Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal February 1, 2014 - 8:24am

Dm-

Is there a thread of humor you're injecting into your piece?  

Dmcleod's picture
Dmcleod from Florida is reading Molloy February 1, 2014 - 1:24pm

Kind of always. I posted that from a story I wrote a while back because I didn't want to post a piece from the novel I'm working on.

Renae Gee's picture
Renae Gee from Australia is reading All the words! February 1, 2014 - 11:13pm

avrylu - I want to know more.  It's great.

 

Devon - wow, I am there.

 

Sarah Weaver - that is wonderfully charming, made me smile.

 

Dmcleod - I winced all the  way through that, brutal.  Wonderful.

Dmcleod's picture
Dmcleod from Florida is reading Molloy February 2, 2014 - 1:55am

Thanks Renae!

Here's one I just wrote that I am sort of proud of:

Jills bags are still in the trunk. We wash up at a rest stop and she changes clothes. I throw out my underwear because it’s starting to smell like a car battery wrapped in a dead kitten left on the floor of a distillery. We drive through the night, far into Alabama, and end up somewhere around Huntsville

Renae Gee's picture
Renae Gee from Australia is reading All the words! February 2, 2014 - 3:45pm

Hey Dmcleod - that is disgusting in a really great way. Car batterys have an odour?  Obviously kittens and distilleries do.   I'mgoing to have to go lift the bonnet of car up and see if I can determine the smell of the battery :)

Dwayne's picture
Dwayne from Cincinnati, Ohio (suburbs) is reading books that rotate to often to keep this updated February 2, 2014 - 6:51pm

I thought they only smelled when they had burst open, am I wrong?

Dmcleod's picture
Dmcleod from Florida is reading Molloy February 2, 2014 - 9:33pm

They are generally pretty noxious if the car has been running recently (at least in the shitty cars I've driven...)

Dwayne's picture
Dwayne from Cincinnati, Ohio (suburbs) is reading books that rotate to often to keep this updated February 3, 2014 - 12:26am

Odd.  Maybe it is a climate thing?

Dmcleod's picture
Dmcleod from Florida is reading Molloy February 3, 2014 - 1:13am

Could be, I do live in the state of the cannibal face-eaters.

Dwayne's picture
Dwayne from Cincinnati, Ohio (suburbs) is reading books that rotate to often to keep this updated February 3, 2014 - 1:23am

Just the one right?

Dmcleod's picture
Dmcleod from Florida is reading Molloy February 3, 2014 - 1:31am

That we know of...

Dwayne's picture
Dwayne from Cincinnati, Ohio (suburbs) is reading books that rotate to often to keep this updated February 3, 2014 - 2:16am

You have reason to think their are more?  If not real zombies aren't anything to joke about!

Dmcleod's picture
Dmcleod from Florida is reading Molloy February 4, 2014 - 3:26am

She gets real close sometimes when she speaks. The way she looks when she is listening, like she is trying to delve under the words. She looks up and squints her eyes, and wrinkles her forehead, and smiles with her lips closed. Unconsciously trying her damndest to excavate the best out of you, to break in – and palpably distraught when she finds nothing there.

Michael Proctor's picture
Michael Proctor from Austin, TX is reading Last Days by Brian Evenson February 5, 2014 - 9:00am

From: New Badlands

A gritty, trangressive novel I'm working on. I'm new to LitReactor and new to writing fiction, so I have no idea what's "good", other than what I know I enjoy.

