Touch: or, The Absence of It

His hand was larger than hers, his warm palm slightly rough against hers, his long fingers settled in the spaces between her own. A pinprick of fire marked the place where each of his fingertips brushed the back of her hand as his thumb stroked the skin of her inner wrist. She had never known her flesh to be so sensitive and each point of contact made her crave another.
The fingers of his free hand traced the shape of her nose, the curve of her cheekbone and the point of her chin. They danced along the slope of her neck and the curve of her shoulder. She did not know that the shoulder could feel or appreciate a touch so delicate. The craving increased, a crushing desire, devouring all thought, all the world beyond the sensation of skin against skin. They breathed simultaneously bringing their chests together. Her eyes dropped shut and he brought his hand to her face once more, his thumb brushing her closed eyelid. The blue tracery over white bearing more beauty than a butterfly's wing.
Her mouth formed a soft pink pout and finally he bent to press his own lips against hers, that most pure and lovely of touches.
But when she woke, his presence previously so warm and sure and solid, faded to smoke and memory. Gone all the quicker for her desperate attempts to grasp it. Her chest heaved in a sob and she ached for absence of his touch.

Life Is Not A Song, Sweetling

Fair warning: I have no real idea what this is supposed to be. The first few lines just popped into my head and I went with it. If you don't like Sansa and The Hound you might not like this even though it is in no way explicit or even romantic in any way.


The song of Sansa Stark and The Hound was not one of love and romance. It was not a song to be sung by epicene boys with harps in royal courts. It was a song sung in shadowy places. There were no shining knights and fair maidens. Only a boy king’s dog and a traitor’s daughter. And it was a song of something altogether darker, stranger and, ultimately, something nameless. Something hidden deep in the shadows of the soul.
It was a song that spoke of a beautiful young woman and a burned man, of looks shared across opulent halls. Of whispers and whimpers and secrets and feather light touches. Of hymns sung softly in the night while fires burn just outside. Of a stained and bloody white cloak left behind. Of running.
Life is not a song, sweetling.
A girl with auburn hair, and a head full of romantic ideas. Ideas that he didn’t fit. A man with no desire to be a knight, no desire for honor, who enjoyed only killing, the fire in his eyes a terrible irony. A man who became the closest thing she’d get to a knight from the songs.
Life is not a song, little bird.
A bird trapped in a cage, large and beautiful but with heavy iron bars. And the only one who could set the little bird free.

A Wraith

Lately I've really enjoyed writing character descriptions. Mostly physical as if looking at someone from afar. Here's one I just wrote that I kinda like.

She was like a ghost. Tall and spindly. All knuckles and elbows and knees and angles. Her skin was like glass, it was very easy to imagine you could see her heart pumping blood that looked like water. Her fingers were like branches of the birch tree. Her hair was white as snow and floated to her waist, around her face, for it resembled wind or air more than snow or hair. Her eyes were large, round and wide, ringed by pale grey lashes and irises the color of a frozen spring. Her lips were lush and perfectly formed, colored pale pink like the moments before a sunrise.  Her white lace dress, ripped, torn and dirty, fell around her long and bare feet.

She was ice and frozen fire and she moved like wind that whistled through the dead tree branches.