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Chapter 1

By Darcy Prince

 

The most hopeless romantics, generally have the dirtiest minds. As the power of a man, lays within the  strength and beauty of smile owned by his lover. To apart in the physical form, part of one's total essence, pain felt, time slowed. Drenched in rain. Spoiling any pleasure. Vinegar, rather salt on the road, endurance in the snow, crashing into the sun, exploding embers over earth, covering paths to Heaven. Delight in the dark. Returning source of light. Moon glows a shade of red, hovering over a calming lake. Where in exile lovers meet, black swans like spies in the cold war. Meeting in eye glances and turn to drama, embracing one another in the middle of the scene. And any fear sighs out, dropping out the body, as love is reconnected and felt like it’s the first time during human existence.

“To this night is cold.” Stanley said, as his eyes scattered the immediate area and glaring down afterwards.

Closing her eyes. Anastasia coughed and spoke. “Did anyone follow you?”

“No.” He answered. They allowed some space between their bodies. Raging eyes, unable to move, peering into souls, to see the changes made. “My piece continues to break. Have you thought about what I said the last time?”

“Yes, I have,” She lets go and turns her back.  

“I am prepared to let go of my family. I’ve made peace with it.” Stanley reached for her, she steps away. “Tell me, where is this sense of guilt coming from?”

“It’s not only you. But me. If I agree to go. The blood of your family will be on my hands. The royals won’t allow this. It goes against their beliefs. Their fear of the bloodline in ruins, ever to be corrected runs deeper than the fear of their Devil.” Anastasia turns to face Stanley. “My inner world isn’t like yours. I’m apart of the earth. Perhaps stronger than the love you feel for me.”

A howl in the distance distracts them both, only for a single second moment. Stanley, reaching for her hand. “Time is continuing to mock us. Make your peace with the deaths of my family now, or make peace with me.”

Her eyes fill up, a little effort placed to hold back. Waterfall is produced, twinkling silver, to make up to what the moon does not. “I know. It will kill you. You’ll have to go.”

Stanley kisses her forehead and runs through the high stems of grass, surrounding the lake as the red in the moon changes into total darkness. Anastasia turns to take her final look of Stanley, but only the bustles of his feet over wet soil is heard. Understanding to a pure soul, equals severe disappointment in a lover’s life, whethers it is public or private. It doesn’t matter. Cause it’s an experience only for an individual. And now, it’s a sin produced by one. Despair will pick up the slack.

Several days go. Go-ahead be gone with it. Anastasia Lurching her body over her single desk. Taking comfort to novels that she hand-selected. Rustles outside her candlelight room. Chatters of a new opium taking an obscure plunge into the modern peasants. Anastasia started to emotional invest into the murmurs beyond her door. And wondered if her sister had been found. Dedication from some, outlasting the rest of their attributes. Besides sex, which is the sacred song of the souls. Anastasia stands and lifting her hand to open the door. By than, the knights had left or if she thought it’s a message from fate. Suspicion to everyone is a heavy burden to place on one’s shoulders, that creates the most illuminating veils to wear. And Anastasia thinks that everyone knows.

As the night is welcomed, by open and public sacrifice to the god that is still alive in belief. The King sits down his daughter for wine that isn’t traditional. “Anastasia, have you been you leaving here without the knowledge of the castle?”

Putting down her spoon. Without make eye contact. “No Father.”

“You’re free to roam. Just no alone.” The King continues without a glare, in his oversized frame and bearded face.

Anastasia in muted silence resumes to eat.

If you allow it, it stops ceasing to be a dream as something to yearn for. It slowly drips out of your third eye, right into hands after actions and begins its life in reality as yours to keep. It’s just as easy as it is too dream it. Just not addictive. Because it has another reward known only in the experience of it. The ones in abundant resources turn the unknown into something more famous in the interstellar speaks. But only from poverty could it turn anyone into a hero. As for Stanley, his own self-produced bitterness by allowing his heart to follow its course that God had made for people, loving a princess and wanting to interlace his innermost thoughts with hers. Stands the edge of the kingdom, like the sickness of sin. Knowing tko gestures. Instead, rather commit himself to death, than life. Hoping his bargain with the Devil would tempt her to self-destruct in hate towards herself, in lip biting frustration and personal shame. Where poetry stopped in its job and duties to humanity. Afterall, Van Gogh did it. Independance is never gained. No one ever seems to know that if you sell your soul to yourself, you’ll end up with more money. Gold to spend over five generations while wide awake at three in the morning, hooting owls and moths that lust. But it’s covenant tin lovers, poetry swapping, soul kisses. His soul is in vow and a expression of romance. For now, it’s personal exile for the Devils keeps.

Stanley spoke of him and he appeared in easy form. A figure where the king would bow. But the bloodlines over earth will never be disrupted.

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