The idea here is to post the first lines from various WIPs, because this will magically cause them to become finished works. Um. Through incantation do we command the demon to appear.
(My brain's Project Anything But Grail continues. On the way to and from the climbing gym, I got bits and pieces of no fewer than three other projects. So give me another 400 words for the day.
Also, I climbed my ass off tonight. Got my project route from the bottom (not without falls, but I did the whole thing in sequence. Booyah. Also, six other routes were at least attempted, and all but one of them sent. I suspect, alas, that the one I cannot do is my new project. Because I can nearly do it.)
Dawn scraped pewter across the black wave-caps of the night Atlantic on the morning Carl Hughes learned how his lover died.
The Steles of the Sky:
Ragged vultures spiraled up a cherry sky.
"Reproduction is an ultimately sociopathic act."
(Oh look, the helpful brain is still at it. The virtual reality rent novel now has a title.)
You ain't gonna like what I have to tell you, but I'm gonna tell you anyway.
Danilaw Bakare's third-day job was as a classical musician.
A Reckoning of Men:
Vethulf and Skjaldwulf did not get along.
"The Death of Terrestrial Radio"
The first word was meant to be spoken quietly, if it should ever be spoken at all.
"On Safari in R'lyeh and Carcosa with Gun and Camera"
"We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you'd flunked Algebra."
(Those two have been stalled for so long I have almost given up, but I like the titles as much as Richard Brautigan liked "The Amelia Earhart Pancake.")
Last, the bullet blooms against steel.
On Sunday when Dolly awakened, she had olive skin and black-brown hair that fell in waves to her hips.
The vampires rolled into Needles about three hours before dawn on a Tuesday in April. They sat as far apart as they could get, jammed up against the doors of a '67 Impala hardtop the color of dried blood, which made for acres of bench seat between them. Billy, immune to irony, rested his fingertips on the steering wheel, the other bad boy arm draped out the open window. Mahasti let her right hand trail in the slipstream behind a passenger mirror like a cherub's stunted wing.
(You get a whole paragraph because it's new, and because blackaire's car is the protagonist. Also, "Young Bone" is totally the working title only.)
Barry Petrewski lived in a hole in the ground.
The murdered woman's scream sounds like a teakettle.
Someone had left flowers again.
...I think that's everybody. Now I'm going to curl up under my slunk and watch Criminal Minds.