The Line of the Day--NO CRITTING

Not really a line, no dialog. Posted this on FB as Tuesday Teaser. Kelli and the JTF are making an assault on the compound of one of the Russians.

She spotted the first man as he came around the far corner, a machine pistol pointed in her direction. Before she could get her weapon up, Cole fired once and the man crumpled to the ground. Three more shots echoed from the southwest corner, a fourth and fifth from somewhere in the distance. The second man came running from around the wall and began firing wildly, bullets tearing up the lawn at her feet. She hit the ground and returned fire, striking the man in the right leg and torso. He screamed out in pain as he dropped his weapon and fell forward in a heap.

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Okay, way more than one line again. Language warning.

When he opened his eyes again he was in a van, sprawled across the back seat, still wearing the hospital gown and the funny non-slip socks. He was cold, despite the cotton blanket somebody had thrown over him. He sat up and looked out the window and had to grab the back of the seat in front of him to keep from falling back over. Gray snowbanks and pine trees on the side of the highway. Again. Both hips hurt. There were two guys in the van, neither of them wearing ski masks. Aside from the driver, there was a guy sitting on the seat in front of him, but turned around, facing backwards.
“How you doing?” asked the man in front of him.
“Where am I?” He squinted. Big guy, curly black hair, bushy eyebrows. “Who the hell are you?”
“That’s Tommy.” The guy motioned with a huge greasy hand. “I’m Denny.” He offered to shake.
Kevin ignored his hand. “What the fuck is going on?”
“We busted you out.”
“You did what?”
“You’re escaping,” said the guy in the front, looking in the rear view mirror. This guy had red hair, but he was the same build, big, like a football player.
“Fuck that.”
Denny raised his massive eyebrows. “You don’t want to escape?”
“Of course not. I can barely sit up. I’m not in any condition for a run. What is wrong with you guys?” He narrowed his eyes. “Who sent you?”

Reworking my opening scene as the scene I'm working on is being a pain in the rear and I need to do something new. I've came up with this. It's not the opening paragraph, and I don't know where it is going to go yet, but I really like it.

Call them what you like. Coppers. Suits. Pigs. They are the thin blue line. The ones who find the truth in the smallest details. The ones who comfort the grieving families, remember the victims that everyone else leaves behind. They catch killers and put them behind bars. The ones who do not rest until a case is closed. The everyday heroes that the public forgets. Brothers. Sisters. Friends, who all stand together in the fight for justice. No one is above the law. They're just the ones who are willing to put their lives on the line for it.

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Is this too much? Amanda is studying a picture she'd taken of a crime scene, where a groom had been killed by a polo mallet alongside a poisoned polo pony:

Finally, my gaze skipped over Placida's body and I looked at José Luis. He reclined on his back, between the pony's head and outstretched forelegs. He looked startled, his brow slightly knit, as if he were annoyed. The discarded syringe nestled in the shavings, not far from his open hand. If not for the grotesque dent on the side of his head, he could easily have looked very alive.

No, that wasn't true. When I painted animals or humans, I started with the eyes. Even in a photograph, eyes held a light of their own that I always tried to emulate on paper and canvas. José's eyes were mere glass marbles, reflecting nothing.

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[FONT=&quot]“My name is Indra and I think death is a pretty harsh penalty for a rusty old necklace.”

Sounds cheesy right?
[/FONT]

Jeaniegard said:

[FONT=&quot]“My name is Indra and I think death is a pretty harsh penalty for a rusty old necklace.”

Sounds cheesy right?
[/FONT]

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Sounds intriguing.

You know how the department is, enough gossip for three high schools on a slow day.

I've been AWOL for a bit, took a trip around the southwest U.S., saw Carlsbad Caverns and the Grand Canyon. Now back to writing. You guys are amazing! Love the lines, lots of intrigue and great imagery. No new lines for me today, so far, though I did do some writing. Keep 'em coming.

It’s night now, and they’re coming. I feel it in the dim flicker of the hallway lights, in the concrete under my bare feet, in the cold metal of Derek’s pistol held tight in my palm.

They’re coming, and I’m waiting for them.

More lines from Frostbite - the third Kevin Markinson book.

“That would be a normal husband, Kevin.” She turned to look at him. “You wouldn’t cheat. I understand that about you.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to get back to work.”
“I have some money for you, for the horse.”
She blinked. “You what?”
He dug in his pocket and pulled out the wad of bills.
“Cash?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re handing me a wad of cash? How much is here?”
“It’s eight k.”
“Cash.”
“Yeah, you can see that, can’t you?”
“Kevin.”
“I think you can just deposit it. Because it’s under ten, they don’t have to report it. Declare it on your taxes as a gift.”
“I don’t even want to think about this kind of stuff.”
“I wanted the kid to have the horse.”
“Where did you get… Never mind, I don’t want to know.” She tucked the bills into her purse. “I really do have to get to work now.”
“Okay.” He opened the car door.
“I love you.”
He turned back towards her, leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “I love you too.”
“Be careful.”

Nice lines. Very intriguing, thedark.

Haven't had a lot in the past couple of days, but started a new chapter and got this. Kelli and Greg are just finishing breakfast when he pulls a surprise on her.

Kelli scooped up the last remnants of yolk with her toast and smiled at Greg. “Perfect sunny side up eggs, I never could get the hang of them, always end up overcooking them.”

“You just need the touch,” he said and grinned. “More coffee?”

“Yes, please,” she said and held up her cup.

He picked up the pot, walked over to her and filled the cup. He moved around to the other side, sat and filled his own cup. “You know, we could make this permanent.”

She spit out the sip of coffee she had just taken, coughed and stared at him. “What are you saying?”

“Just that we’ve been doing this for a while now, going between here and my place, and well,” he said and shrugged.

