- Joined
- Nov 23, 2011
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- kkelliewriteme.wordpress.com
Here's another blurb from my book.
We were alone in the room, but she looked at me like Rhonda was standing right behind her. She quickly averted her eyes. “I … can’t talk to you, Eve.”
I sat down in the empty chair next to her. “Jenn, it’s me. We were in the Brownies together. We had Barbie parties together. We were friends.”
“I know, Eve. But …” She stood up quickly. “I just can’t. I’m sorry.” She then walked around me and out the door.
I sighed in frustration, staring at the empty classroom. Welcome to Rhondaland. It’s a magical place.
I'm particularly fond of the last line.
But she’d done what she had to, Rose told herself. Some people were likely to drown in this rising tide of death, but not her.
This paragraph made me laugh.He went to the FAQ section and browsed the list. Unfortunately “Who to contact in the event of the end of the world,” was nowhere to be found.
And this one is kind of terrifying.Sleep beckoned like a warm summer breeze. With his feet up on a table he drifted off. And in his dream, he heard the cries and screams of children; the howls of cats; the yowls of stray dogs; the banging of tribal drums; the roar of an extinct species…and in the distance, a bell.
You can add me to the list of people who like this description. But this isn't even close to what I consider purple, so maybe I'm not the best judge.They caught up to Fiero at a place where the ocean attacked the land, forever rebuffed by a spiked shield of jagged cliffs. It was a grey cold place that smelled of brine and somehow, despite the sweltering summer heat, Shadow shivered.
*I know this is probably overly purple and may have to be ripped out during edits, but I love it.
Oy, I just wrote this for CHERRY. Please forgive the length. I'll probably delete this tomorrow.
This guy wakes up one morning, shuffles to the bathroom to take a leak and catches a glimpse of his sorry-ass self in the mirror. He’s looking into his own bloodshot eyes and in that moment, for the first time in his miserable fucking life, he knows he’s never going to find what he’s been looking for. He doesn’t know what the fuck that is, he just knows he’s never going to find it.
So he brushes his teeth and pads barefoot into his bedroom, opens the closet, pulls down a certain paper bag and sets it on his bed. Then he gets dressed, brushes his hair and finds his keys, but before he leaves the house, he reaches into the cupboard above the stove and grabs his beloved bottle of 151. Because he knows what he’s doing as soon as he gets home, and he knows he has to be drunk on his ass to do it.
I didn’t know what I was looking for, but now I do. I was looking for the thing everybody on this earth is looking for, whether they have the balls to admit it or not: to love and be loved by somebody, no matter what that means.
Even if I don’t fucking deserve it.
They caught up to Fiero at a place where the ocean attacked the land, forever rebuffed by a spiked shield of jagged cliffs. It was a grey cold place that smelled of brine and somehow, despite the sweltering summer heat, Shadow shivered.
*I know this is probably overly purple and may have to be ripped out during edits, but I love it.
He went to the FAQ section and browsed the list. Unfortunately “Who to contact in the event of the end of the world,” was nowhere to be found.
Sleep beckoned like a warm summer breeze. With his feet up on a table he drifted off. And in his dream, he heard the cries and screams of children; the howls of cats; the yowls of stray dogs; the banging of tribal drums; the roar of an extinct species…and in the distance, a bell.
This kind of goes with my last post:
If Revis Barkley had his way, the message alert sound would be more like someone with pneumonia trying to hock up a lung. But for some stupid reason the stupid little bell had wormed its way into our stupid collective consciousness and wouldn’t leave; like that little old man in the shipping department who refused to retire.
Please don't delete this, unless the story refuses to accept its inclusion. Seriously, this is powerful stuff. Your introspection of the human condition is profound, which makes sense given what a brilliant character writer you are.Oy, I just wrote this for CHERRY. Please forgive the length. I'll probably delete this tomorrow.
This guy wakes up one morning, shuffles to the bathroom to take a leak and catches a glimpse of his sorry-ass self in the mirror. He’s looking into his own bloodshot eyes and in that moment, for the first time in his miserable fucking life, he knows he’s never going to find what he’s been looking for. He doesn’t know what the fuck that is, he just knows he’s never going to find it.
So he brushes his teeth and pads barefoot into his bedroom, opens the closet, pulls down a certain paper bag and sets it on his bed. Then he gets dressed, brushes his hair and finds his keys, but before he leaves the house, he reaches into the cupboard above the stove and grabs his beloved bottle of 151. Because he knows what he’s doing as soon as he gets home, and he knows he has to be drunk on his ass to do it.
I didn’t know what I was looking for, but now I do. I was looking for the thing everybody on this earth is looking for, whether they have the balls to admit it or not: to love and be loved by somebody, no matter what that means.
Even if I don’t fucking deserve it.
Oy, I just wrote this for CHERRY. Please forgive the length. I'll probably delete this tomorrow.
This guy wakes up one morning, shuffles to the bathroom to take a leak and catches a glimpse of his sorry-ass self in the mirror. He’s looking into his own bloodshot eyes and in that moment, for the first time in his miserable fucking life, he knows he’s never going to find what he’s been looking for. He doesn’t know what the fuck that is, he just knows he’s never going to find it.
So he brushes his teeth and pads barefoot into his bedroom, opens the closet, pulls down a certain paper bag and sets it on his bed. Then he gets dressed, brushes his hair and finds his keys, but before he leaves the house, he reaches into the cupboard above the stove and grabs his beloved bottle of 151. Because he knows what he’s doing as soon as he gets home, and he knows he has to be drunk on his ass to do it.
I didn’t know what I was looking for, but now I do. I was looking for the thing everybody on this earth is looking for, whether they have the balls to admit it or not: to love and be loved by somebody, no matter what that means.
Even if I don’t fucking deserve it.
I shall not delete it. But posting something long here is a selfish indulgence on my part,
*whew*I've done it and nobody came down on me with a hammer or anything, so I guess you're safe.
It's not a gun?
I haven't posted here in awhile and now feel intimidated by you guys- but what the hey- This is short and out of context but I'll post it anyways, 'cause I kind of like it;
Kale's sanity balanced on a table of air.
And from the same WIP:
“We are highly fallible creatures, Jude, prone to misconceptions, misdirection and prejudices. Facts and logic only go so far. When they fail, sometimes all we have to go on is faith.”
Intimidated? No way. Really good stuff, sheadakota.I haven't posted here in awhile and now feel intimidated by you guys- but what the hey- This is short and out of context but I'll post it anyways, 'cause I kind of like it;
Kale's sanity balanced on a table of air.
And from the same WIP:
“We are highly fallible creatures, Jude, prone to misconceptions, misdirection and prejudices. Facts and logic only go so far. When they fail, sometimes all we have to go on is faith.”
ETA: Or not.
Thx for saying that, ViridianChick.Some good lines here.
@kkbe, I know you didn't post it here, but I liked those lines from your signature yesterday. The one about the tangerines. I like that a lot of the emotion comes naturally from the situations you create. That poor guy, saying "I've met someone" and then "a male prostitute." I can feel the awkward.
So I won, right? Do I get a prize?It's a Browning 9mm Hi-Power semiautomatic pistol; a finely crafted, reliable, accurate weapon with a double-stack, 13-round capacity magazine.
I shall not delete it. But posting something long here is a selfish indulgence on my part, and for that I apologize. Sometimes it helps to see what I've written on something other than a word doc, I don't know why.
I've done it and nobody came down on me with a hammer or anything, so I guess you're safe.