Flash Fiction Piece – “What Use is Belittlement?” – 3/1/2023

I keep grieving on that last word, hoping that meteors will reverse themselves. Or that an eclipse will bring back its former light. Or that a tidal wave would not have crashed to topple a tower – that tower, the one where we were unified. Being held upright, because there was a desire to be as close as possible to stars. Instead, eyes were brought down, falling to pathways called scars. Burying everything inside, finding futility in everlasting joy. All familiarity upended itself upon everything somehow destined to keep going – if only to hear a heart at that last word, matching it with a final heartbeat.

Who heard us? Screams were whispers. Traded answers were given more questions, as those once-endeared had been deserted upon oceans that never teemed with life. Closure was merciful, or it merely cleaned off a written page I should have taken to, to relieve you, to let you go from these dirtying arms. I was responsible for all, to relieve that which confined you. I brought you up, for though we were unified at that tower, I was that tower.

My legs, here being crippled, are kneeling to this result, this emptiness. For what are stars but a white, blank page; and what is darkness of space besides another bewildering absence?

Lasting until a morning burned itself on our foreheads, and I refused to let you know. I refused to let you go, while you had already closed your eyes. You were deaf to feeling, while I was blind to what you were hearing. You were hearing another call, while I clung onto a single word that you ignored. Perhaps purposefully? It might be with purpose, as all you held onto was another word I could not tell had always been your truer fulfillment.

Flash Fiction Piece – “Everything to Her Obliviousness” – 2/27/2023

I re-envisioned someone in a different state. A new world. Another pathway. She drew herself back into collapse, as all things, all memories would fade in her shadow. I drew her in, I carried her home. Many times, I brought her into open arms. Would they close? Would they ever truly close? I embraced an icicle. It wouldn’t melt, as arms were nothing but that which she confirmed as only to her familiarity. To her, arms would leave. To her, arms would dissipate, like fog before sunlight rises. It had been for sunlight to also leave. For fog remained, whether with or without sun, and she stood there not ever concealing anything.

I loved, for what I could know. Whereas she blanketed her mind in an emptiness that gave her grace. To step across feeble places, to find herself trapped; as that was, to her, something of a reminder. As memories faded, they’d return at the simplest gesture – of a pair of arms that were open, like gates or a broken dam, and she’d run to that sight. She’d run, take in, and soon find herself mourning before anything ever began.

She’d bleed from wide-open veins, of a color identical to a sunset. While nothing would rise to meet her lips, driven as taste of something bitter, while all to realize would be what falls. To crimson, to fire in rays of a distant, disappearing warmth, all of that falls to kiss her feet, to remind her of something that begs. For what? For what knows its own inevitability. To be inadequate. To be insufficient. To be faulted, like all human matter of flesh that breaks, that wilts, that grows old, though she won’t subside to that. She won’t embrace, because she won’t close chapter after bleak and somber chapter. She won’t close booklets of musical notes, of those that speak her grief to stars that are received with her blindness. She won’t see light, as it makes its presence, since despite a rising sun being also inevitable, she’ll only close that day to remind her of what fell.

To her feet, from her eyes, and back again. To her heart, from damaged recollections, and forward again to repeat itself.

Flash Fiction Piece – “A Pinnacle of Negligence” – 2/27/2023

It was a display. A sight. A sight that had nothing for me to see, for that’s what it was. An absence. Neglect. What did she neglect? All of me, from all of her. A part of her had been torn open wide, by love, than for what love did upon me. I felt its sting. To love, I felt shelter creeping in, though rain kept pouring in. To her, that shelter was a crater. A hole dug inside pure earth, for that would be her grave. Though, there’d be no one around to fill that space.

A neglect, she dealt upon me, as she left without a word to recede back even further into that same crater, that same space. It had been because whether to love, or to her loneliness, all dug areas were like graves, or pits of darkness where all to kiss for her was death. Death has room, as it must be, because she made use of it. All once-emptied corners, of a perfect circle, were replaced with decor to her liking. While none of it conveyed itself as light, she dwelt there, displayed as someone who fights fragility with fragility. Her delicate nature, as it appears to me, withholds. She withdraws herself back to feeling as numb as a corpse might be imagined to be. Lost, directionless, and phantasmal. Passing through, though not letting go. Finding space, setting herself into a place to call home, though nothing stays.

A word. One solid word, to describe her, and I could call that to be, “Fallen”. That word. One dismal word. A fatal singular from a strip of vocabulary that detaches itself perhaps from all motes of intellectualism; though, it must be accurate! Who finds her? Nothing but the dark, of a woman who entered in through me to nurture herself in sameness. She was the same as when alone, in love, with me. With me, with no one, and she fell upon this heart of mine like it was paper. Insecure. Insincere. Unsurprising.

Flash Fiction – 250 words – “The Jealous Bird” – Modern Romanticism – 4/30/2022

He held her at arm’s length, counting his feathers. Softness around him. Eyes of an eagle, the beak of an ancient pterodactyl. All to see, with all to bite from flesh. With all those things he saw, he saw himself to swiftly bring close her life in a sharp cancellation.

Their romance, a feud with blood. Bottles lingering in corners. Smokes were all theirs, while the sedation remained never enough. Their faces turned to see sunlight, while soon looking away. Blinding to them, it remained. All their hopes, drowned in a bottle where had been locked one ocean to drink from. A cork to another that had been those largest he tossed at the wall. Staring at broken pieces linger on their floor like this relationship, in all of itself.

