Meme of writing seven.
Shamelessy stolen from the delightful marthawells.
The rules:
1. Go to page 77 (or 7th) of your current ms
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy down the next 7 lines - sentences or paragraphs - and post them as they’re written. No cheating.
This is from my most recent WiP - The Black. Page 77 is the start of a new chapter, and 7 lines down exactly cuts out the first paragraph.
In fact, they told her so easily, this was a research station helping to craft a new generation of ship instrumentation. Immune to the vagaries of magnetic fields, solar radiation, deep space high energy particles. It was strictly hush hush, they really shouln't even be telling her this. But she was of their kind. She understood. She was one of them. And they would understand, in time, how untrue this was.
And so the ship remained sealed in the dock as she ate among them, talked with them, slept with them. They commented on her fur... so striking... and wondered at the dyes she must use. Some showed off their own dye jobs and ornaments... a few rare ones among the menial staff revealed ornamental scarring. She respected scars, she told them. Admired them. A couple bit hard at rolls of cloth as she added to their collection. She savored their willingness to submit, even eagerness. It was a shame that they would not have time to heal.
The first to die had been trouble. Asking questions that were difficult. Tracing the identity of the ship. Asking pointed questions about where she had been... and making suggestions about how she might keep him quiet. She found other ways.
She expressed sadness at the loss. Her victim had not been well liked, always rather pushy and unpleasant, a few confided to her later. Still, she said, it was a shame, especially so far out here. It might be weeks before the family found out. Many weeks, she was advised, for they were quite isolated. It was essential they be so far from shipping lanes, for the research involved very delicate instruments.
The next she killed she took far too much pleasure from to conceal the death in any way. But creative abuse of the food recyclers allowed the misdeed to simply vanish away. But unlike planets, on stations people do not simply vanish away.
She was afraid, she confessed in private moments with the station master. What had happened? Could it happen to her? How could anyone simply dissapear? But wasn't the soup particularly good today.
She learned about the equipment. What it did, and by observing, how to operate much of it to some degree. And she was very attentive when told of the dangers, and how to avoid them. And when the opportunity came... how terrible it was that someone so practiced in the use of them could have been so careless. She shuddered at how long it must have taken them to die, such a terrible fate.
The rules:
1. Go to page 77 (or 7th) of your current ms
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy down the next 7 lines - sentences or paragraphs - and post them as they’re written. No cheating.
This is from my most recent WiP - The Black. Page 77 is the start of a new chapter, and 7 lines down exactly cuts out the first paragraph.
In fact, they told her so easily, this was a research station helping to craft a new generation of ship instrumentation. Immune to the vagaries of magnetic fields, solar radiation, deep space high energy particles. It was strictly hush hush, they really shouln't even be telling her this. But she was of their kind. She understood. She was one of them. And they would understand, in time, how untrue this was.
And so the ship remained sealed in the dock as she ate among them, talked with them, slept with them. They commented on her fur... so striking... and wondered at the dyes she must use. Some showed off their own dye jobs and ornaments... a few rare ones among the menial staff revealed ornamental scarring. She respected scars, she told them. Admired them. A couple bit hard at rolls of cloth as she added to their collection. She savored their willingness to submit, even eagerness. It was a shame that they would not have time to heal.
The first to die had been trouble. Asking questions that were difficult. Tracing the identity of the ship. Asking pointed questions about where she had been... and making suggestions about how she might keep him quiet. She found other ways.
She expressed sadness at the loss. Her victim had not been well liked, always rather pushy and unpleasant, a few confided to her later. Still, she said, it was a shame, especially so far out here. It might be weeks before the family found out. Many weeks, she was advised, for they were quite isolated. It was essential they be so far from shipping lanes, for the research involved very delicate instruments.
The next she killed she took far too much pleasure from to conceal the death in any way. But creative abuse of the food recyclers allowed the misdeed to simply vanish away. But unlike planets, on stations people do not simply vanish away.
She was afraid, she confessed in private moments with the station master. What had happened? Could it happen to her? How could anyone simply dissapear? But wasn't the soup particularly good today.
She learned about the equipment. What it did, and by observing, how to operate much of it to some degree. And she was very attentive when told of the dangers, and how to avoid them. And when the opportunity came... how terrible it was that someone so practiced in the use of them could have been so careless. She shuddered at how long it must have taken them to die, such a terrible fate.