Share the last line you wrote!

With the help of Google we nail down a menu as we walk – jacket potatoes, and stuffed capsicums, and veggie skewers and coleslaw – and Patrick ventures bravely into the melee on several one-man missions, and forty minutes later I push our overloaded trolley out onto the footpath with a childbirth groan.

Bonnie veers off sharply, like a fighter plane breaking formation. ‘You’re so embarrassing,’ she hisses.

He sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“Hm. Too bad we don’t have time for a complicated subject. Not like a two-hour drive or anything.”

I tweaked this tonight.

The combination of the bucolic setting, fair weather, and changing sun angles made for an event that lingered in the memory like a watercolor.

“Well, we have time to figure this out.”

“Sixteen weeks.”

“That’s time.”

This time and last time had become a dichotomy woven into the fabric of their language, when no one was looking.

I resisted the urge to strangle him. “How are you two still friends? That’s what I want to know.”

As they hurried down the path, Alise muttered, “I wonder how much those inns pay him to give those recommendations?”

Masina chuckled, the girl’s cynicism matched her own, and she had no filter on that mouth.

It had only represented so many lost hours, the reward for which was only the well-wishes of people who didn’t know her.

“It doesn’t have to be my mother,” Rick said.

She sat and tried out every curse word she could remember, not noticing the teenage boy who was headed her direction, about to introduce himself. She looked up at his wide eyed expression, then he turned and hurried away. What’s his problem?

But she could not even play the banjo now. Not even if you placed it in her hands and started her off on tunes—I'd tried it.

Few people were on the shuttle with him and none sat close to him. Christof wondered about that at times, he had no animosity towards these common folk and no intent to harm them, yet they could still sense he was not one of them, not safe, and perhaps, not sane.

"Listen, you need to sing to Oma. It will calm her."

Then they did things to Jon which could not justly be called chastisement.

Tomi never stopped trying to get up.

And couldn’t.

Everyone was always leaving behind one home or another, choosing between people and places that were equally indispensable, and fundamentally transient.

Ulysses had wanted comfort and reassurance. This didn’t cut it. He hefted the carpetbag and wrestled it towards the car, shoving past Bart’s hand when he tried to help.
He didn’t want help from anyone.

From my current WIP.


He moved his hand to grab my jaw, squeezing hard he shoved my head into the wall as he rubbed his body against mine, trapped with nowhere else to go.

I could tell all that by the places the paint was chipped, especially near a corner of the room that was boarded up by wood.

Scabby brown lesions pockmarked his face. The skin on his shins appeared blistered and crusted. He gave his name as Sim Lee.
From my WIP - WT - Leper

It was a star-spangled morning; stars an' stripes flapping in the breeze, fireworks bursting in air, flag-draped coffins rolling down the ramp.

Chad tipped his bottle up and swallowed, water spidering through his chest.

[FONT=&quot]Then, when it came time to bleed himself, it was, in fact, the victim’s own blood returning to it, though changed. Improved. Such was the vampire’s magic. [/FONT]
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OK - I've waiting to post this for quite a while. The last line I wrote was:

THE END

Previous books were part of a series, so 'THE END' only shows up at the series conclusion.

"The world is a cruel place and we’re its outcasts. Best you not forget that."