Favorite lines you've written

xenophile said:

And BethS, that was absolutely beautiful (too long to quote.) Made my throat constrict a little.

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Oh my. And it was all out of context, too. That's a wonderful compliment. Thank you.

thedark said:

Diamonds of black and grey touch my calves, hurting me. I rise from the argyle bed and move away. Dropping the robe from my shoulders, I stand alone in the cold air of Derek’s quarters.

He brought me here. Why?
...

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There's some very good stuff in there. Simple, but layered with meaning.

kkbe said:

From my WIP (*mature*):


You’ll squeeze my neck hard, just once, just enough to make my knees go weak before threading your fingers through my hair, fisting it tight enough to draw a gasp, yanking back hard because of it, forcing me to look into your eyes.

Whispering what you’re going to do to me.

To punish me.

Because I've been a bad, bad boy.

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Ooooohhh. I couldn't stop myself from smiling while I read this. Love the last line!

guttersquid said:

Maybe I shouldn't have shaved my head.

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LMAO! =)

guttersquid said:

I was hesitant to post this because it's still under edit, but because so many want to know . . .

---

...Whoever had done this had taken his time, knew how to draw it out, and whatever had been used had been razor sharp. The wounds on Mooney’s bare torso, arms, and face weren’t deep. They had been inflicted to cause pain, not death, and Koontz was disgusted at the sight of them and sickened at the thought that there were people in the world who could do such things.
...But the worst thing, the thing that would have made a weaker man gag, was the kid’s scalp. It was no longer on Mooney’s skull. It was stuck like a bad toupee on a bowling ball that had been positioned on the desk so that the three finger holes looked like eyes and a nose.

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This is some sick, twisted scene but I love it, and the way you've described every detail is superb! Thanks for sharing =)

Lir wept. With the world burning up around her, the chance of escape shrinking with every breath she took, she cried silently, tears scalding her cheeks. She could not say why the death of a young boy moved her so deeply, but it did, with grief, regret, rage, and just a little envy.

"Kitten." The man's voice came from close beside her, unwontedly gentle, stripped of mockery. "Come. Or it will be too late."

It was already too late. She saw it as soon as she looked out into the corridor. In every direction wings of white-hot fire beat the air, consuming stone like dry wood.

"What fire could do that?" she wondered, as much awed as terrified.

"My kind of fire," the man answered ruefully. "But I'm afraid it's easier kindled than extinguished. We are trapped."

The cell was an oven. Soon it, too, would burn.

"Why didn't you leave us?" she asked.

"You took the knife. I suppose I still had fond hopes of paying my debt."

"Too late now."

They said nothing for a few moments. When the heat at their backs became too much, they moved to the window. The sun had just risen, a blinding golden eye peeping over the horizon. Lir looked down and saw the shining ribbon of the river far below. Behind her, a tendril of flame quested in from the corridor.

"I used to dream of flying," she said. "I thought I was going to, when I freed the dragon."

"I used to dream of falling. I can't say I ever wanted to do that. Odd how we think death will never come for us, and even when it does, we don't believe it."

The heat grew unbearable. Lir found it difficult to breathe. She stepped onto the ledge and a breeze gusted cold against her wet cheeks.

"Hold me," she said.

For once he made no crass comments about hygiene. He climbed up beside her and folded her in his arms. She could not ever remembered being held by another human being; the sensation was marvelously strange and just as marvelously comforting, and made her cry again. She delved far within for strength, for courage. Air answered her call, buffering, soothing, lifting. She gripped him. "Don't let go of me," she said fiercely. "No matter what."

He nodded, took a deep, shaking breath, and together they leaped into the wind's waiting hands.

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I took my time reading this. That's how good it was, especially the last line. But the entire scene you painted was great, the dialogues were what had me. The descriptions too. Everything actually lol.

Good stuff guys!
I just realized while I'm seating here reading everything, I really should be getting ready for my Social Psychology class, which is in an hour. I'd rather be doing this though.

Anna Spargo-Ryan said:

My MC is experiencing a pretty gnarly crisis of confidence.

‘You need to be more careful,’ he hissed, with his forked tongue, and his fist closed around my heart, constricting until I saw stars in my eyes and felt failure in my knees and then release, and he was gone and so was the painting, and my legs careened into the soil with a loud crunch.

