the instrument of joy
I was torn between doing the "progress? what progress?" version of listing my wsip, or just giving a quote from a few of them, and since the latter is easy and requires much less brain power, I decided to do that.
Quotes from the four works in progress I currently have open (I would like to say "I'm currently working on," but that might be stretching the truth a bit today):
It's not the first time they've slept in all their grave-digging, corpse-burning grime, but Dean can't face a cold shower at the moment. He drops his duffel, takes off his boots, and flops face down onto the crappy polyester comforter. It smells like cheap floral room freshener and cigarette smoke. Since he smells like he's been rolling around in a forty-year-old grave, he figures it's a wash. (Put No Trust in the Morrow)
He goes into the bathroom and is startled at the clutter. A lacy bra hangs off the towel bar, still damp from being washed, and there's a box of tampons on the toilet tank, along with a couple of black ponytail holders, a strip of condoms, and a bottle of moisturizer. It reminds him of the bathroom in the apartment he shared with Jess, and he feels a little pang of sadness. (This Is Not My Beautiful Life)
The first time Kara finally gets up the nerve to say, "Frak you," it gets her the back of the hairbrush across her face, a red welt that swells and stings for days.
Kara wears it like a badge.
Maybe she's crazy, too.
(Wait for love to cast the metal into bone)
"Sex, drugs, and poor choice in friends," she says, shrugging and taking a sip of club soda. "Not a very original story."
"We've all got our demons," Lindsay says, and Sam snorts soda up her nose. (Miss You All Wrong)
Eventually one or more of these may get finished. I hope.
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/145317.html.
people have commented there.
Quotes from the four works in progress I currently have open (I would like to say "I'm currently working on," but that might be stretching the truth a bit today):
It's not the first time they've slept in all their grave-digging, corpse-burning grime, but Dean can't face a cold shower at the moment. He drops his duffel, takes off his boots, and flops face down onto the crappy polyester comforter. It smells like cheap floral room freshener and cigarette smoke. Since he smells like he's been rolling around in a forty-year-old grave, he figures it's a wash. (Put No Trust in the Morrow)
He goes into the bathroom and is startled at the clutter. A lacy bra hangs off the towel bar, still damp from being washed, and there's a box of tampons on the toilet tank, along with a couple of black ponytail holders, a strip of condoms, and a bottle of moisturizer. It reminds him of the bathroom in the apartment he shared with Jess, and he feels a little pang of sadness. (This Is Not My Beautiful Life)
The first time Kara finally gets up the nerve to say, "Frak you," it gets her the back of the hairbrush across her face, a red welt that swells and stings for days.
Kara wears it like a badge.
Maybe she's crazy, too.
(Wait for love to cast the metal into bone)
"Sex, drugs, and poor choice in friends," she says, shrugging and taking a sip of club soda. "Not a very original story."
"We've all got our demons," Lindsay says, and Sam snorts soda up her nose. (Miss You All Wrong)
Eventually one or more of these may get finished. I hope.
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/145317.html.
people have commented there.