The Writer

There was fever on her brow, and the Wild was in her eyes. The pen flew across the page-its trail of crumbles marring the virgin white as it dragged her hand along like a puppet on strings. Its ink -like blood-bleeding out the essence of her soul; flowing with the unstoppable force of a waterfall.

A sudden stop.

A tiny, winking black eye-like a pupil-and the pen drops down. Lifeless. Dead.

And she stares at the writing:blank eyes all-seeing. Reading herself. Prying into her own secrets. No more lies.

And then she burns them-with fire in her heart-scrubbing at her tears, and trying to wash out the knowledge. Trying to forget.