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This is what happens when you have LOTS of writers on your flist.
Post a single sentence from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick). No context, no explanations. No more than onesentence! paragraph, because fuck rules, man, seriously.
I'm summarily culling anything that's actually completely dead because a) this isn't fic amnesty, and b) only one of these is a fic in any event. Go team me!
And ALSO, FUCK MICROSOFT SO HARD. Files that I created on this computer cannot be opened by doubleclicking. Remind me to shut off auto-updates FOREVER, because this is EXACTLY the sort of shit Microsoft pulls. ALWAYS.
*ahem*
1) It was just that Gabe was the one who had the bright smile and the gun in his hand, was the one that most people saw first. William was the one who stood a little behind him, eyes shining and hands busy. It worked for them.
2) This is the sound of your bridges burning.
3) But nothing caught his eye, not until he looked at the fire blossom he’d touched the cigarette to, and saw the rim of white light around the edge of a petal sculpted out of radiance. Nothing else was that colour, and he looked closer, curious to know what it meant - though he was going to be fucking pissed if it was just something like “this is what happens when man and god interact, you idiot,” he mentally noted.
4) The pain explodes again and again and new and inventive things are done to what is, essentially, a body - or a bag of meat - hung from a hook and there is no one at all inside any longer to stop it or feel it or even care. The body is too broken, the man who lived in it fled, and that does not stop the creatures that continue to destroy it, for they are bent on destruction of everything that they see or touch or sense in any way. It makes it less pleasant that there is nothing screaming, but not even that fact is enough to stop them.
5) When Geth was seventeen, but still a boy, and a savior even if no one else knew it yet, he raced across a queerly awake city.
6) He smiled and stood, taking another, very sharp knife, out of his bag. "The people who believe they can rape, they can murder, they can do anything they like to us because we're not quite human. Did you ever study history?" No pause for a response to a rhetorical question. "Did you never wonder why the idea of the witch survived when there was so much effort put to destroying them? Did you never consider that perhaps we are your witches?"
7) And the irony, of course, is that I am far more of a betrayer than he is.
8) "Yeah," he said, tapping his cigarette in the ashtray by the bed that chronically overflowed, "and I'm fucking well afraid of temptation. I'm smart enough to be, too."
9) He sighed and attacked a particularly stubborn undead rat - you could tell by the patches of fur clinging to bones - with a torch from the wall sconce. The Igor wanted to modernise, to lay in gas lines, but he didn't see the point. For one thing, these buggers were getting bolder, and they bloody well needed the torches to fight them off. He'd found one in his coffin the other day, and Igor denied responsibility, but the other option was that it had raised the lid itself - of course, it had been about the size of a badger.
10) Something hard was under her fingernails, and she worked at it in the slightly-flickering light of the overhead, first with a cloth and then with her nails. Whatever it was, slightly brownish and hardened, rathe than hard in its own right as she'd initially thought, it was also stubborn and hard to get out.
11) "I flirt with myself a lot," he said. "It hasn't come to much so far. I refuse to buy myself flowers."
In sum: I write in first person too much. I write on fantasy themes too much. I write female characters too much. I write about God too much. I try to write vampire comedy too much. GO ME.
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
I'm summarily culling anything that's actually completely dead because a) this isn't fic amnesty, and b) only one of these is a fic in any event. Go team me!
And ALSO, FUCK MICROSOFT SO HARD. Files that I created on this computer cannot be opened by doubleclicking. Remind me to shut off auto-updates FOREVER, because this is EXACTLY the sort of shit Microsoft pulls. ALWAYS.
*ahem*
1) It was just that Gabe was the one who had the bright smile and the gun in his hand, was the one that most people saw first. William was the one who stood a little behind him, eyes shining and hands busy. It worked for them.
2) This is the sound of your bridges burning.
3) But nothing caught his eye, not until he looked at the fire blossom he’d touched the cigarette to, and saw the rim of white light around the edge of a petal sculpted out of radiance. Nothing else was that colour, and he looked closer, curious to know what it meant - though he was going to be fucking pissed if it was just something like “this is what happens when man and god interact, you idiot,” he mentally noted.
4) The pain explodes again and again and new and inventive things are done to what is, essentially, a body - or a bag of meat - hung from a hook and there is no one at all inside any longer to stop it or feel it or even care. The body is too broken, the man who lived in it fled, and that does not stop the creatures that continue to destroy it, for they are bent on destruction of everything that they see or touch or sense in any way. It makes it less pleasant that there is nothing screaming, but not even that fact is enough to stop them.
5) When Geth was seventeen, but still a boy, and a savior even if no one else knew it yet, he raced across a queerly awake city.
6) He smiled and stood, taking another, very sharp knife, out of his bag. "The people who believe they can rape, they can murder, they can do anything they like to us because we're not quite human. Did you ever study history?" No pause for a response to a rhetorical question. "Did you never wonder why the idea of the witch survived when there was so much effort put to destroying them? Did you never consider that perhaps we are your witches?"
7) And the irony, of course, is that I am far more of a betrayer than he is.
8) "Yeah," he said, tapping his cigarette in the ashtray by the bed that chronically overflowed, "and I'm fucking well afraid of temptation. I'm smart enough to be, too."
9) He sighed and attacked a particularly stubborn undead rat - you could tell by the patches of fur clinging to bones - with a torch from the wall sconce. The Igor wanted to modernise, to lay in gas lines, but he didn't see the point. For one thing, these buggers were getting bolder, and they bloody well needed the torches to fight them off. He'd found one in his coffin the other day, and Igor denied responsibility, but the other option was that it had raised the lid itself - of course, it had been about the size of a badger.
10) Something hard was under her fingernails, and she worked at it in the slightly-flickering light of the overhead, first with a cloth and then with her nails. Whatever it was, slightly brownish and hardened, rathe than hard in its own right as she'd initially thought, it was also stubborn and hard to get out.
11) "I flirt with myself a lot," he said. "It hasn't come to much so far. I refuse to buy myself flowers."
In sum: I write in first person too much. I write on fantasy themes too much. I write female characters too much. I write about God too much. I try to write vampire comedy too much. GO ME.
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