their version of history. Their eyes. Caught. In a spiderweb of memories, both lovers; no, something more connected; a husband and a wife are here to recall, not renew, their vows. Together, until death do the both of them apart. Until the rottenness of flesh will tear one asunder into the earthen grey, while the other floats in the stinging space of shed physical attachment. The husband is like a star who is losing sight of its surroundings, its galaxy. Moment after moment, connected dots are no longer seen of their connections. A swirling group of masses will become locked in stagnant place, as they will, for a time, be lost to blindness. It is all those things around him that were representative of many collected symbols, of those that resonate with the past going into infinity.

Many things that were surrounding him. Memories of many moments that originated from a larger essence, a bigger star, as one massive sun that will go out.

His wife, his love, the most beautiful of all figures lays upon a porcelain bed, covered with clay sheets molded onto her still-perfect figure to his eyes. In his eyes, she remains as everything as eternity will depict. Still as beautiful, as the time they first met. The ripple of the covers upon her form, closest to himself as he is seated next to her, are dotted with stains from teardrops. Her mouth shows a glimmer that would not be due to life when it now fades, though is because of his kisses. Still the same, that kiss, as the first that, despite death creeping in upon her here, keeps its warmth beyond all delicacy.

But when the two of them are holding hands, reminiscing to endless hours upon what will both haunt and be laid to rest, there is one question being repeated. From one set of lips that are weakly torn open to speak, to the other pair that with its brittle strength can only utter the sentence out of what it clings to. That sentence is, “Are you leaving, or am I?”

It’s a question told from the husband to what is obvious. Whereas it’s a question told from the wife to what does seem to sit still, though reverberates and quivers as though to soon shatter and disappear.

Her form, her eyes, of what is fading, then staring, observed that her husband is doing the same to her limited awareness. Love reignites in the dynamic detonations of dynamite, for the contents of his earthen form made of the fading light from a once-lit fuse to spill upon her to conceal her in his memory’s grave. All that, at one moment, while he is seeing her, settling with her back to the earth, the sea, the depth of his history, breaking into the coziness of the longest rest apart from his arms.

“Are you leaving, or am I?” says the husband, the repetition as one wave before it recedes back to his mouth.

“Are you leaving, or am I?” says the wife, her open lips releasing air, as though the faintest gust of the most powerful wind, enough to pull, not push, him closer to hear her.

They dance in the final moments to this repeated question. They dance in each other’s stars, their histories becoming blank for what will be grieved upon, though life will return to life in a closer recollection. Life will return to him, and to her upon when he is able to relive her in himself. One more teardrop will bloom a flower from roots that are the earth, itself. That last teardrop will reunite a soul with the stars, when the man passes on to, once more, hold the softest hand. One stem to climb straight to Heaven, with nothing more to fall for, while that repeated question is no longer uttered as it will be answered with, “Neither. We were never apart.”

Short Prose – 400 Words – “Bleeding in Purity” – Erotica – 3/15/2021

Echo. Echo out, and then, remain sad.

We say to you, a little fog cannot blind those eyes. Hold your piercing scream to the wind, and then let us breathe of you. Allow ourselves. And then, we will dance to your tune. We will dream of what will sometimes never reach. Then, we will keep remembering. To hold upon what shouldn’t be dropped. Just skin. All of yours. Held in the puddles, massaged in the dirt, washed when no one looks.

Keep bleeding in this sadness, for such a sight is so pure. A virgin whoredom. A Christian banquet, with dust to every mile of your privileged beauty. Would Christ ever soak himself in your blood, in these tears of a watering sorrow?

And then, we leave you alone. And then, the shores show themselves up as empty. We go, for a minute. We depart, for a second. You suffer. You whine. And then, we return to your loneliness. And then, all the shells and stones wash up. A great defeat, all over your bones. We all begin to echo. We all take our turns to be sad, to dream of the birth of more deserts, more of the desertion of our dreams or our great stretches of the softest thing which is water.

To your tears, so pure, though it comes not always as the splash from the sea. It comes, at times, from above. We are then forced to look up. We are motioned, of our minds, to keep ourselves comprehending that you are gone. Though, the tears do not disperse. They simply add to the ocean.

Raindrops and teardrops, with sadness to soak and to bury. To conceal, for is that not where you once were, in this world?

A face of grime. The woman, a whore, one beauty with much to destroy in yourself. You left the world open, when your legs were parted to birth all of us. To your breasts, plump as they were, with nipples as the lighthouses to guide our ships, we landed at your flesh. We gave ourselves to grace. We breathed of your neck. We dined upon life, from your hips.

You were the endless surrounding. The ocean that tore us open, as well, to be like you. You let not a tear be missed, nor a droplet of milk to be left not drunken. We travelled throughout you, only to be left without you.

Should we not always be grateful?

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 – “Holding you in Empty Hands” – Romance – 11/23/2020

I lay here, recounting the days that you have said those words upon the lakes. Upon where ripples cast ever greater waves, while loosening tides from your eyes, to your lips. There is great sickness, here. There is great powerlessness, here. Among me, so much is torn. Among you, there is much more to be born. Love grows in you, like thorns, like marble that had life. Like the green mixing itself with blues, as the ocean finding home in the land, for a flood.

I leave here, without a tear to name my place, upon Earth. For I loved you, among all gentle fragments of my heart. Though, they’ve become the savagery of a helpless beast. A man, in too much denial. Find your place, my love. The home you call home, is not this man’s own.

You are the blessing that the rose is meant for, in its gift. You are the life that must live. You are the woman whose vulnerable side, must find strength. Your tears will make newer lakes, for fish, for the fowl upon its surface. As you weep, so will the waters be flourished. As I depart, I will go with a breath upon that lake. As you dip your feet into your very grief, you will not see the sunset, though the sunrise for your future. For I give you a crown, made from my own pain. I want you to wear it. I want you to never scorn yourself.

Just dream of a night, without me, without the man whose sickness caused you grief. Find a world without the tears, without your own, and without the many lakes. For they will one day dry themselves, as you will discover an anger. Though, not to the anger, for I wish for your relief, away from your grief.

Like a merriment, due from the sunrise, you shall find an ocean to cross. You shall find a place in time, where love holds many moments more. By all of that, you shall forget me, for I am the beast that can no longer scold you.