Short Prose – 300 Words – “Always, Never Lit” – Romanticism – 12/12/2020

How many tears can I hold, in arms, that do not carry the future? I cannot even carry the present forward, for I hold the blame in me. I hold the scars close, the present watered from my eyes, with the blue seas around my feet. Land is so far away. Same with daylight.

Though, the night?

The realm where each thing becomes so bright, encased by the sheer suddenness of what it represents. A coffin. One plug that was pulled, for a life, that had sung songs from its once-beating heart. An encasement, for a tangle of limbs, yet straightened by the funeral home. A house for open burials, where tears released from cheeks, like leaves from bent boughs. It is Autumn, somewhere, though the night shows chapters of winter.

Brightness, and encased, in that box. What it represents is a thing now unplugged, of a life, lowered into the empty space. A void, or a spot where trees are meant to grow. They still loose their leaves, the same as decay falls from the wilting carcass.

How did she last? How does she still remain? I no longer hold her, nor see the pitiable eyes that stared to me. She faces the dust of an eternity, without. No longer a dream may haunt her, as no more a heart can keep her awake.

I buried what I once threw a vow, forward to. I let go of something that never released. This room disturbs me, what with walls brandished in porcelain darkness. The corners threaten me, scorn me, ridicule the nothingness of me. Is there anything left to berate? A brokenness of damage, with life curtailing about its open volumes. Just chapters left to be remembered, of a fuse stayed to be extinguished.

Prose – “The Infant without a Neck” – Romance – 2/9/2020

Love is radiation. Intended to spread its presence over those trusting of it. What do we have of love, other than simple belief?

We believe in love to do the right thing. It is never expected to manipulate, and then ask for something in return. Love, when denied, creates Hell. One sinks, without love. One lays in wait for death, without the eyes of a loved one to see, in their passing moments.

The infant being born, has been born from a woman in pain.

She is now a mother.

Upon one time in a day of decision, there she stood, this woman, to bare her vulnerable self to the man she trusted to adore it.

Lace and heel, mixed in contrast to her skin, a soapy white. So much purity had adorned the look in her eyes. So much safety to be wanted of a man who’d paw at her flesh. Lust and desire, melded in him, at that moment, and he took her in his arms. He embraced her lascivious expression, kissed it with so much praise, and soon grew a new limb from beneath.

They joined in the embrace of a marriage meant for this.

But, an infant without a neck is merely another pain to bare, for the world to see of its presence. We know pain by how it feels, and cannot deny it. Though, we’ll make an added effort to love.

We’ll love, because all we feel is the pain, and not the love.

Love comes not with the word called “more”, because we already have it. What is there to recall? What is there to remember, when the love has not died?

An infant without a neck, is now an infant not ever to be hanged.

Not by the pain that would always strangulate it, in this moment of innocence. Yet, the now-mother feels pain, and the now-father knows that what will be raised, requires a tad of discipline, so that pain is transformed into strength.

A child without a neck is now a child still sunken in the belief, and naturally the child would be, that he or she cannot involve themselves in misunderstood matters.

An adult without a neck is non-existent. Though, it may exist among the sheltered or yet, the ignorant.

Love will come to raise, and so that added neck is but five or six inches more added to the height of a person. Love raises, and so, what had been pain, is no longer the strangulation, but now the kiss.

Upon the mother’s neck, the man, now a father, offers that kiss, like a droplet of dew let off the blade of grass.