Tag: Romantic Prose

Flash Fiction – Excerpt – “Prayers at every Rooftop” – 9/6/2021

“I think, that when I look at the night, I can see something still so mesmerizing of color as the day. I can see nothing missing in detail, never deprived of either vividness nor shape. A flawless form; though, dead with the teardrops that fell, while in desperation, attempting to raise a garden from a small root.”

He wants to keep breathing. Even beyond the final hour, at the length of itself becoming midnight, he wants to keep interpreting the sighs between the varied length of branches in an actual garden. He wants to breathe, while the wind comes gusting in through the open window before him. Not a face. Not a footprint. Not a small detail that is lesser to the great vividness of something he had buried, though keeps still on the surface. Here, he sits, breathes aloud, playing a piano to his mourning.

Love repeats a melody. Plucking his heartstrings in unwanted, though truly desired, pain. He says, in the melancholic notes that are sliding his teardrops off, “She came crashing. As the waves that came to embrace me, though receded. My love was the forest. I kept wanting to water it, though it wanted to burn. It wanted to die with all its leaves, its pine needles, and all its countless ferns.”

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 – 350 Words – “For No One Else” – Romance – 11/11/2020

How upon a river, when that stream comes as tears, you’d ever be swept aside? My hands are disfigured, so unlike yours that bare themselves to the sunlit moon. Mine do tremble, beneath my face that has been smeared. Smeared by ash, while your hands are not with scars, though with the purity I’ve kept.

Can I love until the bleeding stops? For no one else, and for everything more, have I always loved you. My pain is an empire, of its own. My love is a woe, of its own. Though, to your safety, have I’ve continually kept myself beaten down.

Like one hollow demon, devoid of his healing, there is nothing to raise me. I accept that, when the stars do not look like fruit to my eyes. For your delicate consumption, you can pick one to hold, when I lift your heavenly form.

For not my pain to heal, though for yours to be sealed, can I always remain this way. Just a droplet from a raging pour of tears, who never mattered to himself. It is just, for this is the way. This is the way the stars align. Your face, the skies, among the hanging boughs of the birches, as each thing burns a vision for my stare. We are not clothed by our remorse to the past, though by our hopes for the future.

Sing to me, dear one, that you know my pain never mattered. Live for me, when you stand above, knowing that my tears will be lost. I have always lived at your side, growing love with thorns that scrape my flesh. Let us live with the sickness of words, among the proof of action. My pain, is my demonic self. For my anger, I do become something else. Though, for no one else more, can I become something born into the arms of a woman. As you, the love I have kept upon the curves of the Earth, seeing each thing that passes among everything that arrives.

Will you ever love with contempt, to me? I have been terrible, upon a time, though only to never see the demonic appearance, of me. I reject healing, for yours.

An Analogy of Grief & Memories – Excerpt from a Short Story – 9/16/2020

Breaking between syllables, this painter is lost in his wreckage. A void for discovery’s sake, to see a face that looks back to his pain, to the absence. As this memory unites with himself, a hollowness begins to become so apparent in its torture. Just a single pang of loneliness, doubt, and uncertainty to keep him shivering. Just a face that is here to ignite in his mind, the spoiled times of his youth, beside her. A familiarity so transparent that it designs itself even without a paint brush, to be glorified in hasted waste. A pile of limbs. A contorted soul. A spark of grief in his heart that never forgets, when he cannot ever turn his head around to face the flesh of her.

Just an epitome. An epitome to this grief, that could be kept in a book. Just a hollowness. A hollowness that never lasts, though always keeps itself locked inside of himself. A pain, and it is a one that doesn’t ever die, though slowly makes him feel as though he is dying.

Love never runs far from us. We always hold, in our heart of hearts, the precious, alluring memories that never seem to give up their pull. Pressed, we are not, by those memories, as we always return to them with shimmering eyes. Just a face we want to see, from our mind of minds, that is described to be the definition of beauty. Just a face. And, a one that doesn’t ever fade, unlike the form we have buried.

We have, of love, just the eagerness to look. To stare upon what we have captured, in our heart of hearts, to our mind of minds. Just a speck of bewilderment causes a pain in our eyes, to weep just enough to press ourselves down. We are pressured by grief. Though, as we said, memories pull, like magnets to attract, rather than repel.

Chapter I – Rewrite – “A Dream once Loved” – Romance Novel – Attempting a Hook – 2/11/2020

Love is the most important universe for the star.