 

Eddy walked to the outer edges of the sanctuary where Shaw stood at the entrance, looking out into the barren desert. This place was a makeshift cemetery with a primitively fashioned fence made from random pieces of broken wood and an assortment of barbed and chicken wire. Amid the lawlessness that permeated the territory, the sanctuary was deemed a holy and safe place where no offenses could be committed. This one and only rule, established by New Badlands’ first resident, was strictly observed by all. It was agreed that the sanctuary was necessary and would serve as a safe place to bury friends and family when they fell to the overbearing forces they faced. Grief, as it was articulated in Shaw’s philosophy, was the driving force for the societal outlier—an inspiration for the transient community to reclaim their conscious minds and let go of the shallow materialism of the so-called civilized world. Some bought the guru image and absorbed Shaw’s ideas, making themselves fully malleable to his instruction. Some strayed out on their own or in smaller groups, not interested in the vagabond wisdom. Whether out of reverence for the ideals or legitimate fear of mass retribution, every person respected the boundaries of the sanctuary.

Devon Robbins's picture
Devon Robbins from Utah is reading The Least Of My Scars by Stephen Graham Jones February 6, 2014 - 8:24am

In the ambulance, I’m shivering on the gurney like a madman. The woman drapes layers of white sheets over my body and readies a bag of saline. She takes my right hand and everything dissolves. She’s experienced with a needle. I’m still shaking, but the morphine is a kiss from an angel.

Close my eyes, but the white light bleeds through the thin tissue. Orange and silver. The siren outside is a warm guitar, sliding through the high notes of a melody just for me. And I’m floating in utero, sifting through burnt memories. Delicate pictures that, once touched, turn to ash. Jeremiah’s sick half toothed grin. His fingers burning together with mine, lighting a cigarette off our fiery fingertips.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. They said they’d keep me safe.

Dmcleod's picture
Dmcleod from Florida is reading Molloy February 13, 2014 - 12:18am

Devon, that's some great stuff!

 

This is from when my MC snorts a bunch of coked cut with heroin:

And I go from a chuckle to tears running down my face. Happy tears. Gonzo tears with tribal drums in the rainforest that is my head. And I see myself floating down to the floor like a leaf. I know I’m actually falling, but it doesn’t play out like that. It’s a warm swimming pool and I’m diving to the bottom because the floor is a giant vagina. And I curl up all fetal and get accepted in to the cunt and run my hands against the walls as the muscles push me deep. I slide for miles, humping the walls as my clothes are stripped from my body, and then a wide open sea. And there are a thousand more of me but I make it to the giant white orb first and start chewing and swallowing chunks of milky flesh until I enter the warm chamber. And there is a cloud of yeast that spouts ghostly arms that wrap around me and pull me in to the center where the tribal drums turn in to a chorus of angels singing a serene lullaby.

ReneeAPickup's picture
Class Facilitator
ReneeAPickup from Southern California is reading A truckload of books February 13, 2014 - 12:47am

Holy shit Devon -- that is really, really good.

I'm doing revisions... here is something from that (same WIP I've posted in here about before, different draft).

 

He reached for the blood pressure cuff on his upper arm and tore it off. A spurt of blood shot out of his hand as he yanked the IV out, staining the blue hospital blanket. Steeling himself, he yanked out the monitors attached under his bandages, tears breaking from his eyes as ripped skin came out with them. One long beep filled the air in final protest. He willed his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. His legs were no longer his own, buckling under his weight, sending him to the floor. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reaching for the plastic bedrail above him. His pectoral muscle flexed and screamed as the weakened muscle pulled under his ruined skin. Supporting himself on one arm, he pulled a cold breath into his lungs, already weary from the exertion. Only then did he notice the bag of urine attached to his leg, filling from a catheter in his penis. Running his free hand over his face he found the tube that went in through his nostril, snaked down his throat and fed into his stomach. He gripped it, hand shaking in momentary terror, and pulled on it as hard as he could, gagging as the horrible slithering thing came up through his throat and out his nose.

Devon Robbins's picture
Devon Robbins from Utah is reading The Least Of My Scars by Stephen Graham Jones February 13, 2014 - 7:33am

Thanks. Round three on this novel writing business.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami February 13, 2014 - 9:15pm

I decided to put it here, sense it's to large for twitter:

My mind was like a lab rat, already implanted with a bio-coated micro-chip. I placed the trode into my right-nodal cavity, had a mind to mind with alpha. It sucked my soul as if it were a vampire; I knelt my neck to it’s bite --- receding lights flickered, different news feeds bickered. It all came down to a single point.

