“Wound” – Blogger’s Horror Novel – Synopsis

Synopsis: “Wound” takes place in a fictional town where its citizens have their bodies possessed by the spirits of the previous generation that lived here. None of the residents are able to heal from wounds, whether mental or physical. This is due to the concepts around the paranormal, that a ghost refuses to move on into the afterlife due to unresolved grievances. With the previous generation refusing to allow themselves freedom, the current generation must experience their memories and pain. With wounds both mental and physical, nothing ever heals as no emotional burdens nor sickness of any kind is able to be forgiven nor cured. Along with this, nothing of these conditions can kill the current generation’s bodies, since the ghosts, being already dead, cannot be killed a second time.

During one historical moment, time had halted in terms of development and being able to lose old baggage. Neither the town, itself, nor the people are able to adapt to the changes of the world, making the surroundings appear decrepit and unmaintained.

“Wound” will take a main character through the town, experiencing the emotional traumas and horrific sights they are witness to. Will they become the same as the possessed townsfolk, not being able to tell the difference between past and present, or will they maintain their sanity? This character will attempt to unravel what had cursed the previous generation to remain, staying in the minds and bodies of the present.

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.

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.

Excerpt – “To not Sink a Friend” – Volume Three/Chapter One – “Analogy Between Men & Women” – 8/19/2020

Lisa had walked. Now, she lays. Upon a back with her eyes to the sunlight. It is her ceiling. Such a golden wash of hues extends to her resplendent, ivory face. What woman, any like her, can be she who eclipses all the stars to make the pitch darkness?

Then, to create a new sort of painting for life to see.

She has spawned that life, making new curious eyes.

From the most direct of truths, it is by no means a man can understand a woman, entirely. What does Joel comprehend, of Lisa?

A comprehension is to understand creation. Guilt builds, which is why destruction is never created. One cannot make art into decay, and title it something like a creation. One cannot say that death is created, for nothing can be preserved of it, unless it still holds worth for studious value. Therefore, to understand a woman means to comprehend what has been created.

If all men fault themselves on understanding a woman, then it is because the world has faulted itself on creating her. Shaping her, molding her, for her curiosity stems to areas of where she seeks light. She eclipses stars, only to bury past hurts.

A man is only half-way to understanding truth, and half-way challenged to not be distracted by anything else. A man can see a heart of a woman who is loved by him, though holds nothing if all he soaks himself in is the sweat from flesh. Lust, of continual dissatisfaction, makes of a woman her disorder. The using of her, of her body, causes her. A causation to a creation, is the difference between disorder and order.

What of Joel? What has he caused?

Love would not cause. An imperfection, so much like the mistakes a man makes, falls upon a woman’s form, making her perhaps obsolete to his eyes. Love is perfect. A man makes imperfection through causation, though creates perfection through creation.

How many women are curious to see what is beyond? How is Lisa to fit in this? Her eyes see Joel’s desires, emanating from his gaze. Her eyes see what he wants, though never what he needs.

Has he found his way to her heart?

A woman’s heart is not the clay. A woman’s heart is the ruby. Break her heart, and the surrounding flesh outside the skeleton becomes haggard. It becomes dried, void of blood, void of youth, as she is unable to call herself “beautiful”, any longer.

To what a woman says, being the words, “I care not for relationships, nor what another person thinks of me,” this translates to, “I no longer wish to be in someone else’s control.”

No woman, it seems, can pretend to take control. All women, it seems, want control enough to settle for the imperfect state of a something. As in, to adopt the power in what a man has caused. She looks to his errors, scorns them, only because he had not been better. She looks to the absence of the creator, rather than to his presence, and says it is right. In this, she goes to adopt his path.

All men are there to yield, to keep back, upon when they mean to create. This defines respect, for her. Yet, when they act, they cause. What proof, in any love, in the relationship between a man and a woman, is needed in further continuance when he has already done it? A first, and never to a second, is all the action required of a man to say he is there.

