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Favorite lines you've written
- Thread starter Charlie Horse
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Yes, so sorry. I got caught in a time/space warp and thought I was in the First Three Sentences Thread. Time to beam out and hide in a corner.
LOL, it's ok. I've been lost for years lol.
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Thank you, PandaMan. One more, just for g.p. From my WIP (*sexual content* 
):
Okay, cliffhanger number one. That night I was laying in bed and every time I shut my eyes I saw that bra strap. I was only four but I remember wondering what was under that bra. I think I got my first boner that night which is nuts because I was only four but it happened and that’s not even the real cliffhanger. The real cliffhanger is I knew one day that girl would find me again, just in time to save me. I was counting on it.
Crazy, but there you go.
):Okay, cliffhanger number one. That night I was laying in bed and every time I shut my eyes I saw that bra strap. I was only four but I remember wondering what was under that bra. I think I got my first boner that night which is nuts because I was only four but it happened and that’s not even the real cliffhanger. The real cliffhanger is I knew one day that girl would find me again, just in time to save me. I was counting on it.
Crazy, but there you go.
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It's a little long, but . . .
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They moved into the living room through a doorway without a door, the stink even worse now, a combination of blood, shit, and decomposing flesh. With the light coming from the kitchen they could make out a large body on the floor between a coffee table and a sofa. Jack located the light switch and flipped it on, and they went for a closer look.
It was a man close to three hundred pounds, lying facedown, dressed in a bloody white T-shirt, blue jeans, and white socks. A pair of scuffed work boots stood by one end of the sofa, like the guy had taken them off to ease his aching feet after a hard day’s work and set them out of the way.
“He died with his boots off,” Bud said. “So sad.”
Jack examined the scene. A hole in the sofa back with a dark stain around it. Two holes in the guy’s back, the one on the right, large—an exit wound—the one on the left, small—an entrance wound. One bloody hole in the back of the guy’s head. A large, dark circle in the carpet under the body.
“How do you see it?” Bud said.
“The first bullet went through his chest and out his back while he was sitting down,” Jack said, pointing to the hole in the sofa. “He tried to get away,” pointed to the small entrance wound, “but the second bullet caught him in the back and put him down right where he is. He lay there for a while, still alive. If he’d been dead, he wouldn’t have bled so much into the carpet.”
“Yeah, that’s gonna leave a stain.”
----
They moved into the living room through a doorway without a door, the stink even worse now, a combination of blood, shit, and decomposing flesh. With the light coming from the kitchen they could make out a large body on the floor between a coffee table and a sofa. Jack located the light switch and flipped it on, and they went for a closer look.
It was a man close to three hundred pounds, lying facedown, dressed in a bloody white T-shirt, blue jeans, and white socks. A pair of scuffed work boots stood by one end of the sofa, like the guy had taken them off to ease his aching feet after a hard day’s work and set them out of the way.
“He died with his boots off,” Bud said. “So sad.”
Jack examined the scene. A hole in the sofa back with a dark stain around it. Two holes in the guy’s back, the one on the right, large—an exit wound—the one on the left, small—an entrance wound. One bloody hole in the back of the guy’s head. A large, dark circle in the carpet under the body.
“How do you see it?” Bud said.
“The first bullet went through his chest and out his back while he was sitting down,” Jack said, pointing to the hole in the sofa. “He tried to get away,” pointed to the small entrance wound, “but the second bullet caught him in the back and put him down right where he is. He lay there for a while, still alive. If he’d been dead, he wouldn’t have bled so much into the carpet.”
“Yeah, that’s gonna leave a stain.”
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Since it looks like this book'll never be published, I thought I'd share my favorite line. It's a young adult book about a girl who writes stories she can then enter. Maybe it's corny, I don't know, but I'm obsessed with it.
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She wanted to go back into her story. There was nothing for her here with this Calloway. She wanted the one from the story, the story that oozed out of her like sticky desire, no shape, no bones, just want-want-want and wish-wish-wish, rhythmic like a heartbeat, hopes made real and sickly sweet.
---
She wanted to go back into her story. There was nothing for her here with this Calloway. She wanted the one from the story, the story that oozed out of her like sticky desire, no shape, no bones, just want-want-want and wish-wish-wish, rhythmic like a heartbeat, hopes made real and sickly sweet.
Here is one from my WIP.
I took the job at Circuit City. Remember in Shawshank Redemption when Andy Dufresne crawled through a mile of shit to freedom? My job was like that, except without the freedom or the joy of having my boss put a bullet through his head. Did you get the reference or am I being obtuse?
I took the job at Circuit City. Remember in Shawshank Redemption when Andy Dufresne crawled through a mile of shit to freedom? My job was like that, except without the freedom or the joy of having my boss put a bullet through his head. Did you get the reference or am I being obtuse?