Sound's picture
Sound from Azusa, CA is reading Greener Pastures by Michael Wehunt February 14, 2014 - 9:59am

A bit longer than a paragraph, but I haven't posted it in a long time. This story has been stuck in my head for months and I can't seem to get the right angle. Changed POV here. I think I'm finally happy with this intro, though.

 

If I stared long enough at the thin veil of cloth at the top of the tall expansive room, I could see the faces of my family. Their eye sockets were sunken, their skin old and crackling at the ends like dusty wallpaper. Their lips wrinkled back in a snarl, but they made no sound.  Every now and then the thin cloth undulated as though a phantom breath passed gently beneath it, and the ropes that bound their twisted bodies to the ceiling creaked and groaned in protest. Warning me that they would not hold forever.

But they held, returning night after night—always on the cusp of snapping—the moment my head settled on my bundled up backpack, the outer pockets stuffed with as much peat moss and leaves that I could find on the forest floor to make it comfortable—comfortable enough, anyway. And there they were, my mother and father, grinning down at me the moment I closed my eyes, like hideous, leathery lampshades too grim to warrant turning on the lights.

Waking, their images burned in my eyes a few seconds afterwards, their haunting silhouettes raining down upon me. Some inexplicable, horrible penance that I must endure day upon day for…for what? I wondered that—I still do. This was after the beasts came, after our camp was torn in half. Our herd thinned, and thinned again as we traveled West, always West, until it was only my sister and I at the end of the day, nestled together on our tent floor. Only each other’s breaths keeping the outside sounds out, while Margot’s body clinged to my own as though I’d disappear if she didn’t. Her breathing growing heavy as she foraged in the outer rim of the forests of her dreams, looking for something sweet, even as she looped my hair in her fingertips.

This was before the birds, those beautiful, glorious birds with breasts such a deep shade of crimson they looked as though they were dipped in blood. No, the birds had not yet come. On the night my dream changed, the smell of cinnamon and rotted fruit and moldy, wet wood wafted into my nose, as they normally did, and my eyes drifted up. Drifted up to find something else, something new, beside mother and father. There, in the spaces between them something shifted, some darkness uncoiled itself from around them, its raspy skin whispering as it rubbed against itself, like whispers in the dark. Settling its gaze upon me.

Kristi's picture
Kristi from Connecticut is reading Anything I can get my hands on! February 14, 2014 - 10:35am

Sound that is amazingly creepy.

Sound's picture
Sound from Azusa, CA is reading Greener Pastures by Michael Wehunt February 14, 2014 - 12:46pm

Thanks Kristi, that's good to know! :)

voodoo_em's picture
voodoo_em from England is reading All the books by Chelsea Cain! February 14, 2014 - 2:28pm

Nice, Sound. Quite different from the one I read in the battle. I particularly like the lines about Margot :)

Covewriter's picture
Covewriter from Nashville, Tennessee is reading & Sons February 14, 2014 - 4:12pm

All these I've read are good paragrpahs.  Here is one I'm working on, called In Consideration of Others:  The first paragraph is a rambling from the Uncle's point of view. Then there is a break, and the rest of the story is from the niece. Does this work? I'm going to post the whole thing when i can get time to review and get points.

