The poet always wrote with red ink.
A constant reminder that his blood, the blood that pulsed through the fingers that held his pen, was red, not blue like the rippling sea, or black, like a moonless night…
His blood was red, a bold, vibrant scarlet, ablaze with love or hate, sometimes sizzling with lust, others fierce with rage, but never tepid.
His blood was red like a crimson dawn, or a ruby sunset.
Black or blue was the choice of those who embraced the vulgarity of conformity.
He lifted his pen, growled at the blank page and bled.
T. S. Eliot’s well known quote, in which he compares writing to spilling out one’s soul, using ink instead of blood, prompted me to write this flash.
I’m sure he didn’t use red ink, or blood to write, but he wrote with fierce honesty, strength and beauty.
This post was written in response to Charli Mills at Carrot Ranch’s weekly #99 word Flash Fiction Challenge. This week’s prompt is ‘Ink’. Check out other entries or take part yourself!