Literate-Hetalia

Signor Roma, or Nonno Roma as he was addressed by his two grandchildren, was a man of some years, but by some peculiar means, retained much of his brawny youth and comeliness. In his youth, he had acquired power, yet to his chagrin in later years, he had sown many wild oats and was reaping them for a time. Tall, fit, affable as ever, with dark hair in jutting wisps , a devilishly appealing stubble, and a grin that render a lady in a swoon, he was charming, but more overall, he was sincere in his actions and thoughts. Perhaps excessively sincere, almost zealous, so reasoned his grandson, a hot-tempered and hot-headed youth by the name of Rom

The sky was dark, clouds smothering the heavenly lights in a thick blanket. Without even a gust of wind, the storm would have to weep itself out, pitifully left to sit. There was not violent thunder claps, or brilliant jolts of lightning, only the virgin tears that sorrow could muster. The dark room was filled with the monotonous pitter-patter of rain as he sat up in bed. Alone, only the gentle glow of the nightlight to cast shadows over his pale face. Across the house, in the kitchen, he could hear angry voices rising. They grappled back and forth, one defensive, the other in a blind, painful rage. He could his papa's boots pounded over the

Summary: "There were certain things that could not be forgotten. Things like a favorite brand of tea and warm emerald eyes. There were also certain things that could not be ignored. Things like teary smiles and the shadow of a partially hidden bruise." __________________________________________________________ Notice There were certain things that could not be forgotten. Things like laughter, a favorite brand of tea, and warm emerald eyes that shone in the starlight. There were also certain things that could not be ignored. Things like teary smiles, a bitter ceremony, and the shadow of a partially hidden bruise. Kiku watched with a solemn

There is a valley, deep-set, in the shrouds of the Pacific Northwest. A gentle breeze stirs the cool nighttime air, proving a great relief after the humid swelter of any other location. On one edge of the valley's borders, a slate ocean, and on the other, endless forestry. On the latter side does he seat himself to behold the spectacle. While the air is quite cool, a dehydration encourages a cough in his throat, bringing with it the acrid remains of smoke on his tongue. The scent of this place reeks of chemical waste for the moment, though the same docile wind urges it away and instead allows pine to be the dominate one once again. The hillsi