"You know, this is strange," said Linda Dawson, business woman, in a sensible black skirt and blouse, suitable for mourning, "but what makes me the saddest right now is that we never got any of her recipes.
Original story. Very short. Totally creepy. It's actually all written; I just need to muster up the bravery to edit it to hell.
They knew civilization had come to an end when the toilet paper ran out.
Original story. This is about zombies and the dumbasses who fight them.
The runes on the floor glowed and crackled like a fly trapped in a bug zapper and Sam thought shit, Dean and squeezed off the rest of the clip, bang bang bang.
Supernatural. Bodyswap fic. I WILL SAY NO MORE. I actually kind of want to finish this one, but it won't be happening in the near future.
Looking back on it, the mistake—his mistake—was obvious.
* * *
"You're not busy now, I take it?"
* * *
"The first thing you need to know is that you should never eat any place where you can't smell what's cooking from three streets away," Adrik announced.
The preceding three are different scenes from the same original story, which wants to be extremely long despite my protests. They're intensely boring, as far as opening lines go. The first two pieces will never get finished, insofar as they now exist--I was just writing experimentally in an effort to get a feel for the characters, and the resulting snippets ended up clumsy and too different from what I was aiming for. The third one, though, is from a piece that I might conceivably finish in the foreseeable future, although that won't actually be the first line if/when it's finished.
It wasn't like he couldn't see it, not like kids who ended up on the news sometimes for falling down holes they didn't know were there.
Original story. I kind of want to call it a fairy tale, but that doesn't seem entirely accurate, either. It's about someone who almost drowns in a wishing well. Exciting! The beginning probably needs to be rewritten, though.
He stood there barefooted in the road dust, arms painted with the red-smear corpses of mosquitoes, eyes hidden in the shadows of their own recesses.
Original story. Pretty fucked up. I want so badly to finish this one; I thought of it during the first week of summer, and it came to me so intensely and vividly. But I'm really struggling with certain bits of it, and it's sadly wanting for an ending. This won't be the actual first line when it's done, either.
It's a pretty big deal when Chekov finally turns eighteen.
LOOOOOOOOOL SKETCHIEST FIRST LINE EVER. Star Trek. ID-fuckin-K what to even do with this one.
And now I will wallow in my shame.