WiP Meme
Yay! Another bandwagon! *dances* (Nicked from pretty much everyone)
The meme:
Post a single sentence from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick). No context, no explanations. No more than one sentence!
I didn't think I had all that many WiPs, but whaddya know, there's loads! More than this, actually. It says no context, so I'll limit myself to saying this is a mixture of Pros, LoM, Doctor Who and original fic. Enjoy! :D
It’s an aspect of himself that he’s deliberately repressed, to the point where most who know him would tend to have him down as over-cautious, but actually he gets off on those life-threatening moments of uncertainty that form an intrinsic part of police work.
Doyle smiled, and if his teeth were slightly gritted, his grin a bit too forced, Bodie was too drunk to notice or care.
But it was late, he was tired, and the room was just spooky enough that pulling the duvet over his head and ignoring the shadows was definitely not going to work.
He’d walked across the rest room to settle himself next to Doyle on the battered old leather sofa, draped an arm over Doyle’s shoulders with an insouciance that anyone coming in unexpectedly would easily mistake for casual camaraderie, and brought the big guns to bear.
The Old Man was standing with his back to the door, staring out of the window, and there was something instinctively chilling about the slump of his shoulders, an impression reinforced by the lifeless, shuttered expression Cowley presented to Doyle as he turned to face him.
Deserted gloomy backstreet, swirling mist pierced by needles of white from determined streetlamps, fine drizzle clinging to clothes, dripping off skin.
Looking down into the well-kept back garden, he could see his mother now, sun-hat carelessly askew, kneeling beside the riot of roses which had been Dad’s pride and joy.
Even in the one simple word, there is a malevolent self-satisfaction, a repressed glee, that is profoundly unsettling.
The meme:
Post a single sentence from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick). No context, no explanations. No more than one sentence!
I didn't think I had all that many WiPs, but whaddya know, there's loads! More than this, actually. It says no context, so I'll limit myself to saying this is a mixture of Pros, LoM, Doctor Who and original fic. Enjoy! :D
It’s an aspect of himself that he’s deliberately repressed, to the point where most who know him would tend to have him down as over-cautious, but actually he gets off on those life-threatening moments of uncertainty that form an intrinsic part of police work.
Doyle smiled, and if his teeth were slightly gritted, his grin a bit too forced, Bodie was too drunk to notice or care.
But it was late, he was tired, and the room was just spooky enough that pulling the duvet over his head and ignoring the shadows was definitely not going to work.
He’d walked across the rest room to settle himself next to Doyle on the battered old leather sofa, draped an arm over Doyle’s shoulders with an insouciance that anyone coming in unexpectedly would easily mistake for casual camaraderie, and brought the big guns to bear.
The Old Man was standing with his back to the door, staring out of the window, and there was something instinctively chilling about the slump of his shoulders, an impression reinforced by the lifeless, shuttered expression Cowley presented to Doyle as he turned to face him.
Deserted gloomy backstreet, swirling mist pierced by needles of white from determined streetlamps, fine drizzle clinging to clothes, dripping off skin.
Looking down into the well-kept back garden, he could see his mother now, sun-hat carelessly askew, kneeling beside the riot of roses which had been Dad’s pride and joy.
Even in the one simple word, there is a malevolent self-satisfaction, a repressed glee, that is profoundly unsettling.