(no subject)
The WIP meme: post a snippet from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick). No context, no explanations.
1. She had strong, small hands that smelt like fresh raw sausages and talcum powder. She smiled at him, and he fell a little bit in love. The bloke in the next bed had laughed too, said something about legs being cost efficient, too. Pete mentioned that he had always planned to renovate the legs, and finally had an excuse. A chrome fit out, with flames maybe. No, said the guy. Racing stripes. They did exchange a lot more bad puns, which Sam blamed on the medication, before he got moved to a different room.
2. “What kind of tea, Samson?” Patrick is setting an electric kettle in its cradle. “English breakfast, Irish breakfast, Welsh breakfast,” his voice is muffled when he leans into the fridge, but it doesn’t slow him down, “Isle of man breakfast, Earl grey, Count black, Duke puce, lobster suchong, Turkish apple tea, Trojan pear tea, Scotch broth, anything you like.”
“Mediterranean marmoset chai?” Sam lays the guitar across his lap. It’s been painted too, little mythical creatures cavorting around the edge.
“Is that like Red Sea lemming chai?”
3. I’m a casual drinker. The kind that goes out for a drink with friends and wakes up six weeks later in a bathtub full of ice in Bangkok, desperately trying to bid for my own kidneys on ebay. Again.
4. "What's his problem?" Ella stared at the tall guy, folded onto the couch, clutching his throat and bleeding from somewhere around his eye. It was seeping into his white shirt, blossoming. The goth girl rubbed his knee, smiling.
"Bill's not used to vocal chords."
5. "What is that? Is that what I think it is?" He tilted his head at me. "Is that god-awful-cheap-as-shit-nasty-ass peach schnapps?" He reached for it, but I held on. "If I had known we were flashing back to the good old days, I would have-"
"They weren’t good days, I said." His cocky head tilt melted, the guilt in his eyes spilling down his face onto his shirt.
6. “Steven. It’s been,” she can’t remember how long it’s been, she can’t remember how old she is. He clears his throat in the silence, averts his eyes, looks at her again, completes the dangling sentence fragment, “A while.” Pause, rewind, playback, “It’s been a while.” There’s a big, shining silence in front of them, like a desert road, including road kill.
7. “I’ve got to tell you, this kind of thing isn’t entirely necessary. I would do almost anything you ask. I thought you knew that.” Her face was lined with moonlight, just enough to make out a sneaky smile.
“You’re just saying that so I un-cuff you.” He tugged his wrist and the shackles clinked merrily against the bedpost.
“No, no, they’ve already left an embarrassing bruise. I’m growing to enjoy them really. I’m thinking of wearing the bed into work tomorrow, maybe start a new trend.”
8. “You said, ‘Life is simple. Breathe, eat, sleep, shit, reproduce and die. Everything else is just a bonus.’ You remember that?” His face twitched, a flicker frown to half-second smirk to the original blank.
“No. But sounds like something I’d say.”
9. He's leaving a trail of gasoline down the length of a hall and the girl keeping watch, walking along with him, wielding a shovel. He is still not wounded, but her white shirt is now splattered with something dark. Distant shrieks, at least one desecrated corpse in the background. Without looking up from the gasoline,
Boy:
I can’t believe I’m gonna die without ever having left this shithole town.
Girl:
(also not looking from her guard work) For a second there, I thought you were gonna complain about your virginity.
Boy:
That too.
Close-up on a gnawed off arm as the boy splashes it with gasoline.
10. He followed her into the bathroom, waving his pants. "I've not had sex in a car since I was a plod, and I seriously doubt you'll be paying my drycleaning bill!"
"I'm sorry, I can't take a man wearing sock suspenders seriously."
1. She had strong, small hands that smelt like fresh raw sausages and talcum powder. She smiled at him, and he fell a little bit in love. The bloke in the next bed had laughed too, said something about legs being cost efficient, too. Pete mentioned that he had always planned to renovate the legs, and finally had an excuse. A chrome fit out, with flames maybe. No, said the guy. Racing stripes. They did exchange a lot more bad puns, which Sam blamed on the medication, before he got moved to a different room.
2. “What kind of tea, Samson?” Patrick is setting an electric kettle in its cradle. “English breakfast, Irish breakfast, Welsh breakfast,” his voice is muffled when he leans into the fridge, but it doesn’t slow him down, “Isle of man breakfast, Earl grey, Count black, Duke puce, lobster suchong, Turkish apple tea, Trojan pear tea, Scotch broth, anything you like.”
“Mediterranean marmoset chai?” Sam lays the guitar across his lap. It’s been painted too, little mythical creatures cavorting around the edge.
“Is that like Red Sea lemming chai?”
3. I’m a casual drinker. The kind that goes out for a drink with friends and wakes up six weeks later in a bathtub full of ice in Bangkok, desperately trying to bid for my own kidneys on ebay. Again.
4. "What's his problem?" Ella stared at the tall guy, folded onto the couch, clutching his throat and bleeding from somewhere around his eye. It was seeping into his white shirt, blossoming. The goth girl rubbed his knee, smiling.
"Bill's not used to vocal chords."
5. "What is that? Is that what I think it is?" He tilted his head at me. "Is that god-awful-cheap-as-shit-nasty-ass peach schnapps?" He reached for it, but I held on. "If I had known we were flashing back to the good old days, I would have-"
"They weren’t good days, I said." His cocky head tilt melted, the guilt in his eyes spilling down his face onto his shirt.
6. “Steven. It’s been,” she can’t remember how long it’s been, she can’t remember how old she is. He clears his throat in the silence, averts his eyes, looks at her again, completes the dangling sentence fragment, “A while.” Pause, rewind, playback, “It’s been a while.” There’s a big, shining silence in front of them, like a desert road, including road kill.
7. “I’ve got to tell you, this kind of thing isn’t entirely necessary. I would do almost anything you ask. I thought you knew that.” Her face was lined with moonlight, just enough to make out a sneaky smile.
“You’re just saying that so I un-cuff you.” He tugged his wrist and the shackles clinked merrily against the bedpost.
“No, no, they’ve already left an embarrassing bruise. I’m growing to enjoy them really. I’m thinking of wearing the bed into work tomorrow, maybe start a new trend.”
8. “You said, ‘Life is simple. Breathe, eat, sleep, shit, reproduce and die. Everything else is just a bonus.’ You remember that?” His face twitched, a flicker frown to half-second smirk to the original blank.
“No. But sounds like something I’d say.”
9. He's leaving a trail of gasoline down the length of a hall and the girl keeping watch, walking along with him, wielding a shovel. He is still not wounded, but her white shirt is now splattered with something dark. Distant shrieks, at least one desecrated corpse in the background. Without looking up from the gasoline,
Boy:
I can’t believe I’m gonna die without ever having left this shithole town.
Girl:
(also not looking from her guard work) For a second there, I thought you were gonna complain about your virginity.
Boy:
That too.
Close-up on a gnawed off arm as the boy splashes it with gasoline.
10. He followed her into the bathroom, waving his pants. "I've not had sex in a car since I was a plod, and I seriously doubt you'll be paying my drycleaning bill!"
"I'm sorry, I can't take a man wearing sock suspenders seriously."