(no subject)
The first sentence is crucial, the first word is crucial, this document could potentially change the civilized modern world as we know it and, of course, I can't think of a single thing to write.
She sat next to her computer dripping with an unbelievably disgusting combination of sweat and rain. A completely open ended task left her with nothing but frustration. Peering out through her dirty window, she stared blankly down at the puddled street, just wishing an answer would manifest itself in a pattern of leaves. If only life were that simple. She took inventory of her workspace and cringed, thinking it was no wonder she hadn't gotten laid in what seemed like a year (but was more like three months.... okay, closer to four): empty water bottles, old receipts and flyers, ear plugs, a dirty cereal bowl complete with dirty spoon, groceries dotted with rain yet to be put away, a bag of twenty-something of those pink tin yogurt lids that would somehow turn into money for breast cancer research after being mailed in. Honestly, what kind of sick and twisted mind would hit that?
Her last few boyfriends flitted through her mind, and she was thoroughly disgusted. Were they finally having an impression on her? Was her lust causing her to emulate them, and everything about them down to their dirty little habits? Vivid flashbacks of rolling over just to have the tips of her fingers dip into three day old milk. God I miss being satisfied like that.
Her attention returned to the rainy day. In the time it took her to lapse momentarily into bitter loneliness and blind self-loathing, dusk had fallen and the street lights came on. That neon parking sign she'd many times before fantasized about destroying had already begun to flicker agitatedly. She suddenly had the urge to find her rifle and take that sign out, one neon letter by-- She stopped herself. Running her hands over her buzzed head, she sighed and muttered "NO ONE is going to EVER marry an ex-marine lady sharpshooter." She shook her head, calmed herself, and refocused on the procrastination of her burdensome work. As blank thoughts ran through her head, she mindlessly fingered her dog-tags, caressing each groove and indentation in the smooth metal, when something she spotted on the street out the window made her entire body freeze. She immediately recovered from her psycho-paralysis, glanced back at the empty word-processing document and thanked the lord her day had been unproductive. Her eyes scanned her desk again, her hands scrambling through the clutter for a pen and a piece of scrap paper. She quickly scribbled six words onto the back of a coupon for a haircut at the hair salon downstairs (ironic) and crumpled it up. She was still in the middle of finding an appropriate place to conceal it when, with a loud crack, her door was kicked in by a man dressed in all black and an olive green hat who suddenly stood before her and screamed "BOHEME!" before shooting her in the head point blank.
There are really only five sentences that are Andrew's, but they're pretty obvious. What do you think of the first page of my book?
She sat next to her computer dripping with an unbelievably disgusting combination of sweat and rain. A completely open ended task left her with nothing but frustration. Peering out through her dirty window, she stared blankly down at the puddled street, just wishing an answer would manifest itself in a pattern of leaves. If only life were that simple. She took inventory of her workspace and cringed, thinking it was no wonder she hadn't gotten laid in what seemed like a year (but was more like three months.... okay, closer to four): empty water bottles, old receipts and flyers, ear plugs, a dirty cereal bowl complete with dirty spoon, groceries dotted with rain yet to be put away, a bag of twenty-something of those pink tin yogurt lids that would somehow turn into money for breast cancer research after being mailed in. Honestly, what kind of sick and twisted mind would hit that?
Her last few boyfriends flitted through her mind, and she was thoroughly disgusted. Were they finally having an impression on her? Was her lust causing her to emulate them, and everything about them down to their dirty little habits? Vivid flashbacks of rolling over just to have the tips of her fingers dip into three day old milk. God I miss being satisfied like that.
Her attention returned to the rainy day. In the time it took her to lapse momentarily into bitter loneliness and blind self-loathing, dusk had fallen and the street lights came on. That neon parking sign she'd many times before fantasized about destroying had already begun to flicker agitatedly. She suddenly had the urge to find her rifle and take that sign out, one neon letter by-- She stopped herself. Running her hands over her buzzed head, she sighed and muttered "NO ONE is going to EVER marry an ex-marine lady sharpshooter." She shook her head, calmed herself, and refocused on the procrastination of her burdensome work. As blank thoughts ran through her head, she mindlessly fingered her dog-tags, caressing each groove and indentation in the smooth metal, when something she spotted on the street out the window made her entire body freeze. She immediately recovered from her psycho-paralysis, glanced back at the empty word-processing document and thanked the lord her day had been unproductive. Her eyes scanned her desk again, her hands scrambling through the clutter for a pen and a piece of scrap paper. She quickly scribbled six words onto the back of a coupon for a haircut at the hair salon downstairs (ironic) and crumpled it up. She was still in the middle of finding an appropriate place to conceal it when, with a loud crack, her door was kicked in by a man dressed in all black and an olive green hat who suddenly stood before her and screamed "BOHEME!" before shooting her in the head point blank.
There are really only five sentences that are Andrew's, but they're pretty obvious. What do you think of the first page of my book?