“Are you suggesting that we move in together?”

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Just reviving this thread.

Been a while for me, too, Ken. I popped in, just for a second, and couldn't stop reading. Great lines, you guys.

Little piece of something I wrote a few weeks back. Guanyin again (yes, her name keeps changing), talking to her brother about a diplomat whose manner put her off.

“He talks to me like you do, sometimes. Like I’m helpless, or too young to understand.”

At that Yakov grinned. “Did you swear at him?”

It was her turn to glower. “Why do you do it? When you know I’m not helpless, when you know I understand all this better than you do. Why do you treat me like a child?”

He shrugged and looked away. “Because I love you, I suppose, and I don’t like that things are hard for you. I want to do it for you, even when I can’t.”

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It was as if time slowed down, and his Uncle’s words echoed in his mind – Every man deserves death, it is life that is a gift.

Current WIP - High Fantasy with a middle age feel to it.

Jeaniegard said:

[FONT=&quot]“My name is Indra and I think death is a pretty harsh penalty for a rusty old necklace.”

Sounds cheesy right?
[/FONT]

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It does not. I'm also intrigued.

Nice jobs everyone. I've been so busy revising, I haven't had time to really even lurk, much less come up with something new. Here's something angsty and sad to a stupid degree. Had a rough week. The MC's daughter died as the result of a car accident.

"I sat on that cold, plastic seat and waited for someone to tell me it was over. Someone was with me. Anj, maybe? It's weird the things I remember and the things I don't. Someone walked by carrying a plastic cooler. One of those red and white Thermos ones. I knew, knew it carried my baby's heart. My whole universe was contained in that plastic cooler. The guy - kid, really - who carried it could have been Asian, black, or white. I have no clue. But I know he wore khaki pants and a navy blue short-sleeved polo. The collar stuck up on the right side. For one moment, I wanted to run after him. Take it all back. But I didn't. It wouldn't have made a difference. So I let him go. And let her heart become someone else's universe."

tarak, it's so sad. Sorry you had a rough week. (((hugs)))

I haven't submitted in a while, either. . . this is from MY FRIEND MIKE:

I didn’t want to see it, none of it; not one single, solitary thing. Steve nodded solemnly and told me he understood, completely. He'd tacked that onto the end of it: “completely,” he’d said, and when he said that . . .

Imagine pity, embarrassment, and grief mashed together in a bowl, then somebody reaches in there and scoops out a big fist of it, then smears it all over a person’s face; plasters it all over a person’s face--

That’s what I saw on Steve’s face when he said that word to me.

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Great stuff everyone! Love this thread.

After taking some time off after publishing my latest, I'm back at it today. Pulled out one that I started about a year ago and dusted it off. This one is a bit different as I'm writing two different POV's; the MC and the serial killer. Should be interesting if I can work it out. Here is a little sample. The MC is a retired San Antonio Detective who is called back when the killer resurfaces. Sorry, but this may get a bit longish as I'm doing two entries. The first is a bit from the prologue and the serial killer, the second is from the MC.

It was an especially busy night on the San Antonio Riverwalk, and he had his choice of targets. The cool October air felt good on his face, and he felt more alive tonight than he had in years. The urge was on him again, this time with a vengeance; more intense than all the times before.

He took another sip of his Guinness as he watched the crowd jostle for position on the walkway in front of him. A pretty young blonde broke away from the human conveyor belt, brushed past him without a glance and headed into the bar. He turned in his seat and watched as the door closed behind her; he had found his target. Now it was just a matter of time; he would have to wait, and he was very good at waiting.

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Cal Jessup looked up as his administrative assistant, Delilah, walked in to his office and told him that he had a call from the Police Chief in San Antonio; he thought she was pulling his leg. She wasn’t. The Chief was direct and to the point, he wanted Cal back in San Antonio. There was a reason he had left, and now there was a reason to go back.

It had been more than six years since the last victim was found, and now the killings had started again. A woman had been found floating downriver, in the Mission Reach, south of downtown. Her throat had been slit and the Medical Examiner had confirmed that the wounds were a match to the previous victims, a single incision from a scalpel; with medical precision.

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More from the current WIP, The Riverwalk Murders. Once again, this is from the killer's POV.

Other than Christmas, Halloween was his favorite time of the year. Everyone dressed in costume on the Riverwalk, which made it easier for him to go unnoticed. He had missed his target the previous night, the red headed waitress at Waxy O’Conner’s, but he wouldn’t miss her tonight. The urge had to be sated.

He made his way through the crowd, careful to stay away from the river, and headed for his goal. As he passed Rita’s on the River, he spotted the distinctive green umbrellas and pushed past a group of gawking tourist. His heart raced as he neared his destination, pounding in his ears. It wouldn’t be long now, and he would have another trophy.

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Another snippet from the current WIP. Cal is sitting in a local dive bar trying to drown his sorrows.

He knew that the whiskey wouldn’t kill the hurt he was feeling, but it did a good job of numbing it. The jukebox kicked in as he threw back his third shot and Hank Junior began singing Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound. He snorted at the irony.

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Nice jobs, everyone!

More from the WIP. This is from the killers POV.

Warning: Graphic content

He took his time with her, something he hadn’t done with the others, and savored the moment. It was a new feeling for him, something stronger than the urge, and he liked it. He laid out his tools but instead of slicing her throat, he sat and watched her chest rise and fall, matching his breathing to hers.

When the urge began to overpower this new feeling, he lifted the scalpel from his kit and gently cut off a lock of hair. Again this was something new for him, yet somehow it felt right. As her eyes began to flutter, he knew that he must do what the urge wanted. He pressed the scalpel against her alabaster neck and drew it across. She sputtered as the blood began to flow from the gash, but only for a second, and then she lay quiet.

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