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maychorianThis is probably a bad idea.
Post a sentence (or two or a paragraph) from as many of your WIPs as you want, with no explanation attached.
1) John halted one step outside the motel door, and the keys fell from his hand and splashed down on the wet concrete.
The boy stood straight and pale, directly across from John in the aisle between the Impala and the car next to it. His arms hung at his sides and his face was blank and white where it wasn't bruised and bloodied. John stood there numbly, watching the rain bounce off him and sluice down his flesh.
"John Winchester," the boy said again, solemn and ringing. He spoke like someone who was used to being heard, a voice of command completely at odds with his pitiful, waif-like appearance. "Will you speak to me now?"
This time John was ready. He pulled his gun, pointed it, held it steady, and took one step forward.
2) Every Midwest town had a tornado warning siren, and most of them were tested at a certain time every week--Wednesday at noon, say, or Friday at five o'clock. When that mournful, two-tone wail began to rise Dean and Sam couldn't help but look up from whatever they were doing, interviewing a witness or eating at a diner or digging through musty books and worn newsleaf at a library. That high, mournful cry dug right down to the bone, sending a shudder through each, a crackle of old memories rising to the surface.
This siren wasn't rising on an hour of a half-hour. This siren was crying on a dusky evening at 8:17 PM, and Sam and Dean were in the middle of a hunt. Even as they ran up the stairs of the abandoned house, amped-up taser and fire axe in hand, they glanced up and tilted their heads to listen to the wail.
3) "Dean Dean Dean," John chanted softly, inching his hand closer to his son at a snail's pace, trying to get within reaching distance without the boy noticing. "Here, Deano Deano Deano. It's gonna be okay, I promise."
Dean flattened his now-tiny ears against his head and pressed even further back, squeezing Sammy between himself and the bottom of the counter. Then he hissed at his father.
"Dean!" John snapped, startled into reacting the way he would at any other time his eldest dared to give him a snotty attitude.
Bad move. Dean reared back and swiped his claws across John's hand, leaving a series of deep red grooves. John never would have thought that a kitten's claws could possibly wound him that deeply. It fucking hurt.
4) He knew that to outsiders his life would look shitty and small, living out of trunks and sketchy motel rooms, not much he could call his own beyond the clothes on his back and the brother at his side. People who had houses and cable and paintings on the wall, to them he would be an object of pity or ridicule, if they knew the particulars of his life. Missing out on so much. No safety cushion, nothing to fall back on. Just barely scraping by.
Dean knew abstractly that they didn't have much, but it didn't matter to him. He had enough. He had a purpose and a mission, a gun and a knife, a brother and a father. He liked free ice and Magic Fingers and the smooth rumbling roar of the Impala and pizza delivery on special occasions. It was enough. He had never looked beyond that. There were more important things: the next hunt, Sammy, surviving November every time it came back around like a wolf howling at the door.
Damn that girl, anyway, for making him feel like he was less, that his life wasn't enough, that he wasn't enough. That he was pathetic and neglected. With her big eyes and her questions, all "Don't you miss your dad?", and her utter lack of enthusiasm about what Dean found good in life. Maybe it was sort of his fault--he never should have hooked up with her to begin with, should have known better than to get in thick with a nice girl like that. Skanks and hos, those were the girls for Dean Winchester. He would never make that mistake again.
(There's also a Rain snippet with only two words in the doc ::facepalm::, and a secret thingy I'm not telling you about.)
Post a sentence (or two or a paragraph) from as many of your WIPs as you want, with no explanation attached.
1) John halted one step outside the motel door, and the keys fell from his hand and splashed down on the wet concrete.
The boy stood straight and pale, directly across from John in the aisle between the Impala and the car next to it. His arms hung at his sides and his face was blank and white where it wasn't bruised and bloodied. John stood there numbly, watching the rain bounce off him and sluice down his flesh.
"John Winchester," the boy said again, solemn and ringing. He spoke like someone who was used to being heard, a voice of command completely at odds with his pitiful, waif-like appearance. "Will you speak to me now?"
This time John was ready. He pulled his gun, pointed it, held it steady, and took one step forward.
2) Every Midwest town had a tornado warning siren, and most of them were tested at a certain time every week--Wednesday at noon, say, or Friday at five o'clock. When that mournful, two-tone wail began to rise Dean and Sam couldn't help but look up from whatever they were doing, interviewing a witness or eating at a diner or digging through musty books and worn newsleaf at a library. That high, mournful cry dug right down to the bone, sending a shudder through each, a crackle of old memories rising to the surface.
This siren wasn't rising on an hour of a half-hour. This siren was crying on a dusky evening at 8:17 PM, and Sam and Dean were in the middle of a hunt. Even as they ran up the stairs of the abandoned house, amped-up taser and fire axe in hand, they glanced up and tilted their heads to listen to the wail.
3) "Dean Dean Dean," John chanted softly, inching his hand closer to his son at a snail's pace, trying to get within reaching distance without the boy noticing. "Here, Deano Deano Deano. It's gonna be okay, I promise."
Dean flattened his now-tiny ears against his head and pressed even further back, squeezing Sammy between himself and the bottom of the counter. Then he hissed at his father.
"Dean!" John snapped, startled into reacting the way he would at any other time his eldest dared to give him a snotty attitude.
Bad move. Dean reared back and swiped his claws across John's hand, leaving a series of deep red grooves. John never would have thought that a kitten's claws could possibly wound him that deeply. It fucking hurt.
4) He knew that to outsiders his life would look shitty and small, living out of trunks and sketchy motel rooms, not much he could call his own beyond the clothes on his back and the brother at his side. People who had houses and cable and paintings on the wall, to them he would be an object of pity or ridicule, if they knew the particulars of his life. Missing out on so much. No safety cushion, nothing to fall back on. Just barely scraping by.
Dean knew abstractly that they didn't have much, but it didn't matter to him. He had enough. He had a purpose and a mission, a gun and a knife, a brother and a father. He liked free ice and Magic Fingers and the smooth rumbling roar of the Impala and pizza delivery on special occasions. It was enough. He had never looked beyond that. There were more important things: the next hunt, Sammy, surviving November every time it came back around like a wolf howling at the door.
Damn that girl, anyway, for making him feel like he was less, that his life wasn't enough, that he wasn't enough. That he was pathetic and neglected. With her big eyes and her questions, all "Don't you miss your dad?", and her utter lack of enthusiasm about what Dean found good in life. Maybe it was sort of his fault--he never should have hooked up with her to begin with, should have known better than to get in thick with a nice girl like that. Skanks and hos, those were the girls for Dean Winchester. He would never make that mistake again.
(There's also a Rain snippet with only two words in the doc ::facepalm::, and a secret thingy I'm not telling you about.)
