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  1. #11
    This is from my latest effort...... Most people try not to think about death much, well, not their own anyway. Maybe it's denial that comes from fear of the inevitable and the unknown that lies beyond. On the other hand, it could just be that dwelling on your own mortality is just too damn depressing! Andy was more inclined to see it as the latter. Like most people still in their early thirties he felt safe, almost indestructible, like death was always a lifetime away.

  2. #12
    From my as yet untitled WiP


    That was all then, but in the cold light of another sober day, sat there in the cramped booth of this faux American diner, not yet three days into our trip, I wondered, not for the first time, if the whole thing had been a big mistake.

    Man there are a lot of commas there. It's another run-on sentence for Lewdog
    "Lister, that is my private, personal, private diary; full of my personal, private, personal things."

  3. #13
    Quote Originally Posted by felix View Post
    Nothing fancy, as yet. But I have hope for the story.
    It's my favorite of all the excerpts posted so far, so there's that.

    I'll submit a paragraph of my own one I get home. The only thing I can reference at work is my first draft, and that's not so great.
    "Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Benjamin Franklin

    "I do not over-intellectualize the production process. I try to keep it simple: Tell the damned story." - Tom Clancy

  4. #14
    WF Veteran Bilston Blue's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2010
    Bilston, the Black Country, in the heart of England
    Untitled long short story. 2nd paragraph. Deep breath, y'all...

    He counted a dozen rows of eight identical seats each, all bearing Frank Edward Tylecote CBE neatly stencilled onto their rears, which were separated by an aisle along which camp stewards and salon-tanned stewardesses and their busy trolleys were replaced by an assortment of doctors and nurses and administrative staff. At the front of the waiting area, positioned centrally, altar-like, stood a small beech desk onto and from which the doctors, nurses and (occasionally) the administrative staff deposited and lifted files containing records of those who were or had been seated in the plane-like waiting area. The desk matched exactly that behind which sat two brightly rouged administrative staff bearing practiced and shiny smiles whose main job appeared to be to greet in an enthusiastic manner likely thought unnecessary and over-the-top by most of their guests considering the needle-based treatments which necessitated the attendance of most of the Frank Tylecote Wing’s patients, and to point their guests in the right direction from reception, which was either to go to the end of the corridor and bear left and follow the signs or to go to the end of the corridor and bear right and follow the signs (directions which were given hostess like, arm extended and palm open, as if informing an aeroplane’s passengers of the cabin’s emergency exits’ locations). Delaney wondered if anyone had thought to put a sign at the end of the corridor and save the NHS the salary of at least one of the well-rouged girls. Above both desks (and most likely behind other desks or in assorted locations throughout the hospital and other mid-Staffordshire NHS Foundation Trust’s premises), Kay Burley laughed with two guests whilst behind them footage rolled of some annual festival which included the rolling down a steep hill of a giant cheese which was chased by several dozen young men dressed and shoed quite inappropriately for such a task, and who, in the most part, slipped or over-balanced and followed the cheese down the ten per cent and grassed slope in a series of uncoordinated and dangerous gambols which, fortunately, seemed to cause no great damage to any of their flailing and, in some instances, trailing limbs. There’d be something bad. There often was. A breaking news announcement at the foot of the screen followed by Burley’s interruption of whatever story she was plodding through at the time. Those tuning in after the newsbreak would be updated by the scrolling yellow ticker bar. Eventually, there’d be overhead footage broadcast live from the Sky copter before local airspace was closed, following which the footage would be replayed until eyewitness interviews had been recorded and placed on heavy rotation. Bad news follows Burley, shadows her every shift and gives little cause for her to show off her enhanced and joker-esque smile, which when flashed seems despairingly false (which, actually, it is). Their laughing would stop soon enough. Or is it an undeserved reputation? A couple of cringe-inducing interviews topped with an ill-timed announcement to those searching the Machynlleth countryside for April Jones added to the inevitability that twenty-four hour news channels must always peddle the bad stuff because viewers would switch off in their droves if confronted with too much happiness due to their innate inability to revel in other people’s good fortune and be happy for those more fortunate than themselves. Delaney mopped his brow again and unstuck his shirt. There’d be something.
    Last edited by Bilston Blue; August 30th, 2013 at 10:39 PM. Reason: spelling
    "I think a life is a plot. It's probably the elementary plot. I came across a quotation of Patrick White, the Australian writer, just about the time I needed it. He said he never bothers with plot. He just writes about life 'limping along toward death.' That made me feel much better, to keep this in my mind."