 

               Out the window, dark tree trunks, torsos with no heads or feet, against the pale, full-moon sky. There are leaves and roots, surely, but not visible. The small window and my angle on the bed limits  vision. Bare branches claw the paleness. If I die before I wake this is my last look at the world. I close my eyes, re-open. It’s not where I used to live, or the view at the farm, not Biloxi, I know that. It’s not a complete picture, but it’s peaceful. Among those wide trunks, out there in pale space, live all the people I know, people moving around differently than before. In the morning, if I open my eyes, Marie and I will sort it out, find those people, the ones we remember.
                                                         *******
       Sunny Meadows hallways smell of mildew and ammonia so cloying it stings my eyes. The heat stifles.  Searching for my uncle’s room, I’m ready to shed this wool coat and dig in my purse for the bottled water.  The place appears clean, though, and homey, set back in the woods with rocking chairs on the porch, wide spaces inside with gas fire-places and flat-screen televisions, tables with magazines and checker-boards.  A few quiet soles sit here and there, stoic, looking out at space, or at something I don’t see.
        I spot Uncle Billy shuffling up the corridor, his arm around a willowy woman nearly as tall as he is. They are deeply engaged, heads bent  toward each other. Billy notices me gradually, untangles from the woman and quickens his step. He advances with arms spread and that big, lopsided smile with the left corner of his mouth sliding higher up  his face than the right corner.
 

 

Devon Robbins's picture
Devon Robbins from Utah is reading The Least Of My Scars by Stephen Graham Jones February 16, 2014 - 9:02am

Cove- I think giving one of the characters a different POV would streamline the two a bit, but it could work the way it is. It's hard to judge by three paragraphs.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal February 16, 2014 - 9:51am

@Cove-

Sole = feet, soul = person.  (just to help).

Anyway, I think it works so long as it's made clear whose POV it is.  

ReneeAPickup's picture
Class Facilitator
ReneeAPickup from Southern California is reading A truckload of books February 17, 2014 - 11:15pm

Matt -- Gorgeous imagery. I love it.

Cove-- It works with a break there, as-is, but I would think about how necessary the intro from the uncle's POV is, and/or if you could drop his stuff in there through the neice's POV. Obviously, I haven't read the whole thing, so I don't know.

Kristi's picture
Kristi from Connecticut is reading Anything I can get my hands on! February 18, 2014 - 3:58pm

This is from a short story I started working on when my book gives me angst!!!

"Sugar Skull"

Ten years later and she’s a wisp of a woman barely twenty-five, petite and lean. Blood red lips wrapped around a cigarette, she takes a long drag sucking the life from her body, exhaling it into the air. Smoke swirling around her head like a halo.  That’s irony.  I can count the remaining moments of her life on my long cold fingers.

She looks up from the counter.  “Hello.” Her voice rasps, her English is heavy, weighed down by her thick Russian accent.  Her blue eyes covered in a pearlescent sheen and thick black eyeliner.  She always knows when I’m here. Thought I don’t know how.

Devon Robbins's picture
Devon Robbins from Utah is reading The Least Of My Scars by Stephen Graham Jones February 18, 2014 - 4:44pm

That's a good one Kristi.

RobQueen's picture
RobQueen from Massachusetts March 1, 2014 - 8:23am

Hi, I'm new. I'll be finishing the second draft of this book tomorrow and will publish it in June. Here's a snippet of what I wrote today. Comments and queries welcome.

"On the porch the air was pushing hot, but the uncharacteristically cool breeze dulled the potency of it. Shing stood out by the banister that separated the porch from the streets below. With the general noise of this part of Sludge far less than that of other parts it created a certain illusion of privacy despite there being none to the people below. Vie lingered by the door, away from this man who she was suddenly having a hard time trusting. His entire presence felt so different from every time she had previously met him. In confirmation to her concerns, he pressed two fingers to his lips and withdrew them. A small spriggan of blue energy danced above his hand and disappeared with a snap."

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal March 1, 2014 - 1:38pm

Ashley screamed and covered her face with her hands.  Her ears rang, everything else was mute.  When she opened her eyes, it looked like someone had thrown a gallon of dark red paint on the walls.  She had to wipe her eyes to see.  Dwight was sitting up, pushing the bloody corpse off of himself.  Half his torso was smeared with bright red streaks.  She saw at the door a silhouette of another man, holding a gun angled away.

