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Thursday, May 12, 2016

Crimson on a Black Rose

Greetings Readers, Writers and Precious Patrons! In case you were unaware, May is National Short Story Month. As part of this month, representatives from the All Authors Publishing House will be stopping by to share snippets of their short stories.

Today C. Desert Rose joins us to share an excerpt from her short story, Crimson on a Black Rose.

About the Author:

C. Desert Rose is a writer who has an immense affinity for all things inexplicable. She is the creator of the “Fate’s Endeavor” series, which explores the realms of angels and demons and meshes them with themes of love and loss. The very first book in this dynamic collection, “If Death Should Love Me” was released on October 31, 2014.

In addition, C. Desert Rose has authored several short stories—independently released works “A Tragedy: The Short Story of Fox and Tango” and “Crimson on a Black Rose”, along with “Her A to Z” in the All Authors Publishing House Anthology “Concordant Vibrancy: Unity“. Ms. Rose’s most recent work is titled “Nethanyel’s Lady Lune“.

Title: Crimson on a Black Rose

Link: Smashwords

Genre: Dark Teen Drama


A drop of crimson blood on a tattered black rose was all she has left of him—the guy that she loved.

Rayne remembers her days with the boy that stole her heart. Jay was the love of her young life. Future plans arose, love bloomed, time spent made their connect unique. Until the day it all came crashing down.

What happened to the love that they had?

Take a trip of wrath and remembrance with Rayne.


A droplet of blood on a black rose. That was all I had left of him.

How did we get here?

What happened?

That was it—just a single drop of crimson blood on a rose as dark as the abyss of my heart.

How quickly had our love wilted. As rapidly as this tattered rose eventually would, I was sure. And just as swiftly, I’d lost my will to go on.

His voice…

I can still hear it clearly for some reason. “Rayne, baby,” he whispered, his warm breath tickling the minuscule hairs of my inner ear, making rivers of chills flow all over my body. “I love you.”

Why is it that memories can sometimes be as genuine as reality—sometimes feel just as authentic?

How odd.

When I close my eyes I relive each moment. Feeling the touch of his fingers on my skin, his warm breath teasing my lips, his tepid body pressed against my back spooning me with care. “I love you too, Jay.”

Memories spring up of a certain tenderness in my voice whenever I spoke to him, yet now I wonder if it was just a figment of my imagination or if it actually happened. I know what I felt inside. He made me weak. He had this magical effect on me, the kind that always made a girl feel like she was dreaming and wasn’t quite there. That feeling that you get when you’re deeply in love—it’s that inexplicable flare that makes you think that you’re not really there, but it’s all just a dream.

That was the type of connection we had, Jay and I.

It’s funny to me, because in retrospect our romance seemed something like a montage of a romantic movie. The ones where the extraordinarily happy couple bask and skip in a field of green, with puffy clouds and a perfectly sunny day to accompany them. Where white linens aimlessly and uselessly float around while they hold hand and kiss delicately, love filling their eyes.

Was it really that way?

I don’t know—but that’s what it felt like, and for me, that was enough