Ghost Writer (31)

“I once feared eternity. Now, I embrace it.”

The Ghost Writer


The Lepidopterist

Not meant for constraint

Her words struck me

Like a murder of butterflies

The gentlest kill

Brushes to the lips

And a dusting to each cheek

Beautiful, some called it

A delicate touch

Then like the chrysalis

She’d emerged from

She vanished

Winter coming early

The season of chills

Yet, still, I searched

And found her cocoon

Her empty husk

Lodged in my dreams

With the memories of others

Empty, they dangled

Just butterfly echoes

Lost in time

Tinkling their own tunes

Never mine

50 Word Stories: Seventeen?

She said she was seventeen. She looked her given age, her clothing fashionable, worn with a hint of disdain, her figure slim and supple. It was her that eyes gave her away. They knew too much. I pitied her then, and she saw it. I regret it to this day.