    Carol Shields.

  5. #15
    Join Date
    Jun 2013
    In the squares of the city, in the shadow of the steeple.
    From a short story, coming soon to a workshop near you:

    I smash the half-full bottle on the hearth, then stop to examine photographs over the fireplace—our trip to Aruba, a wedding portrait, a nurse wheeling Sandy and a newborn Penelope out of the hospital beneath a canopy of shiny, metallic balloons. I look for clues, something that would tell me she wasn’t happy, that something was wrong. But she’s smiling and radiant in all of them. Then I remember—I made the prints and bought the frames after Dianna noticed our house was devoid of family photos and keepsakes. Sandy only arranged them inartfully on the mantelpiece. That was a sign. Probably one of hundreds I missed. For a bit of theater, I lay the photos flat, one-by-one. But Sandy isn’t looking. She’s staring at the silent TV—an ad for a lawyer that reads “Been in an accident?”
    Last edited by Myers; August 30th, 2013 at 11:13 PM.

  6. #16
    Creative Area Specialist (Fiction) Folcro's Avatar
    Join Date
    Apr 2013
    Long Island
    There was no horizon; there was no ground at all past the school's property: The football field, the parking lot and the building were all that remained.

    The school was floating in darkness.

    It couldn't be real--- it wasn't real.

    Carl grabbed the window, shook it open. He climbed out, looked ahead. A hundred yards of grass. Then the grass stopped. He walked. Tingles came as he made distance from the building, like there was nothing to hold him to the ground. All he could see were stars. He held his attention on the ground, and that kept him balanced. Then he looked forward--- the edge was ten feet away. He took a step and stood on his toes, trying to peer over it. He heard a noise. A rumble. The ground cracked beneath his feet. He stumbled back as a strip of ground broke off and fell below. He was looking down into nothing--- no stars, just blackness.
    For any who are wondering...

    Show: Stephanie's eyes rose and her lips curved down as Melanie ambled through with intentional grace. Men's eyes widened ablaze; Stephanie's narrowed in darkness. Her snarling lips caressed the edge of her glass.

    Tell: Stephanie was jealous of Melanie.

  7. #17
    Ugh. I've narrowed it down to three that I like, but we're only supposed to post one. Guess this one will do.

    Emotions tore through his mind, chaotic and unrestrained. He felt loss, though he had never had anything to begin with. He felt betrayal, though he could only blame his own misconceptions. He felt hollow, though he had never been whole. He felt panic, though the world was as painfully real as ever. But most of all, Markus felt despair – lonely, empty, hopeless despair. It was shattering to realize that he had been broken all along, far longer than the few short months since Nicole's death. Ever since he had learned of the metabots' true nature, his life had been torn apart. Distress, conflict, uncertainty, and agony were all that were left. The supposed relationship with Nicole had obscured those feelings, but they had remained underneath, clawing at him from inside. Now that she was gone, there was nothing hiding his ruin anymore. The veil had been pulled away.
    "Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Benjamin Franklin

    "I do not over-intellectualize the production process. I try to keep it simple: Tell the damned story." - Tom Clancy

