Tussles of Hair...

As a writer, I write stories. Yes. But, I don't need to invent them all. I highly value this creative quality, which invents something completely new, but, once that's done, I'd like, on a minimal level, which only I and those specials whoevers that are part of the secret already, to include special, layeristically significant meanings to the events, reactions, actions, and emotional situations of the characters in the book. In other words, base it on reality, which is nothing new, sadly.... EXCEPT, not just a vague memory, a self-fueled attack on whomever its aimed at, not a overhashed regurgitation of memories out of pure laziness or inability to invent something new, nor even shall it even serve as some far-fetched groping in the balckness of yourself, searching for some justification, some actualization that you even existed....

No, its none of those. It's promoting experience in an area which only exists in experience, and in it alone. There shall be massive, rediculiously huge amounts of new, dreamed and originally imagined situations in my novel, but none of them shall ahve sucha layered appeal of significance to those whom I truly trust to know me.... It's almost a signature. This is my story, and right here I tell you.

I'm just being a clever boy, I guess.

So, what am I saying all this for? To introduce an awfully familiar love-epic....

Haeman's Belmar

It's time to finish
A Flower's Blood

PROLOGUE:

Time recoils, rewinds, reshows, patterns dictate the thousandways, billionways, neverending swirl of new and old and a rehashed future... The fact is, as much as history is concerned with repetition, as far as humans know it, it cannot fence with Love's rewinding.... So the fact is.... Love repeats itself.
Meet girl. Want to love her. Fail. Pain. Meet girl. Want to love her. Fail. Pain. Meet girl. Almost love her. Fail. Pain. Meet girl. Love her. Love her. Love her. Love her.

Love her....

Then, Fail. And, of course... there it is again... the inevitable Pain.

But what the question is now, is... what cycle happens next?

I.
Ex-Morning Star

He just stood there, with flowers and jeans, shirt and blazer. Colonge. Alone. The sent of male perfume drifting mingled with the roses... How long till the bus arrives?

There was a boy, who's love adventures all began at the most horrible time in the world. Middle school, of course. But perhaps its best to start a little earlier...

The boy grew up in a ultra-conservative setting --it wasn't until he was 6 or so, that his parents and grandmother were even willing to get a Christmas Tree. When Halloween rolled around, they would turn off all the lights in the house, and hide upstairs reading old books, as though real witches were running around outside. But, these stanards always faded away, that's one matter that has particular significance to this boy. But, alas, by the time the Halloween taboo had passed, he was too old to want to do that sort of thing, anyway.
But more of the past, later.

Fast forward, the boy is homeschooled, sheltered perhaps, as some may note. This is highly debatable, though... but more of that, later. The effect is, sheltered or not, that's not the point; the point is, compared to Middle School, it was heaven to hell, and the months advanced in the bazaarest of ways, as only they can, in Middle School. 7th grade. Oh boy.

Month 1: Summer's gone, to go back to school is exciting, worthwhile. This is when hormones rage at their highest, and the boy is thrust into a world confused about everything... and his personal want of love is dangerously mingled with the newfound want of sex. Month 1 was the best month, everything was perfect. The boy walked to the bus stop, met his neighbor for the third time, maybe. Only in person this time. A very fat boy, his neighbor was, with a big ego, and no intelligence strong enough to hold it up. He annoyed the boy. Oh well. He also meets the kind old lady who lived at the corner. The bus was always late -he was the last stop- so the woman, a little crazy like all widowed, lonely old people are, but so friendly with friendly cats. Two of them. One black and fat, one orange and fat. So, bus comes, and leaves the kind old lady, to leave for hell in a yellow barge with the annoying fatguy. The boy always hated the bus. First day: Boy gets a love letter. By the third day, he has three. By the end of the week, he has 12, all flirtily placed inside the top level of his way-too-small locker. Cedric, locker on the boy's right, is jealous. Will, on his left, is... different. Homeroom: Boy sits behind Jenn. Not so good looking, really, but one of the love-letter-givers. In the front, is a horrible, backstabbing mouththesizeofkansas named Jill. She is the first girl to demonstrate the evil, covert lunacy of women. Period 1: English, with Mrs. Estala. Foolish woman, with glasses-too-big and a brain-too-small. She should not have taught english. Because of her, the boy would not think writing was his thing.

In the future, it would be his greatest skill, the might sword to duel the world and himself, and the mounting, biting face of reality. He knew this, while waiting there, the roses clentched as close as their thorns would allow, dreams running, thinking of homelessness, randomness, of whatthehell the world is worth... But as far as feelings go, he felt good.

But where is that bus?


Endthought.

There was once a boy, who had nothing else in the world, except for the purest, most awful feeling, that he was empty, but not on the inside, as if he were hungry, like Cassie the orange cat, who meowed for hours, until she could run out into the sun, and feast on rabbitflesh. No, he wasn't empty, per se.... Almost like he were missing something, but not like the bumper on his neighbor's car, which still worked, and would have just gone on looking just as bad if the bumper had been there. No... He was empty on the outside, something was severely missing that wouldn't allow him to function or feel not only complete, but worthwhile, workable.... as if, any funtions his body had now was to fufill that eternal thirst, to become complete... like a bird with no wings.
Of course, he wasn't missing any limbs --they were for running and fighting. No, he was missing something more hidden and invisible and wild and mysterious than his very soul....

What was it?

Love.
Yes. Love, of course.

....
And that is all.

(For now)