I am blessed to have friends who can write like this.

A snippet from one of Tiger's latest fics:

Some things were hard to look at even after twenty years of seeing pictures that made no easy sense. Max had seen men in battle with their faces ripped back to raw skull, others with their guts held like infants in their arms; the mess never got any easier to assimilate. But when the mess was a man he last saw gracing the terrace of the Athenaeum, indecently immaculate, the picture broke up and became just so much static; he heard rather than saw it, a high-pitched scrabble of sound in his head.

This was Gideon Ware. What was left of him.

He was chained to the exposed pipework that ran down the interior wall of the warehouse. He’d been sitting, possibly even standing at some point during the incarceration, but not for long and not recently. His body was folded at the waist, his head on his knees, the back of his neck exposed and bloody. The shoulders of his shirt were torn, grey and stiff with sweat. Blood had baked dry at his feet in a shiny patch of colour more black than red. The feet were bare, bleached with dust.

From the look of things, it had taken him a long time to die.

I know this is a bit off beat from her usual writings these days, but seriously I am smitten with my friend's talents.

"...indecently immaculate, the picture broke up and became just so much static; he heard rather than saw it, a high-pitched scrabble of sound in his head."

Sweet desert night this leaves such a lasting image that has me completely in awe of Tiger's writing.