Aug. 1st, 2009

unknownfate: (imaginary friend)
The WIP meme: post a snippet from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick). No context, no explanations.




1. It made sense, he thought, staring at the sigil of the waxing moon. Black and white, the white overcoming the darkness. He thought of the fabric again and wished he had brought it with him. And more than that, more than just half a moon, swelling into something whole and pure, but not quite there yet. It made sense, which was a rare enough that it left him feeling a little giddy. Finally, finally, answers that felt true.

2. He crumpled slightly forward, but his grin stayed on. The holes in his head were closing, but she could still see the jagged edge of his splintered skull in a few places. Her free hand shot out, and her fingers dug into the bullet holes, past the edges of bone, and into the soft warmth of his brain. Even then, the sound he made was more of wonder than one of pain. His grip on her throat faltered as hers dug in tighter. She jerked out of his hand and spun him, slamming his head into the wall. His eye, framed by her thumb and index finger, refocused on her.

3. Under the smell of the cigar was an unfamiliar scent, something like musk and gun oil with just a splash of whiskey. Manly, he thought with an inward smirk, but where was the man?

4. She was huge and resting neatly on the border between ethereally beautiful and freakishly horrifying. There were spots down her sides, white on white and her throat throbbed with her pulse as she tilted her head to look down at them. Her eyes were tiny and reflective black. She had some frills along her throat like a mudpuppy and all around her was the sound very much like someone humming far away down a tunnel.

5. Briared tendrils swayed gently without a breeze and a few of them reached for him as he passed. Vampire roses, he thought with a grim internal chuckle. If they got hold of him, they’d bury their thorns in him and drink his blood until he was dry. Then, the blooms would be red for a few days before they’d fade to black and be hungry again.

6. Now, he was gasping and shivering, chilled under a layer of sweat. He had had vivid dreams before, but never anything like this, full-sensory and linear. He had never been able to remember thinking of where his blue suit should be taken in at the shoulder to make it hang right, had never had to spend time getting used to the size and weight of his own body, and it was his own body, definitely his. There had been some confusion on that in his dream.

7. "You really don't like them, do you?" He had settled down into the moss pillow. Ivy turned her sharp gaze on him.

"It's a matter of giving back as good as I get," she told him. "I'm a mirror for them. With an edge, of course." Her smirk came back. "Everybody knows it's bad luck when you aren't careful with a mirror."

8. He could feel her mouth moving against his skin, but couldn’t tell what she was saying. Was he hurting her? He had to be hurting her. That’s what he did. Even now, the monster part of him was gnashing its teeth that there wasn’t enough of her. It wanted to rip her open and spread her around so there was more to wallow in.

9. The anger grew and rumbled within her until she was sure her gown couldn’t hold her. It would split along with her skin and she would spew her wrath out in a flood and drown all the world in it. The thought was viciously pleasant to her. When the codger bowed to carry out her wishes, her only thought was the exposed back of his scrawny neck. He’d die in a flash, the old dried up thing. Her youth and her strength flared up in her, singing in her ears.

10. It had happened fast. He had passed the crossroads and had been given a heartbeat to register the sight of the huge black dog standing in the lane before the world had exploded into halogen-bright pain. He imagined that it was like being struck by lightning, the blinding blaze of light, the impact, and the burning.

11. He was all angles and planes, stitched skin jumping under her hands no matter how delicate she tried to be. The old scars were worse across his torso. She wasn’t sure where they ended and his muscle tone began, like they had been inflicted by whoever had hacked his abdomen out of granite.

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