He bandages his eyes in knowing she caused it. His suffering. To blame, with her. Although he saw his reflection of evidence to madness, as pieces of his mind, as piece of those bottles he threw, and tears welled in those vacant, disturbed eyes to be ignored.

Jealousy of an eagle in a parakeet’s cage. She had freedom. For him, that recurs as his thought. Storming on, to laugh and laugh even more. Laughing on, to cry and cry no more. Bleeding on, to worship all those wounds that from broken bottles, and his fractured mind, and this termination of a relationship that wept itself to sleep, nothing rehearses itself. He had walked off, condemning her to dust.

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.”

Flash Fiction – “The Impossible Dream” – 3/23/2022

At the edge of a vast ocean, the quantity of water that shows both reflection of our faces and stars, the hanging lights that we see from both angles; and we are wishing for something to stretch our hands out for. Maybe when the miles were longer, we were crippled of our backs and shattered on our glass legs. Were our love able to replace the night with unending warmth, maybe then we’d not find it necessary to wake to see the sun. Maybe if we kept seeing the sun, our sleep would not be kept inside an impossible dream. To reach for the hand that stammers, though it could not be cold when we breathe a warmth to create the waves. Maybe when the tides are looser, we should have found it simpler to see one another, being carried closer to each other, finally together.

If we keep whispering for the same wish, maybe our reflection would disappear, along with the stars, the waves, the life within the breath we exit from our lips in the deepest sleep above the deepest of all oceans. If that same wish was never fulfilled, can we still wake up to see the sun as some warmth for what never was? If we keep talking in our sleep, pulling back curtains to see the night for its disappearing moonlight and starlight, maybe we will find each other in the same dream, hoping for the same warmth, the same reflection with the same ending to a nightmare that was never real.

Short Prose – 250 Words – “Gift you Strength, Bleed your Weakness” – Tragedy – 5/4/2021

Curtains, as everyone’s enemy. Concealment, of a human side, made as blessed. Safety was our concern, as all to everyone’s fear. Though, love would not lose. Love would not depart. Not ever, safely. Not at all, without the storm.

We are weary. In each other’s arms, we are heavy. I’ve granted you the yearning to live. I’ve given you the life sentence, to someplace for your adoration. Would you want Death, in life’s stead? Would you steal the moon, for the sun? Would coldness be your rebuke, to this promise of warmth? You would confess to being of another’s kind, of Death’s kinder words, for He has perhaps promised you more.

To the noose, you would go? Without the fortune of love, you should slow? A pulse to decline, a heartbeat that once skipped upon rocks to meet the other end of a lake, now to be just a repetition for your descension.

Love has made you wanting. For rest.

Though, not in these arms. Though, within skeletal ones. Death has made you a bed. You would lie on it. You would count the stars, in fierce vigor. You would then erase the moon, into blackness.

What concerns you, my love? Fragile one, what has turned you? Far from me, away from me, bleeding through Death’s door, with your back to me?

You would rain upon your own shelter. You would bend me, to break me. You would weigh me. We were both heavy. Were we not?

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 – 250 Words – “Swinging between your Eyes” – Romanticism – 3/12/2021

Here I am. Pick me up. Then, release me. Hold me, again, in arms, as you would to birth the sunrise. Of life given to life, I wish to be renewed. I wish to be mourned, as this tale towards my end shall leave certain pages marked.

Of dots upon what I see to be empty lines. Which of these meanings shall be edited, though they could be the one to review a final chapter? A proofreader to the final twist, towards a climax that perhaps ends in disappointment. A mark upon my empty page. A final vow. A lack of recollection to how I ended. Was my story to your liking? Did you think it through?

Here I was, to be picked up, to be mourned. To be the classic in your mind that can be retold. A trove of wisdom for the next year, within the future’s infinite days.

Swinging between your eyes. Hypnotic in your mind. A cold reverie, though with warmth to, at last, be embedded. For a flame will flicker, with eternity to its dance. Pretend to be me, though you are not. Act out the lines, the dialogue between us, as those words had echoed in your skull. In the read of me, within you, you can still find me around.

Your place in my mind will not be there. A frozen vestige, to hug the cold earth, with blankness swarming about. With one dropped hand, written upon the palm the savored warmth, you do release me. I was once there, though now not. I was once there in the belonging of your realm. It is the time of when I am not, when you are most aware.

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.

Short Prose – 250 Words – “But, who Understands my Tears?” – Romance – 11/24/2020

Who comprehends, else for you, the gates that have been broken open to spread the blue across the green? Who remembers, soon as they have caught, the subtle details to each of the creases upon these bandages? Of those, with tightness to this skin, that tape my withered form?

Who sees, else but you, the sickness that has made me lurch?

All this pain has not come from you. I am a man whose senses, whose hands, whose words are his own. All this, to create castrated vision. Among this, to never see strength. Yet, in you, I see something magnetic. You pull my eyes to these scars, allowing my light to travel past the darkness. Though, who understands the tears that come? It is you, among no one else.

Love cannot bide your time, though you will see me everlasting. For I know you stand this for the simple sake of sustainment.

As you have bandaged me, you have made me perfect. As I have wounds, you have let the dust become flesh. As I have died, within, for just a single kiss, my mind has come alive.

I worry no more, when you hold this tired and limp form of my own. I live alone, no more, when I know you are near. With a single touch of your hand, you sculpt the life into me. You are not to blame, for anything.

You may depart, with the sun in your eyes. You may see the fog, behind. You may see yourself, finding eternity in another’s embrace.