Favorite line you've written

"Considering that men make up half the population, I think it's safe to say that we've only met a small percentage." She paused to sip her lemonade. "We're bound to come across some of the good ones, soon."

Tess knew better, though. The MomN had made sure that she had learned that lesson well. And he had just been the icing on the cake of loser boyfriends that the two sisters had racked up between them.

The fundamental difference was in their outlooks on past relationships. Kris had ways taken the glass-half-full approach: just one Mr. Wrong closer to Mr. Right. Tess's approach was more of I-may-not-know-how-full-my-glass-is-but-I'm-pretty-sure-the-Universe-spit-in-it. She wasn't a pessimist, exactly. She preferred to think of it as going through life with both eyes wide open.

"Sweetie, look. I know how much you want to believe that there are guys out there who encompass all those traits in your novels, but they just don't exist anymore. If they ever did. There's a reason those books are shelved under fiction. Chivalry is dead. Romance keeled over at the funeral, and Honor took look one look at the carnage and ran for the hills."

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One of those small towns with more churches than stop-lights.

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“A...” I jumped as Hazel spoke suddenly. “A man with... wings?”
My heart hammered in my chest as I saw a spark of recognition in her eyes. Did she remember him from the dreams?
“Um...” My thoughts whirled wildly as I tried to come up with an explanation. “Yes, he's a, uh...” My brain ached. “A serial killer.” I said brilliantly. “He's been wandering around dressed up for a couple of days saying he's going to 'purify the world of humanity'. This is his cohort.” I gestured to Killer who glowered at me.
“R-really?” Hazel's gaze cleared. I exhaled with relief.
“What are you on about?” Killer muttered, but quickly quietened when I raised the chair leg aggressively.

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Like hospitals, motels all smell the same. Hovering somewhere between disinfectant and stale humanity

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I’m a firm believer in you reap what you sow, and my fields are full of heroin poppies.

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Until a month ago, the building housed an art gallery; not the sort with champagne openings for brilliant young artists selling work for six figures, but the type featuring art heavy with barbed wire and faces twisted in misery and torment. All prices negotiable, of course.

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If my mother were dead, she'd have been rolling in her government-issue coffin.

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I buffered along my familiar zigzag route through the dusty city centre, getting closer to my rent-a-life apartment on the cheap side of town.

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It is the “someone is following me” shudder that seems to push me down the street. I see her clouded eye and hear the flat click. I want to run, but don’t. I want to turn around but wouldn’t dare. I feel her following me, “clickety-clack clickety-clack. Don’t look back, Charlie, don’t look back.”

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First, never announce when you are refilling your wine glass. For best results don’t let it ever get all the way empty; that way no one can keep count. When feeling your absolute worst, make sure to do more social appearances, not less. Absence raises questions. Smile at people you hate. Offer random tidbits of information and tell on yourself for minor offenses, so you appear to be sharing the most relevant things in your life; this is your barrier to prevent drawing attention to the real things in your life that are immeasurably fucked.

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Red flared inside her, a deep shade of crimson shot through with scarlet, and she tightened her hands into fists, hating the way the right curled in, misshapen and smaller than the left. The crimson turned vermilion, laced with sparks of garnet. So much red, swirling in and around, twisting her every cell into a grim reminder of what she had, what she remembered, and what she lost.

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Nothing like the sting of false accusations to take the joy out of lunch. Maybe I'd kill something after lunch and feel better. Preferably starting with the source of the accusations.

Wonder what the jail term is for beating a politician to death with your bare fists?

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Varus spun his horse. Veranius knelt in the mud and supported a man in whose throat a quivering arrow stuck. Beside him stood Lucius Eggius, holding the pole with eagle and decorations of the Eighteenth. Raindrops rang down on the bronze, the sound mixed with the harsh, laboured breath of the dying man. It seemed unreal. Varus shook himself out of his stupor and noticed the lion skin that had fallen off the bloodied head. Fulvius Vespillo, the aquilifer? Oh no!

Fulvius cramped, blood spurting from his mouth and over Veranius' bare arm. With a hacked, wet cough, he fell back dead. Veranius drew the arrow from the wound and held it out to the general. "This was not fired by a Bructeri. It's a Cheruscian arrow." He swallowed. "Arminius fletches them like this."

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bglashbrooks said:

Did she actually flutter her lashes at him? Hell bit back a laugh. “Yes. Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. She was emblemized by a bow and arrow. She protected and provided for the weaker ones, including women, children, and slaves. And I bet she looked damned good in a stola.”

“Oooh. I like that image. Me protecting the weaker ones.” She cooed, bounced in her chair, shot him a look full of sex and sass. Hell choked back a laugh. “I can so totally see that.”

Now Hell understood the nickname Dennis the Menace.

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“Please can I shoot her?” Another gun jamming.

“Wait,” the man snapped, briefly killing his patient veneer.

“You don't know too much about romance, do you?” Jaina leaned forward. Sneakily. Or so she thought. But the gun followed her. Plan A for dodge-a-bullet failed. Implementing Plan B, check? “When you take a girl on a date, you should really give her your name.”

The man said nothing.

“I mean, how am I supposed to know what to call you?” She cocked her head to one side and tried to look naive. It came out more like a... a... well, she wasn't sure, but it felt more like a grimace. “May I call you Muffin?” She put special emphasis on the first word.

Polite society would've applauded.

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“Shoot her,” Muffin said.

What?

Before I could fully appreciate what those particular words meant, a bullet ripped through my hand and into the table beneath it.

In movies, as soon as somebody’s shot—assuming he or she isn’t already dead—he or she immediately begins screaming. Ladies and gentlemen, uncooperative hellwalkers do not scream immediately. They don’t even realize they’re in pain, because here they are, staring at the blood pouring out of this gaping wound, and all they can say is

“Ew.”

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My blood was a really pretty shade of red. And sparkly. Don’t forget the sparkly.

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Bob’s mouth makes the worst cat breath smell like potpourri by comparison.

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RosemaryWells said:

Grind - WIP

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