Sansa Stark – A Lady´s Armor is her Courtesy

A short narrative piece inspired by modern day re-imaginings of favorite fictional characters. 


Sansa liked to look like a lady. Prim and proper, not a hair out of place. What was a woman if not for her looks?


After all, what’s outside reflects what is inside, and if she looked pristine and polished on the surface, she would feel gracious and courteous.


She reminded herself to hold herself with the utmost propriety every day, and the world would smile upon her. People would be pleasant to her and she would be admired. She didn’t know any other way.


Strolling out of the coffee shop, she glanced at herself in the window to check she still looked her best. She did. Her eyes were bright with unfettered dreams, and she knew it was going to be a good day.


People looked at her appraisingly as she passed them on the sidewalk walking back to her apartment in the city. She smiled winsomely whenever she caught someone’s eye, determined to be as charming as possible.


As she walked past a storefront, the door opened and, before she could move out of the way, she was slammed into by a large figure. She fell to the ground like a paperweight. She looked up in astonishment to find a hard face glowering at her.


“Look where you’re going!” The man boomed gruffly. “You’ve got your head in the clouds or something?”


She blinked. Why was he yelling at her? She had done nothing wrong! She didn’t deserve to be spoken to like this, with such animosity.


She quivered, “I didn’t mean any harm. I’m very sorry, sir.” Her voice sounded tremulous even to her own ears.


He huffed, “Next time, watch it, princess,” and stepped cavalierly around her to continue on his jaunty way.


Left sprawled on the ground, Sansa looked around her. People gawked at her, but when they saw her looking their way, they shifted their eyes away and continued walking, evading what had just happened. She was stunned. Wouldn’t anyone help her up? Did no one care? No one even stood up for her to the malicious man.


Slowly, Sansa rose, and continued walking home, but this time, she wasn’t smiling. Her face hardened into an icy glare the next time she caught someone looking at her. The world didn’t deserve her niceties and politesse. With an air of nonchalance, she walked up the steps to her apartment door and shut out her dreams of a noble world.


An Ode To Natural Black Hair (a poem of appreciation by me)

originally posted on my poetry blog

natural hair

An Ode to Natural Black Hair

It looked like the devil’s hay,

A blazing inferno,

An untamable mane.

Bristly and dry,

A whorl of defiance,

Gravity wrangled.

Multiple snakes coiled,

Springing to life,

A tentacled being.

It looked like earth,

And weeds,

And the full richness of life.

A crown of fortitude,

A halo of ingenuity,

An afro of fiery glory.

Or just hair.

Weathered Souls (another poem by me)

originally posted on my second, personal blog


Weathered Souls

Soft, silky silence.

Hallowed walls etched

With the tears of a million

Weary subjects.

Shadows reached for the ceiling,

Masking the pretty glass.

Hollow room.

White ash sprinkled on the floor.

Sorrow lives in these walls,

Yet pain ceases to exist.

Regality in misery,

Woe and pride.

Shuffled feet slide down the steps.

A hum descends.

The gray lifts.

White curtain ascends.

Soulful melody erupts,

Breaking the tepid quiet.

Gold, brass banisters,

Wither no more.

Speckled white, gray, gold.

Ash replaced by honey.

Floor the color of milk,

Wishful souls devour.


Girl, Bleeding (another poem by me)

originally posted on my personal blog,


Girl, Bleeding

She was a girl, alone.

She felt like finger nails scratched across a chalkboard

The ingratiating screech of a banshee

The quiet that befalls a public execution

As the prisoner takes the lone walk to his imposing beheading.

She’s shrouded in a wave of insecurity, anxiety, dread.

The one who chokes herself to sleep

To elude darts being thrown at her head

She’s a target, a weakling, a sniveling wreck

Susceptible to the images that flash behind her eyelids at night.

She saw blood once,

It was a peaceful sight.

She had just wrung her wrists

And thought, stabbing them would be fun.

She really liked the color red.

She broke her legs

On the double edged sword

Of bitter lies and daggered hurt.

It poisoned her soul;

A drop of black on a canvas of red.

She’d wondered whether it was possible

To walk in a straight line

When your mind is running in zig-zags.

If you could bludgeon yourself to death

With your raw, twisted ankles.

The girl peeled back her fingers from her clenched fist

To tear out her own eyeballs.

So that she could never again see

His body, laid to rest

Pale and still and gone.

Politesse (a poem by me)

originally posted on my second, personal blog:

polite society


They were the type that

Knew what fork was for dessert

And held their manicured nails

Over their mouths when they laughed.

They had soft hands

That felt like velvet;

All the better for

Pinning their hair into tight buns.

They terrified me;

I could never hear them coming.

Their footfalls were too delicate;

Their voices too quiet.

My mother called them polite society.

But were they polite when

They smiled to my face

And giggled behind my back?

k. a-i.



He’s beautiful. She doesn’t even know if he knows it. His eyes are so pretty, pretty, pretty, like dew drops. His smile breaks off in his face like the first light of the sun in the summer, and her heart blooms and blossoms and succumbs like the fluttery flowers in spring.

She is so dreadfully, horribly, hauntingly, helplessly in love with him. And he doesn’t even know it.

When their eyes meet from across the room, it’s like an electric shock to her veins, her thick blood melting; it suffocates the words in her throat, bubbling, struggling, to come out. And her brain just stops working. She loses any idea of who she is and where she is and what she’s saying when he’s looking at her, and she’s frozen in the headlights that are his eyes. She’s rendered mute, immobile.

She’s tripping over her words like they’re elusive butterflies and she’s choking on nonsensities, and she can’t speak, can’t breathe, she’s so terrified. Terrified that he’ll see it. That just one look at her and she’ll melt, a buttery pastry mess all over the floor and right at his feet.

But he never sees. He’ll never know.

She doesn’t even want him to smile at her. If he smiles that smile at her, her eyes will widen like great big discs of I-Like-You and her tongue will be a useless flap stuck in her mouth.

She curses her naivete. He’ll never love her. Too many other people love him, people smarter, and funner, and funnier, and more good looking, and more outspoken than herself. She can’t cap her feelings in a jar and translate them into words, they’ll turn into birds and flap away and desert her mouth, an empty cage.

Maybe she has a thing for leader-type guys. He can handle a crowd, and when he speaks, people listen. But he’s a goofball, and he’s funny, and she’s discovered his wry, dry humor and sharp wit.

Electric. Her attraction to him is electric and one day it’ll set her on fire and burn her up, burn her out, until there’s nothing left but smoke and flame and tears and regret.

But that same electricity kindles her heart, that burning hope that pulsates inside her, that lovesick warmth that radiates within her, that comes from exchanging just a few words with and him giving her that smile of friendliness and respect, leaving her all gooey and syrupy and melting inside.

He just has to look at her, and her heart stops, skips a beat. Her love for him is squeezing her heart painfully in its iron tight grip and it’ll never let her go. But she needs to let him go.

Because he’ll never feel one ounce, one droplet, one cinder, of the all-encompassing, tumultuous, terrible, overpowering, interminable love she holds for him.