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oroburos69I saw this on a friend's journal, and I couldn't resist!
Post a sentence (or paragraph) or two from as many of your WIPs as you want, with no explanation attached.
“I can’t get it out of my hair,” Cho told Grace, scrubbing another palm full of shampoo over his hair.
“I have no idea how it even got into my hair,” she replied resentfully, glaring at Rigsby through the steamed glass. “It’s tacky and clumping and—ugh.” Grace formed a moue of disgust as her fingers caught on the dried semen stuck in her long hair. She scrubbed the stiff band of hair between her fingers, trying to soften it.
Rigsby cracked open the shower door. “Your phones are ringing.” He was repulsively chipper, Grace decided, for a man who’d had drunk sex with his best friend the previous night. At the very least he should be hung over, she thought in irritation.
A shadow detaches from the corner. Sam halts, watchful. He does not speak, does not question the intruder. The oddness of the witching hour lies heavy in his bones and he knows this shadow. He knows this man.
Everything freezes, the dancing curtains suddenly rigid and the shadowed man stands as still as death. Sam’s eyes are drawn inextricably towards the ceiling. A glister of silver floats over the barren mattress.
“I broke my phone,” she explains to Rios, resting the bottle against Salem’s lower lip and tilting it up so that a trickle of liquid pours into his mouth. Her other hand wound up resting against his cheek, holding him still. Salem’s eyes are half-closed and he presses his face against her hand so lightly that Alice doubts he knows that he’s doing it.
The tentacles wanted him. He stared deep into the depths of his computer, skin shivering from the omnipresent eyes watching him. He knows they're coming, coming to land all over him. Munch felt a slick touch on his neck. He jerked away, grabbing his hot coffee. "Get back you alien pervert!" he roared, snatching the flexible shaft from his neck and throwing it away.
Is it even possible to listen fiercely? I mean, you’re listening. It’s a fairly passive activity to be doing fiercely. It’d be like sitting passionately, or sleeping ferociously.
Couldn’t it just mean that I was listening really hard? Come on, it sounds cool.
Huh. Fewer than I thought, only five of them.
Post a sentence (or paragraph) or two from as many of your WIPs as you want, with no explanation attached.
“I can’t get it out of my hair,” Cho told Grace, scrubbing another palm full of shampoo over his hair.
“I have no idea how it even got into my hair,” she replied resentfully, glaring at Rigsby through the steamed glass. “It’s tacky and clumping and—ugh.” Grace formed a moue of disgust as her fingers caught on the dried semen stuck in her long hair. She scrubbed the stiff band of hair between her fingers, trying to soften it.
Rigsby cracked open the shower door. “Your phones are ringing.” He was repulsively chipper, Grace decided, for a man who’d had drunk sex with his best friend the previous night. At the very least he should be hung over, she thought in irritation.
A shadow detaches from the corner. Sam halts, watchful. He does not speak, does not question the intruder. The oddness of the witching hour lies heavy in his bones and he knows this shadow. He knows this man.
Everything freezes, the dancing curtains suddenly rigid and the shadowed man stands as still as death. Sam’s eyes are drawn inextricably towards the ceiling. A glister of silver floats over the barren mattress.
“I broke my phone,” she explains to Rios, resting the bottle against Salem’s lower lip and tilting it up so that a trickle of liquid pours into his mouth. Her other hand wound up resting against his cheek, holding him still. Salem’s eyes are half-closed and he presses his face against her hand so lightly that Alice doubts he knows that he’s doing it.
The tentacles wanted him. He stared deep into the depths of his computer, skin shivering from the omnipresent eyes watching him. He knows they're coming, coming to land all over him. Munch felt a slick touch on his neck. He jerked away, grabbing his hot coffee. "Get back you alien pervert!" he roared, snatching the flexible shaft from his neck and throwing it away.
Is it even possible to listen fiercely? I mean, you’re listening. It’s a fairly passive activity to be doing fiercely. It’d be like sitting passionately, or sleeping ferociously.
Couldn’t it just mean that I was listening really hard? Come on, it sounds cool.
Huh. Fewer than I thought, only five of them.
