ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Bonjour, my name is Aubrey Ashe and I'm an up and coming International Business major. I've written several short stories and started a few others I've yet to complete. I hope you enjoy my work, and if you don't, you're entitled to your opinion. My most favorite things in the world are a cup of hot tea, a rainy day, and the small intimacies like hugs, stolen kisses, and whispered promises that a relationship brings. I'm a terrible, cheesy, hopelessly lost romantic, though I bet you'd never guess it when you meet me. Please enjoy my hard work and countless hours spent in front of the computer. I have. P.s. Please forgive my typing errors, my fingers and my brain aren't on the same level. [July 2006]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (1) La Liberté Aux Disposé Courageux (Liberty To The Willing Brave) (Short Stories) This short story is about a young girl ripped from her family by a grevious murder and thrust into a world of lust,greed,horror,retribution, and one very bad doctor. [2,281 words] [Horror]
Nothing More Aubrey Ashe Morrison
He raised his head slightly to survey his work. Ah yes, the colours blended perfectly, but there was something missing. Some unobtainable element to his work was slighted from his piece. Staring at his masterpiece, it's appearance was perfection, yet gone was the spark required to truely convey it's meaning. Running his fingers through his dark black hair, he stared and stared at the colourful, yet empty canvas. He'd done everything right, molded, perfected, balanced, worshipped, and struggled over the piece, yet still it was unfinished. Brea would know how to finish it, he mused to himself silently. He hovered over the piece, marveling at how he'd accomplished so much already with her help. Brea, his goddess, muse, lover, and destroyer. His life felt incomplete without her by his side, yet he had foolishly given her up willingly to procede with the completion of his masterpiece. His job, his money, his hours spent pouring over poetry to find inspiration when the times had become too difficult for him to procede all seemed dulled without her. She had helped him through the worst of his creating, given him hope. She was the one who had read him Poe and Blake as he had lay in his bed, frusterated. Brea had given him hope and solace, then he's shunned her away. He regretted it of course. As he lay lonely in his cold bed, he remembered the nights of heated passion and the stolen kisses that had graced the still sheets beneath his body. They were perfect for one another. Her body had fit next to his like a missing piece of a difficult jigsaw puzzle. Her hair felt like the softest of silks when it was strewn across his bare chest. Their affair had been beautiful, it had given him a truth and a purpose when he'd thrown the paintbrushes down and had threatenened to relinquish his task. Brea, his darling. She was to him as Lenore was to Poe and his raven; she was his fierce tigress, burning bright in the forests of the night. But the day she left, the flame she had given him diminished. His work of art had begun to spiral downward. Neither food nor wine held any comfort to him and not even the hottest shower could wash away his disgust with himself. He'd had the world at his doorstep, knocking loudly. His foolish pride and haughty manners had brutally stabbed his once promised happiness. " Brea, please forgive my cruel and lifeless heart," his mind whispered. Despair clenched his slowly beating heart, she was gone. No amount of pleading could ever return her to him. He'd hurt her, killed her spirit the day he'd kicked her into the mud. " Nothing more," he'd shouted at her then, as the mud stained the whiteness of her dress. How foolish he'd been, if he'd only known then that his masterpiece would never be perfect without her guidance. " This is the price I must pay for my foolishness," his mind muttered to itself. If he'd only known that he'd wither away without her sweet kisses and smoldering tough to awaken himself. He hovered over his tainted and heartbroken masterpiece, he'd worked so hard to live the perfect life, and now it was trashed, ruined by his own hand. He deserved the way he was to die, weak and lifeless lying on the bed that had seen hot nights, scalding mornings, and more whispers of love than any card or ring box. His life had been his masterpiece, and now he'd ruined it the day he'd banished Brea from his heart and his bed. Foolish, stupid, dumb, and tragic. As his life finished passing by his eyes, his spirit turned away from the cold body lying on the useless bed. That poor, pathetic creature had gotten what he deserved. The spirit would never forget the warm summer days spent picknicking by the fountain and the cold winter nights wrapped in eachothers arms. It also wouldn't forget the rainy day he'd thrown Brea from his house or the cruelly bright days that followed. His fate was not decided by a supreme being, it had been decided by his own tained heart. As he turned away from his lifeless body, he knew his masterpiece meant nothing without his goddess, muse, lover, and destroyer, Brea.
READER'S REVIEWS (1) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"An absorbing tale of the utter despair of lost (or in this case, cast-away) love. Favorite "turns of phrase": "cruelly bright days"; "tainted heart"; "colourful yet empty canvas." The conflict here is tantalizingly hinted at--the conflict between the protagonist and Brea, and the protagonist's inner conflict as well. I think you could provide some more details and expand upon your narrative without ruining the mysterious, almost obtuse quality of your subject. What was the fight about? Why did he push her away? etc. Finally: is "Nothing more" a shout-out to Poe's "Nevermore"? Good stuff--you're a promising writer, Aubrey Ashe Morrison." -- Mr. Glen Martin, Shillington, PA, USA.
TO DELETE UNWANTED REVIEWS CLICK HERE! (SELECT "MANAGE TITLE REVIEWS" ACTION)
Submit Your Review for Nothing More
Required fields are marked with (*). Your e-mail address will not be displayed.