Why would a man need to open the door to her, or for her, a second time? A man is challenged, in this respect, to not cause, to allow space, to not be distracted, and to remain focused on a singular.

Excerpt – Erotica – “To not Sink a Friend” – Romance Novel – 8/11/2020

She entertains to the sight of this mirror, leaning against this room’s furthest corner. Upon her blankets to a twin bed, ruffled as they are to the outcome of a night’s soaring passion, she swims through the waves of them to partake for a closer look.

She is adorable to her nature, agleam to her sight, and sorrowful to her soul. As misery creates the greater, darkened clouds, it becomes a short-term relief when passion can overrule it. A touch between the legs has made her face aglow, while her eyes are glinted like the prettied, tempered steel. Like two fastened orbs of metal, encrusted into her skull, the irises show off the only color, being like we have said, a stark green.

As she leans closer, the soon sight of herself to the vanity she exposes from her skin, the life in her form, the energy in her slight quivers, harbors a great attention to detail.

Little droplets racing from beneath her arms, driving a scent to the unfurling winds bleeding in from an ajar window, would entice even the smallest pebble, were that to hold life. Her hair, a great wind for a flurry, heaving in all direction in its disordered nature. It, too, holds a fragrance, clinging in shampoo to the utmost of its alignment. She is, inarguably, tempestuous, just as she is radiant, both in the literal and figurative depiction. Her back, arched, as her bottom throws itself upward, revealing pink for pink, gleam for gleam, and scent for scent. A defeatist nature would make anyone mad, were they to not dabble in the admiration of her. She is now like a plucked lily from a bed of algae upon a pond.

Still, great weavings of thread somewhat cloak her, about the waist, and about her legs. Her bottom, plump. Her breasts, full. Her eyes, aglow. Her hair, graced by a silken texture within each strand, and being luscious by every highlight. Modesty only ever cloaks the startling form, enough to have the yearning to tear it away.

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.

Excerpt – Chapter I – “To Not Sink a Friend” – Romance – 6/11/2020

It is that our heroism ignites our own flag stabbed in the ground’s hole, that we know how love also feels. Oh, the weakness, the sicknesses that are raised so much like the flag, that it never stands evenly. It motions with the winds that run like treading fear through a less-than-stable mind.

Love. That is our emotion of not an emotion. It is not an emotion, when such perfection is not comprehended by our flawed selves. We make the error in calling love an emotion, and proves ourselves as an error. So perfect, is love, and never a slight hint of understanding of it by any scientific method. It is weakness that we feel, so often like the heroism.

We, the lovers, are so weak to see who loves us.

We, the lovers, are still so strong to see who we love, when we find their danger is something to ignite them, as the flag. Their danger, their fire, their fear, compels our action to protect. It is not ever in that moment, that we feel weak.

For love does not leave a tear to drop from an eye, without its catching before it reaches the Earth. It would only grow another standing statue, another beloved, who faces her hands in the infinite sorrows.

Our rain, is the same as our pain, the listless fears that spiral out of our eyes in the form of raindrops. Our weakness, is our want to be loved. Our strength, is our want to love.

Present strength, as one would love. Present weakness, as one would be loved.

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.

Chapter I – “Life Loses False Wings” – from “Life Holds no more Funerals” – 5/20/2020

Chapter One

“From the eyes of an angel, the black one, there are no more wings to look at. It is even when the sun is out or the moon is full, that the light does not come to her. In the darkness, in her own, there is only the recognition of a sheer blackness that submits to her for marriage.” This, a woman writes upon a page as old as the oak it was taken from, and as old as the woman’s soul who writes it.

She falls into the open space of the page. A woman, a writer, and a denier of a simple word. Whatever kisses still stain her cheeks, have been due to a period in appetite.