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She said that the ocean bled salt into her wounds. She said that she could have sat on that rock until time folded in.
--
Horses are not made to carry a rider’s weight. Even the shoes we attach to their soles must be fixed, pounded, nailed, changed. Their legs weaken from the years; their coats grow dim. It is an unnatural thing. But we often ask unnatural things of ourselves.
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That was what the west was like. From emptiness to emptiness, the land would return to its cradle of loneliness and we would all scatter like deer.
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Horses are not made to carry a rider’s weight. Even the shoes we attach to their soles must be fixed, pounded, nailed, changed. Their legs weaken from the years; their coats grow dim. It is an unnatural thing. But we often ask unnatural things of ourselves.
--
That was what the west was like. From emptiness to emptiness, the land would return to its cradle of loneliness and we would all scatter like deer.
From BAD MAGIC:
Because I'm a sucker for pretty boys.
Now that was a wonderful description.
A heaping helping praise on all of the above. Every one of these snippets made me want to keep reading.
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As they watched the pickup drive off, Richard turned to Erin. “What’s that saying about the best laid plans?”
“The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft a-gley,” Erin replied in perfect Gaelic brogue.
Richard raised his eyebrows in appreciation at the performance and then sighed. “I think I’m going to have that tattooed on my forehead. I suck at this.”
“The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft a-gley,” Erin replied in perfect Gaelic brogue.
Richard raised his eyebrows in appreciation at the performance and then sighed. “I think I’m going to have that tattooed on my forehead. I suck at this.”
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And for your information, I am not some sloppy 28 Days, Amy Winehouse, Lifetime drama alcoholic. I just like to drink when I party. And to relax. And also during holidays. Okay I like to drink a lot, but I’m no friggin alcoholic.
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From BAD MAGIC:
Because I'm a sucker for pretty boys.
I agree with Beth, this is quite stunning. Is this a romance?
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Yes, it's a romance. It's an m/m fantasy adventure... thingy.
Thanks for the kind words! I've spent the past few days slaving over the last chapter and it's good to have a pick-me-up.
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Ha. Good to see more of this after having just read your new opening in the Other Thread. <checking to make sure I'm in the right one> I'm liking the voice here. And the denials.
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A bit o' this:
‘What do you want to do when we get home?’ he asked, with his ankle against my ankle, and I said, ‘Maybe watch a movie?’ which was the wrong thing to say, judging by the way his mouth turned down while his eyes stayed up. We would watch someone spurt platitudes on a stage, the way we always did, and our bodies would knock against each other but not answer.
‘What do you want to do when we get home?’ he asked, with his ankle against my ankle, and I said, ‘Maybe watch a movie?’ which was the wrong thing to say, judging by the way his mouth turned down while his eyes stayed up. We would watch someone spurt platitudes on a stage, the way we always did, and our bodies would knock against each other but not answer.
Ooh, I like that last sentence. I get the impression, based on the first sentence, though, that it's really she who doesn't want to answer his knock.
I couldn’t change the accident or stop you from dying or bring you back, but I could control this—my little piece of reality. So I let myself drown for thirty seconds—thirty seconds to drain the crazy, to shake the fear and the guilt and the anxiety that threatened to overtake me—and then I came up for air.
I like this. It's got voice, it's got internal conflict. Snowpea, if you don't mind me saying so, I think this makes a pretty good opening to the story too.
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From CHERRY:
We stayed at the dike for another hour. At one point, we got out of the van and walked over to the gate. We both leaned against it, eyes shut, feeling the breeze off the water. I don’t know what Steve was thinking but I know what I was thinking: I can’t save you, Cherry.
You’re already dead.
We stayed at the dike for another hour. At one point, we got out of the van and walked over to the gate. We both leaned against it, eyes shut, feeling the breeze off the water. I don’t know what Steve was thinking but I know what I was thinking: I can’t save you, Cherry.
You’re already dead.
Okay, because kkbe keeps posting those wonderful snippets . . . Here's a continuation of my previous.
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Jack leaned across the coffee table, a hand on the surface for support, and reached for the wallet in the body’s hip pocket.
“Careful,” Bud said. “Smells like he shit himself.”
Jack got the wallet, opened it, and looked at the driver’s license.
“Is he your guy?” Bud said.
“Yes. Gavin Howard Chippendale.”
“You’re kidding. A name like that, this was a mercy killing."
---
Jack leaned across the coffee table, a hand on the surface for support, and reached for the wallet in the body’s hip pocket.
“Careful,” Bud said. “Smells like he shit himself.”
Jack got the wallet, opened it, and looked at the driver’s license.
“Is he your guy?” Bud said.
“Yes. Gavin Howard Chippendale.”
“You’re kidding. A name like that, this was a mercy killing."