And under my knee was a snail, with four different browns in its shell, the lightest one catching the moonlight. And its body leaked from the cracks that had formed and I found a leaf for its shroud, this formerly perfect snail.

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Just amazing, Anna. You are a marvelous poet. I wish I had your flair for beautiful melancholy.

kkbe said:

From my WIP (*mature*):


You’ll squeeze my neck hard, just once, just enough to make my knees go weak before threading your fingers through my hair, fisting it tight enough to draw a gasp, yanking back hard because of it, forcing me to look into your eyes.

Whispering what you’re going to do to me.

To punish me.

Because I've been a bad, bad boy.

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Incredible writing. And I continue to be captivated by your characters.

BethS said:

But now I'm feeling the need for something a little sweeter...

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I recognize this one from Dragon’s Eye, and I’ve been a fan ever since reading that story. You have such a way with words.

phantasy said:

Random love:

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I like this. There’s lots of good imagery to help paint the scene, and just a touch of wry humor in the voice. It sounds like a story I’d enjoy reading.

This is my favorite thread. There have been so many good posts lately - lots of intense scenes and evocative imagery. Considering the current trend, I'm not sure how well this will fit in, but I haven’t been writing much this summer. Come winter, I should be back in the writing swing…hopefully with lots of favorite lines to choose from.

“Blues? Is that you?” she asked, putting her hand out to coax him closer. “How did you get way out here? Was that you following me?” She was so pleased to see him, she momentarily forgot about the voice.

“Yes,” Gia heard a distinct voice in her head answering. “I never meant to frighten you.”

The girl closed her eyes again. She must be dreaming, or hallucinating, or maybe she had just gone mad. She had read extreme isolation could cause a person to take leave of their senses.

“I wasn't sure how to best approach you,” said the same voice, now close to her ear.

Upon opening her eyes, Gia saw Blues was indeed sitting by her head. He was a handsome cat with long, creamy orange fur and a perpetual kitten face.

If she had gone crazy somewhere along the way, she may as well fully embrace it. At least now she would have someone to talk to. “So you can—” Gia began.

“Talk, yes,” Blues finished.

“Can all animals talk?”

“If they choose to, but very few of your kind hear us.”

Blues peered down at her with wide, affectionate eyes. “You are even more open minded than I would have guessed. One of my cousins had the unfortunate experience of being locked in a closet for three days when she revealed herself to one who hears.”

“Well, I don't see any closets around, so looks like you're safe.”

“I guess I should be grateful then,” the cat said.

Gia smiled at him, feeling more lighthearted by the second. If insanity was indeed the explanation for her new ability, then she rather liked being crazy. “You definitely dodged a bullet there,” she agreed, reaching out to scratch the cat between his ears.

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deefalaye said:

I took my time reading this. That's how good it was, especially the last line. But the entire scene you painted was great, the dialogues were what had me. The descriptions too. Everything actually lol.

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Wow. You just made my day. Thank you.

Papaya said:

Considering the current trend, I'm not sure how well this will fit in

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It fits in just fine. I've always loved stories where people have special bonds with animals.

Though somehow I expected Blues to be, well, blue!

And also, thanks!

Guttersquid, thedark, BethS, deefalaye, Papaya. . .



Every excerpt here is like a little gift we get to unwrap. Yep, I love this thread, too.

Papaya said:

“Blues? Is that you?” she asked, putting her hand out to coax him closer. “How did you get way out here? Was that you following me?” She was so pleased to see him, she momentarily forgot about the voice.

“Yes,” Gia heard a distinct voice in her head answering. “I never meant to frighten you.”

The girl closed her eyes again. She must be dreaming, or hallucinating, or maybe she had just gone mad. She had read extreme isolation could cause a person to take leave of their senses.

“I wasn't sure how to best approach you,” said the same voice, now close to her ear.

Upon opening her eyes, Gia saw Blues was indeed sitting by her head. He was a handsome cat with long, creamy orange fur and a perpetual kitten face.

If she had gone crazy somewhere along the way, she may as well fully embrace it. At least now she would have someone to talk to. “So you can—” Gia began.

“Talk, yes,” Blues finished.

“Can all animals talk?”

“If they choose to, but very few of your kind hear us.”

Blues peered down at her with wide, affectionate eyes. “You are even more open minded than I would have guessed. One of my cousins had the unfortunate experience of being locked in a closet for three days when she revealed herself to one who hears.”

“Well, I don't see any closets around, so looks like you're safe.”