  8. #18
    “Are we there yet?”
    “Keith Bishop Young, if you say that one more time I’m going to rip your eyeballs out through your mouth,” responded James the Driver.
    “That’s offensive to blind people, man.”
    “Not all blind people had their eyes ripped out their heads through their mouth.”
    “No kidding.”
    “I’m just saying, man. I met a blind guy once and he’d probably find that offensive.”
    “I doubt it.”
    “Are we at least close?”
    “You’ve got a device in your pocket that literally acts as a portal to all the information in the known universe. Figure it out.”
    “But that’s all the way in my pocket, and you’re right here.”
    “Your pocket is closer to you than I am.”
    “But… effort.”
    “You are the laziest man on the face of the earth, Keith Young.”
    “Just gimme an estimate.”
    “I don’t know. Half an hour sound right, Jake?”
    “Just about.”
    “Half an hour?! We’ve been in here for like fifty half-an-hours already.”
    “Actually, it’s been like four,” retorted Jake the Navigator.
    “Same thing.”
    “Not at all, actually.”
    “Hey, El, where’s this hotel I’m going to again?” asked James.
    Ellen the Hotel Hunter peered up from her book, “It’s the Hilton.”
    “The one you can see from the park?”
    Keith waited a few seconds to see if someone else would say it. They didn’t, so he did.
    “There’s only one Hilton, man. It’s THE Hilton.”
    “Keith Young you are the luckiest man on the face of the Earth because if I wasn’t driving you would have so many black eyes by now that people would think you had some sort of condition that made your eyes constantly puffy and purple.”
    “You’re getting awfully specific with your threats. I’m afraid you might follow through one of these days.”
    “I will.”
    Last edited by Terry D; September 1st, 2013 at 08:48 PM.
    "Don't forget the happy thoughts
    All you need is happy thoughts
    The past tense, past bed time
    Way back then when everything we read was real
    And everything we said rhymed"

    -Chance the Rapper, "Same Drugs"

  9. #19
    WF Veteran Sunny's Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2011
    Canada until Hawaii
    Her face struck the inside of my chest like a hammer.

    Her beauty was so bare, so naked, like I was seeing her with no clothes on, and yet I couldn’t look away. It was in the way her soft blonde curls kissed the hollow of her collarbone. The way her delicate white toes curled in the sand like she was a Prima Ballerina standing center stage with only herself as the audience.

    My heart burned with every loud thump; each beat pulling me toward her, each beat pushing me away from everything I knew.

    The crickets chirped in the distance, far behind the tree-line. The waves lapped against the shore. Cherry blossoms swayed on the breeze tonight. I would have traded places with the perfumed flowers, with the soft winds if I could, just as an excuse to caress her skin. Heat rose from the top of my stomach, to the tip of my tongue. What would she have felt like next to my bare flesh? I reached out to touch her shoulder with a shaky hand, and her breath caught as in surprise. I pulled back. Had she seen me?

    This was it, this was her moment, this was going to be our moment.

    I didn’t take my eyes from her to see what she saw, that traveling star in the sky tonight. The shooting star that would be hers. The sparkle reflecting from her watery eyes was enough for me. Her whispers were quiet, but the breath from her lips was visible. She spoke each word into the cold empty air. Could I find the courage to cradle her, to take away her pain?

    My jaw clenched. Was I ready to show myself to her?

    Her tears made her cheeks glow in the moonlight, magnifying her sadness into a new realm of beauty. I was sure the image of her at this moment would be one I would keep forever; one I would find in the darkness even if I were blind.
    Last edited by Sunny; August 31st, 2013 at 07:34 PM.
    for kyle: Freel Barter Braby Hidden Content

  10. #20
    It seemed a goodly amount of every man’s life was apportioned to waiting for women to get ready. Dan could appreciate the fact that it took time to put on makeup and get your hair perfect to the strand, but it still felt just a little like they were all doing it on purpose.
    I posted that elsewhere, but it's still holding top spot as my favourite.

    The next paragraph is good too, but doesn't do quite as well without context.
    Last edited by popsprocket; September 2nd, 2013 at 02:17 AM.
    I have an extensive knowledge of Mean Girls quotes.


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