Red Ink 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 sizzlingContinue reading “#CarrotRanch #FlashFiction ‘Red Ink’”
Rereading Jane Eyre 