Literature
Winter's Kiss
Winter's Kiss. Such a lying phrase. Winter's Sting, maybe. Or Blade. Or Hate.
He'd never kissed a girl, but knew if he had it wouldn't remind him of Winter. He'd think of Summer and Springtime, of warmth and comfort, the smell of the sun on the grass, her hand brushing against his.
Marta.
Straw-colored hair. He hadn't meant to upset her by saying so. He'd just never been good with words, and horrible with women.
Light burned too bright. Ice froze his lungs, stabbed his throat and eyes.
She appeared. Her brilliance dazzled. It melted the snow. He reached up. Neither cowardice nor evil Winter could stop him from kissing her. Not this time.