“I guess I should be grateful then,” the cat said.

Gia smiled at him, feeling more lighthearted by the second. If insanity was indeed the explanation for her new ability, then she rather liked being crazy. “You definitely dodged a bullet there,” she agreed, reaching out to scratch the cat between his ears.

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My favorite bit: He was a handsome cat with long, creamy orange fur and a perpetual kitten face. - Because that evokes an image of my creamy orange handsome cat and his own perpetual kitten face. I just wanna snuggle him.

And my second favorite bit: If she had gone crazy somewhere along the way, she may as well fully embrace it. -- Because... well, how true is that.

I often meet my cat's eyes in the hopes that I'll hear his voice.

12 years, and he hasn't spoken yet.

But there's always hope.

This line is actually the anchor for one of my characters. It came to me, and I immediately understood her.
"You know what they say; love is getting to the end of a blowjob and not immediately regretting it."

thedark said:

I often meet my cat's eyes in the hopes that I'll hear his voice.

12 years, and he hasn't spoken yet.

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Really? I can't get the rabbit to shut up!

I haven't had any favourite lines for ages, because I haven't written anything for ages, but I've been editing an emotional scene today trying to get it right, and I think it's close to what I envisioned:

Dreading what he would find in the stall behind him, Djehuty slowly turned to look. He hissed in a sharp breath at the sight of the colt’s glazed, blood-shot eye glaring up at him. Bukhef had died facing the door, legs curled up into his belly, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a frozen rictus, and there was a ring of dried pink scum around his mouth. Whatever had killed him, he had suffered a slow, agonising death.

Djehuty slid the beam across and sank to his knees beside Bukhef’s head. He couldn’t bear to see those lifeless eyes staring back at him, but when he tried to close them, the eyelids had already stiffened in place and wouldn’t move. Even in death, Bukhef was a stubborn sod. But he had never stayed so calm and quiet as Djehuty ran his hand down the long blaze on his forehead, along the dish of his nose towards his muzzle, when he’d been alive. Once the most infuriating fidget Djehuty had ever trained in harness, all his boisterous energy had been stilled for good.


“Oh gods...” came a shocked voice from above him.

Djehuty’s head snapped up. Weren stood in the walkway, gaping open-mouthed into the stall. Leaping to his feet, Djehuty turned on the boy, grabbed him by the ear and wrenched his head back sharply. “What have you done?”

"However, it was obvious that death scared Chad. I needed to be able to make his motivation to die greater than his fear of dying. Mine had been."
- from Ravaged, by Tyler Silvaris

His was the life of a man afraid to stand still.

"So, what're we doing?"
"Well, we are going to have lunch. That is what you do at this time of day when your stomach is growling."
"And you just seem to be following us; like a lost puppy, or some kind of vagrant."

From my novel GINGERSNAP:


How do we mark and measure a lifetime molded and sullied by not just our experiences, but by the human experience? This is what we do, out of necessity: we forego telescope for microscope. Through that microscope, the ‘whole’ of our lives is reduced to finite snippets—our memories—which are pinpoints of experience along the continuum of our lifetimes.

We examine, mark, and measure our lives through those snippets of experience, and that is what this film is, and all films, novels, paintings, songs, poetry, dance—

They’re all just snippets of experience: points of light on the endless continuum of that thing we call Life; just tiny bright lights that ask us to spare a moment and consider them for what they are; asking us to pay our dime, and enjoy the show.

kkbe said:

How do we mark and measure a lifetime molded and sullied by not just our experiences, but by the human experience? This is what we do, out of necessity: we forego telescope for microscope. Through that microscope, the ‘whole’ of our lives is reduced to finite snippets—our memories—which are pinpoints of experience along the continuum of our lifetimes.

We examine, mark, and measure our lives through those snippets of experience, and that is what this film is, and all films, novels, paintings, songs, poetry, dance—

They’re all just snippets of experience: points of light on the endless continuum of that thing we call Life; just tiny bright lights that ask us to spare a moment and consider them for what they are; asking us to pay our dime, and enjoy the show.

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This is incredible. What genre in this?

Blinkk said:

This is incredible. What genre in this?

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Thank you very much, Blinkk. As for genre, not sure. Horror, maybe? That bit was written by my mc, in a journal he'd kept for a college film class, before he became a best-selling author/serial killer.

From the short story - PHOENIX.

