Thursday, 8 December 2011


Youth is fleeting beauty, rose petals on the wind.

He tells them he is a poet. He publishes verses of bliss across their skin with deft finger strokes: here teasing, almost touching, just a tingle, then gone; there lingering, languishing softly in luxurious anticipation; now rushing roughly, sacrificing subtlety, cradling them as their cries crescendo, and letting the final line drift away, draped like wrinkled bed sheets at the end of the bed, the bottom of the page. The shape of a memory.

He never stays to watch the petals wilt. He leaves them with poetry, and not with pain.

(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)


  1. Oh beautiful but chilling - loved it!

  2. Creepy serial killer piece! Nice job!

  3. Thank you, Helen, Quinn. =)

    This fascinates me, I never intended the Poet to be a killer, never intended the story to be chilling, as such. I love that a piece, released, can be free and subject to interpretation. =)

  4. Beautiful writing John.

    Is he carving the words into their skin, or have I misinterpreted?

  5. Thank you, Steve. =)

    That does seem to be the general interpretation, but it wasn't my intention. =)

  6. He could be a tatoo artist, but there again there is something slightly twisted about this so maybe not

  7. Thanks for the comment, Chris. =)

    Nothing so literal. It was written as a metaphor for seduction, for a master of the art and that which follows. A serial practitioner who sees a one night stand as a gift, free from the pain of emotional bonds (his opinions, not mine ;) ).