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Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Novel – Excerpt – “A Pattern in Love” – Dialogue – Romantic Work – 11/5/2019

November 5, 2019
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She places hand against hand, to stroke the flesh of the overturned palm of this man, this Adrian, who plays a delicate tune aloud, in a stream. A wonderful and melodious tune, that drives up his emotion to the clouds, to where God could say, “You are playing well,” and Adrian keeps playing.

Though, without opening his eyes, he says to her, “You are cold. Have you been outside for long?”

She counters his words with a false smile, signalling the truth, that she had been outside for long. What she does next is speak a few words to him, and they are words that could create disagreement from Adrian, were they not uttered in their gentle tone. For she says, “My dear, I was not alone outside, for I had you in my thoughts. You warmed me, as you always did.”

Still, does he not open his eyes, and he says to her, “You were beautiful, once, and perhaps you still are; though, my eyes are too far closed to see beyond the lids that have shut my vision. I have been focused on this piece for nearly half an hour. Should I open them to see you?”

“You may open them. But, when you do, I may be in the next room, still pretending to look for you,” and he felt her smile, felt its warmth, upon when she spoke these words.

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

October 14, 2019
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“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.

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