Carl and the girl named Ariel are both fifteen years old. Harriet is the girl's stepmother.


Harriet glared at me. "Do you have any concept of what you've done?"

I gulped. "What do you mean?"

"Just when I thought things were working out, then you come along and mess it up."

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand."

"You first met Ariel last Saturday when I went into town, didn't you? Where was it exactly?"

I knew that Harriet would see through me if I tried to lie to her again. "I was hiking along the creek, and I ran into her by accident. I was only with her for a few minutes."

"What did she say to you?"

"She mentioned that she could hear me playing the piano at night. We talked about music a little." I hesitated to say more for fear of how Harriet might react.

"Let me guess. You were curious about her, so you wanted to see her again. That's why you came to the house today."

I squared my shoulders. "Yes, that's right. She's the most wonderful person that I've ever met, and I swear to you that I'd never do anything to harm her."

"You ignorant hick," Harriet yelled. "You're just like the rest of those yokels who live in the garbage heap that you call a town. All you can do is stick your noses into other people's business. Oh, and let's not forget the vicious rumors and innuendos that you like to spread around. Well, that's going to end. I've finally sold this wretched dump, and we're moving away. Tell your bumpkin friends that they'll need to find someone else to gossip about now."

Harriet stabbed her finger on my chest. "Now, Carl, let me explain what you've done to her. Ariel stopped taking her medicine because of you, and now she's suffering the dire consequences. I see it plain in her eyes. She's failing once again, and this time it's all due to you. Are you happy now, Carl? Has your meddling given you what you've wanted?"

"I...I didn't know," I stammered. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to cause her harm. Please, believe me."

"You goddamn hick," Harriet shouted. "You've destroyed Ariel's sanity forever, and to claim that you're sorry doesn’t absolve your responsibility." She shoved me hard toward the door. "Now get the hell out, or I'll crush you like I would a maggot."

I think I'm going to try to turn this into a fully-fledged short. From a trunked novel.



There is a park at the end of the street, dark with the shadows of plane trees. I take my tired feet there on Wednesdays and Thursdays, after my shift at the fruit shop is over and I’ve escaped Steve Velidas for another day. Beneath the concrete bridge, a storm water drain curves its way through the suburbs, a dank snake.

I love it there, the way the air clings to the walls in moss and mildew. In the summer, when the drought is in full swing, it catches the updraft and the wind shoots through cool and black. I lean into the bend and roll cigarettes for my friends, Joe and Ahmed. Joe because the arthritis has transformed his hands into hooked claws. And Ahmed because he doesn’t have any.

The day the kid drowns, we all stand at the tunnel entrance and cross our arms. Rain churns like the sea, rising to the top. Reckon you’d hafta hold yer breath for six minutes if you was gonna make it out the other side, Joe says. Took everything, spray cans an’ all. His cigarette hisses as it hits the water. Someone should call his mother, I say, but we’ve pooled our change for a Chiko roll, and besides, no one knows whether he has a mother. So we sit in the dull street light until the water has eased and the tunnel is clear enough for sleep and my friends begin to slip away. La nina, someone says.

Anna Spargo-Ryan said:

I think I'm going to try to turn this into a fully-fledged short. From a trunked novel.



There is a park at the end of the street, dark with the shadows of plane trees. I take my tired feet there on Wednesdays and Thursdays, after my shift at the fruit shop is over and I’ve escaped Steve Velidas for another day. Beneath the concrete bridge, a storm water drain curves its way through the suburbs, a dank snake.

I love it there, the way the air clings to the walls in moss and mildew. In the summer, when the drought is in full swing, it catches the updraft and the wind shoots through cool and black. I lean into the bend and roll cigarettes for my friends, Joe and Ahmed. Joe because the arthritis has transformed his hands into hooked claws. And Ahmed because he doesn’t have any.

The day the kid drowns, we all stand at the tunnel entrance and cross our arms. Rain churns like the sea, rising to the top. Reckon you’d hafta hold yer breath for six minutes if you was gonna make it out the other side, Joe says. Took everything, spray cans an’ all. His cigarette hisses as it hits the water. Someone should call his mother, I say, but we’ve pooled our change for a Chiko roll, and besides, no one knows whether he has a mother. So we sit in the dull street light until the water has eased and the tunnel is clear enough for sleep and my friends begin to slip away. La nina, someone says.

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Why was this trunked? It's very nice, with great flow.