At the top of the valley, crags and ferns frozen in mist watched as she climbed onto the boulder, an island almost wider than the stream that rushed around it, heading towards the plunge. The boney bottom of a scrawny nine-year-old girl, naked and cold on the slippery surface, she surveyed her surroundings. A surefooted thing, she stood on the ancient thrust and held her arms out, wide, as if to call down the sky. Long stringy wet hair, dark on pale, clinging to her back, snaking under her arms and making squiggles on her shiny damp torso, hugging ribs and looping around birthmarks and flat nipples. She was by herself, but not alone in this place.
The Writer’s Circle posted a “story starter” (pictured above) and this is what I came up with. I actually want to know more about this girl, even if nobody else does, so maybe I’ll write more later.
Sensual Sunday is meant to be writing practice. I’m looking to hone my ability to write about sensual things or even to write sensually about regular things.
You Are Going Gray
The soft smell of your spice. Clove and salt tears.
Peachy, with black curls of hair, down, down, down.
Earthy musk, the taste of you…all of you.
Inside of me. Each space filled. And a woman has many spaces.
Slip, slide, into place. Nestle there. Rested there. In your hair.
The smell of the top of your head. Tickle, soft brown and pewter. Pewter…what a word. The color describes the soft turning of your fields from ripe wheat to stoney silver. You’re only more beautiful for it. But the word itself – pewter – is wrong because I don’t like the feel of it in my mouth. And everything about you feels so good in my mouth.
In the dark it’s hard to tell what year it is. Are we new or has it really been so many years? The smell of the building and your skin and these sheets and my own spent aromas, a perfume I know well. The sounds of the whirring fans, creaking branches just outside of our bedroom window, and your rhythmic breaths, just shy of a gentle snore, are such a familiar song. Leaves dance shadows on the wall thrown there by streetlights as they have always done since the first day I slept next to you. As you sleep, I watch them twist and rest.