Suzanne Thompson sits apart from the moon, though it is before herself. Her dress is stained with the worn aspect of nighttime passion. Still does the betterment of some fairy-tale get the better of her focus. So deep does her grief go, that it lurks near all empty corners of her heart. A grief that fills a lifetime of loneliness, leaning on no one except the wall. Loving no one, except a world that called her to love what she will.

A woman, and so much a woman who will listen to the anyone, when the no one speaks to her. A heart, a woman’s heart, when filled in the blankness, cannot possibly listen to a genuine word, where many speak their faces to her.

Though, a genuine word is now being written. Suzanne has allowed her mind to dive into the page, like some ivory ocean. She stirs the froth with her pain, and drives hurricanes with all ongoing grief. Loneliness despairs her for one last time, before the moon dries out of its coloring.

Fill the page with what you hold near to you, even if its but the air, for that is the author’s wit. Will a writer love the air they breathe? They will say the same words to it, “What would I do without it?” Suzanne has done the same, to her face filled with loneliness.

To what she remembers, to what she recalls, is spilled forth in the next moment, and spoken aloud from parted red lips, “Find me, God, in the next sorry year, for my life will be wrapped in the cradle of a noose, without so much as a tear. I am in love with death, for I was never in love with life.”

Depression is her companion, as the only friend to offer the clarity needed for a woman’s feet to move. To dance upon the notes of bewilderment, is no life to the woman who craves liberation.

Life held no gentle word for her breath, though it is death that will smother her to a realm of peace.

Chapter I – “A Dream once Loved” – Romance Novel – 2/13/2020

Memories are there for the mind to soak itself, in waters so murky or translucent, that feelings will continue to haunt and create sensations for the body to feel.

Alessio is feeling upon this day the pain of hardness. Though, it is in a meditative state. For he is sitting with his eyes buried in the written words of a newspaper, and his right hand touching a cup of coffee needed for his morning to be wakeful. The newspaper is laid upon the table before him, and his apartment creeks with the groans of oldness, what with the season out-of-doors being Autumn. For it is that the wind is brushing itself, as though to kiss, the exterior of this abode.

He had moved here from Italy in the act to escape from a past ridden with needless complexities. And, for another reason, that is to begin his own life, without the former reason keeping him from pursuing new interests.

From Italy to France, and now in the blooming city of Paris, Alessio foresees various changes, each in swoops and climbs, in what he has noticed from the newspaper. Changes, each with their own motives, of politicians and businessmen alike, waving their hands to enunciate and add effect to their words of boldness. He foresees various changes for his life.

To view the paper with eyes that surface the words, like a fishing rod that now has the bobber floating upon the water, drenches his mind with such foresight, that he relates what is read to his life.

Whether that foresight be from paranoia, or from a simple guess, it is not clear.

Though, to what pain he feels in his hardness can indeed be assumed by his countenance, that reveals sternness. Though, to also assume his age, is to say he is in his mid-thirties, and indeed not in any time to be appropriately feeling stern, like the oldness of a man with so much history.

His hardness, though, does stem from history. And, when his left hand, not upon the coffee, clenches the page of the newspaper to turn it, he finds an article that speaks of a past event.

As his eyes gaze over the words that speak of a business that had fallen a few years ago, his face grows in the sternness. His eyes narrow in their viewing, his jaw tightens, his brow furrows and narrows, too, in the distance between them. A business, much related to the success of longevity of a person, as each of us are knowledgeable, when relating to fear, of the things meant to last.

Alessio tears his gaze away from the paper, to see a portrait upon the wall. It is a painting of a woman, with eyes crystal, not in their color, but of their clearness in perception. He sees the woman’s face, and there is indeed a relation between her and Alessio. “My mother,” begins he, and adds, “You are but a memory deeply locked within me. Do I remember you, and remember you with fondness, even though all you are is a stagnant image that cannot grow any older?” And, he ends his speech with this, after he leans his seated form closer to the portrait, “It is only that my memories have any feeling, while you remain with a stuck feeling of perpetual contentment, written over your lips and across your gaze.”