For the simplest sake of finding himself least important, least to be recognized as weak, a man will, or should, send himself into a whirlwind to protect the endangered.

For love’s sake, beauty is contented to show itself.

A star, like the many of them, is most for the loyal, when the universe can see one star as different from the others, and fall in love with it.

A man will, or should, fall in love with his choice.

Love has a breath, and it is always upon stone. His hardness is a seed, for a man always makes it a habit to retract into himself, in moments he cannot understand.

Raise yourself to see the stars, as a human, and you will see so many to lose count. Raise yourself to see the stars, as something with God’s heart, and you will see one, among the numerous.

Love does not lose, so long as love is attached, from within.

Why does a man hold a craving for success? Why is it, that in our modern world, some may wonder on this? It is so, that a man only ever succeeds in trivial matters, because he has not fallen in true love. In true love, he will drop all meager things he once thought were important, for the oneness that he now finds most important.

Our man, Alessio Neil, is one such man, though has found himself still in his early years, blocked before a blockade in his existence.

All things discovered in his early time upon Earth, seem only wanted to make an excuse for their importance.

Love was once felt, for him. Though, it had been the case, that love has left him. By this, we mean not the person to love, but the feeling, itself. It is guessed by typical people, of a man’s pain, that he will not show it to anyone besides those he chooses. Such a sight for expressed pain, may indeed be his reflection. Before a mirror, a man of a sorry past, is lost to his reflection. A road for his life, that is, and there is only darkness in the expression he shows through the mirror’s glass.

Alessio has many reflections, though he is not at the age to dive deep into them and be forced to recollect his past.

A woman perhaps will, during her times of knowing her tragedies, commit to the miserable task of picking up the broken pieces of her heart, and placing them in order, with no one’s aid.

Alessio’s reflection is upon a heap of existence, is upon a tide of yesterdays that seem to flow into the tomorrow with as much pressure, as has always been recognized. Like love was never present to accompany him on the paths he’s traveled.

Like love was never there to send the right sort of sickness into him.

Like never a woman could be there to show him the proper dosage of color, inject that into his veins, so that his mind could come to life. Without the continuous dwellings, without the continuous needless reflections on the things never done and never understood, without the employment of his urges on agonies not felt, because he was merely a child, at the time, and all felt alien.

Like nothing to take a man’s mind away from black and white, into the green lands and blue waters of Earth, for all that a woman has birthed.

He made her, and her gratitude comes from what she appears. A woman holds onto the desire for gratitude, in the sake of her own beauty.

Like love that can only hold hands with another emptiness, in the universe, and never a star was present.

Does such an emptiness exist, even in death?

Flash Story – “Too Indebted to Move” – Romantic Literature – 10/14/2019

“Your eyes, magnificent in shape; your form is a plaza of many stands, each showing ripened fruit for the occasion; and how I would hold a pair of breasts alike pears to be swallowed whole.”

“The heart races for one reason, to let one know the sound of a march; for there have been as many lovers upon this Earth as there have been deaths of bloodied soldiers.”

Between birds and stones, flesh and bones, we sing that song of love as like a message on the wind; though, where does it stray? It strays nowhere, if the lover remembers, and keeps hold of moments beneath trees as old as time. Surrender to it, and this means to surrender to the shudders from your heart. The heart races for one reason, to let one know the sound of a march; for there have been as many lovers upon this Earth as there have been deaths of bloodied soldiers. They drank the contents that flowed up into the esophagus, that should have been contents touched not by the flight of indifference, though by the comfort of love.

“I am too indebted to move onward from this flame, the love we are holding close to ourselves,” says a man with a glass of rose wine to his lips, staring upon a nude before himself, with glances heavy and long, “Your eyes, magnificent in shape; your form is a plaza of many stands, each showing ripened fruit for the occasion; and how I would hold a pair of breasts alike pears to be swallowed whole.”

Love is a sculpture, beheld before a man as a woman of his making, of the wholeness to his honesty; and, nothing is allowed to break it, for him to retreat back into the waves where his loneliness resides.

He approaches the woman, with flame to his mind, burning all weariness from former attraction to an enemy of rest. To a workforce, that had bought his time and sold him his fortune, for a place among a union of degraded and futile; they had all aimed to see a future too far. Too far, and too unknown, for love remains as the most unexpected thing to manifest itself before a one, and it is a wall.

He names himself as the “broken one” to her, before nestling his head in a bed of flesh. Warmth surrounds as easy as the sun may surround the Earth, so it isn’t winter upon every morsel of land.