None of my stories are ripe, and I'm starting to feel like a slug for not working, since, you know, I handed in the Carnival revisions six weeks ago.
So now, I will apply the time-honored technique of public shame. The WiP first-line meme, more like a first paragraph in a couple of places. Perhaps a little exposure will help them to ripen.
André Deschênes bent over files at his desktop, brow furrowed as he sorted documents into the J folders. Tiny green-lit blips streamed across his interface, filling the target. He was intent enough that he jumped when Maryanne bumped the door open with her hip, though he didn't look up until she set a tin tray on the steel edge of his desk.
The napkin-covered outline of a revolver lay beside the coffee pot, the china cup, and a doughnut on the gold-rimmed plate.
"Dark on Wednesdays" a/k/a "Babylon, And On"
The Tower beside the gold-glass ziggurat rose through a veil of transplanted tropical jungle plants, complete with richly scented orchids in concealed pots, to scrape a desert sky burned almost colorless by the intensity of the Nevada sun.
"Chatoyant," said of a mineral's luster: "containing numerous hair-like inclusions aligned to produce 'catseye' figures in reflected light."
(A Don Sebastien story, and all I have is this one line and a page of notes.)
"Gretchen & Tamara Go Bowling"
Too easy by half, but a girl's got to eat.
(I have no plot for this yet. It might have a shoggoth. That's all I know.)
"Love Among the Talus"
In the land of the shining empire, in a province north of the city of Messaline and beyond the great salt desert, a princess with a proverbially tip-tilted nose lived with her mother, the Dowager Queen. The province was very wealthy. The princess was very beautiful. The future looked very dark.
(This is my "cold rock sex" story.)
The dead man sat in a wing-backed chair before a cold fireplace. His rooms were dark and still.
(This is an Abby Irene story, with Jack and Sebastien too.)
"The Death of Terrestrial Radio"
The first word was meant to be spoken quietly, if it should ever be spoken at all.
Mrs. John Adams looked to her sewing.
(And that is exactly all I have of that story so far.)
Untitled "Beauty & the Beast" riff
Sandy loam clung in the cleats of her hard rubber soles as she limped on to the wooden causeway. Good earth, that road ran through; the river must flood across the cornfields at her back in the spring. The low retaining wall beneath the palace on the island told her as much. She left little packed divots of that earth behind as she walked forward, boards springy under her step, her attention focused on the waving of the causeway, the scent of the breeze off the land behind her, the blue of the river on either side.
Not on the square whitewashed towers of the palace on the island. Not on the fairytale pewter gleam of its graceful domes, clad in beaten silver. Not on its proud spires and banners, not the low dark archway set askew of the road that led her inside.
She'd have all the time in the world to get used to those.
"On Safari in R'lyeh and Carcosa with Gun and Camera"
I've got nothing but a title. But oh, how I love that title.
*puts the stories in a paper bag on top of the refrigerator with an apple or two and hopes*