The Stalking of Crimson Quill


He never saw me watching him.
Or he did, and didn’t care.
He liked to walk alone at night…
Mayhaps just not aware.

I watched his face play out the scenes
of torture, mayhem and light
And I, in my madness, followed him then
in the most dangerous of nights.


The moon above was full of blood
as full as him, I’m sure.
Whatever it was I had in mind
The purpose was still pure.


He settled finally at a table
writing feverishly
I sat, silent, some ways away
He never noticed me.

Before he knew it was happening
he could barely think
after drinking in the magic
I had slipped into his drink.


When he awoke, bound and gagged
groggy, weak, and reeling
I lounged before him patiently
staring at the ceiling.

He tried to speak…could only cough,
I pulled the gag away.
He stared at me with wild eyes,
his thoughts in disarray.

“Just who the fuck do you think you are?”
he finally spat at me,
“Untie me now, you crazy bitch!”
as he struggled to get free.


Finally I walked up to him
where he sat, so tightly bound.
Lightly I sat in his lap
Felt him jump, and saw him frown

He went still, he did not move
I barely felt him breathing
I knew he had not given up;
Deep inside still seething


“Crimson Quill,” I said to him.
His eyes snapped shut just then.
“I know who you are, I know what you do,
I know what you write, and when.”

His eyes were stones as he asked me,
“Why, then, do you have me here?
What wrong have I done to you?”
he ended with a sneer.


I stood, and slowly pulled the knife.
I watched as he went pale.
He struggled with the ties that bound him,
though he knew that he would fail.

I pulled the chair up next to his
my knife glinted in the light.
“You have done me no such wrong…”
I said, “In fact, you’ve done just right.”

He looked at me confused and tired
and tensed when I leaned near.
“You write so well, and out of love…
but not quite out of fear.”

He froze as I began to cut
the fabric of his shirt
And accidently I cut him
watched the blood just barely spurt.


His breathing had become so ragged.
I left the shirt in tatters,
and said to him, “Just close your eyes,
Go on, feel what matters…”

He didn’t want to close his eyes
and again the knife came nearer
This time was no accident
as my intent was becoming clearer.

I cut the surface so delicately –
he breathed a sudden hiss
The blood was dripping down his chest
as I leaned in for a kiss.

“I needed you to feel this pain,
to make your writing flood…
Flood the whole world with your words,
inspired by your own blood.”

I touched the bleeding letters
I had carved into his chest.
His pain was real; the blood would stop…
this work – some of my best.


Bloody fingers to my lips,
lips to his once more.
“I did this for you, dear Crimson Quill…
you needed this, I’m sure.”

His eyes were wide…he was so tired.
I cut the ties and left.
I had seen him staring at the
“CQ” carved into his chest.

I did not look back, and did not try
to find the Writer again.
Once was enough, I’d left my mark.
To do more would have been

…a sin.

Click here to read Stalk




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