Cmangano's picture
Cmangano from Maine March 2, 2014 - 5:28pm

Hello everyone, I'm new to this site and have read some really impressive work so far in this post. Keep it up.

 His face in the picture looked kind and gentle and all at once I wished we were old friends exchanging the cordial hello embrace. I imagined the skin on his cheek would be thick, tough and pleasantly bristly from his unshaven beard. I would close my eyes as I squeezed as always and when I pulled away slowly, letting the hug linger I for one instant would have a marvelous disorientation of red eyebrows and dandelion blonde hair blending together until I had moved far enough away that my eyes could come back into focus. I wished for a moment that I knew what the hug would smell like, the way I remembered hugs of my past smelling sweet or sweaty or of strong deodorant.

 

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami March 3, 2014 - 7:02pm

This is my latest independant one, not attached in a petry chain.

The sound of the violin's bow,

Through a winter's snow.

The deer does not walk,

And no flyings birds that squawk.

The sound of the violin's bow,

An unyielding torrent's blow,

Tracks removed by wild winds,

The clock of time unwinds.

I'm not really used to using rhyming peoms, prefering Cinquain, Haiku, and Diamante. I've started experimenting with two couplets and a singlet.

Nav Persona's picture
Nav Persona from Purgatory is reading The Babayaga March 3, 2014 - 7:54pm

There is some great writing going on! I've enjoyed reviewing this thread since I haven't been here in a while - and I'm impressed by the 'old' crew and writers who are new to me.  :) For the last several months I've been working on other people's writing mostly, but I'm making some time to write more for myself - if for nothing else than to stave off the crazy world in which I'm treading water, lol.  Anyway, a friend said I should 'expose' myself more often, so here goes, lol. This is from a short-in-progress. I'm trying for a neo-noir atmosphere with a sprinkling of paranormal gltter. It's more than a paragraph (sorry), but less than the whole story, lol :P

Another sunset in the city. Shadows grew longer, footsteps dragged slower, and the smell of exhaust and diner grease permeated the skin, hair, and clothes of everyone on the streets. As the sun dimmed behind towers of metal and glass, lights blinked on high in the sky. Instead of stars, the city created its own constellations from various nightshifts and type-A personalities who stayed in their offices long past quitting time just to make one more deal, to close one more merger, to screw one more secretary.
Roger Mayfield’s office window glowed in the cold city skyline, and his face glowed in the cold light of the computer monitor on his desk. He chugged the energy drink in his hand and stared at his computer with wide, bloodshot eyes. His trembling hand dropped the empty can, and it landed on the carpet with little more than a whisper to acknowledge its existence.
A single, perfect tear welled up, shuddered, and overflowed his right eye and burned a jolting path down his cheek. He turned off the light, rose from his seat, opened a desk drawer, and loaded his hand with the weight of the world.
Three steps later, Roger faced the city from his high, lonely star and extinguished his own light with a single, brilliant gunshot to his temple.

 

Adam Birch's picture
Adam Birch from all over, currently North SF Bay Area is reading Brotherhood of the Blade by Diana Gabaldon March 4, 2014 - 3:31am

I don't typically share works in progress but you all are complete strangers so, that makes it OK right?

 

"Lets start with Mai. How did we meet? Well it was a hot summer day in New York City. The kind where they open up fire hydrants for the kids. We were two fourteen year old kids escaping the heat in a library. One of those big, New York City libraries that are so easy to get lost in. What was I doing in the library? Well, besides escaping the heat, I was doing what any self respecting 14 year old boy did in libraries during the summer of 1990. Looking at Playboys. To be specific, the latest issue, July, 1990. Sharon Stone had beguiled the world in recent years, and here she was right in front of me, showing me everything. At this point I’m sitting on the floor against the wall at the end of the aisle, legs straight out in front, crossed at the ankle. My pants had ridden up a bit. Just as I reach to adjust them to allow for the impending, completely natural anatomical reaction of my body to Sharon Stone in all her glory, I hear a polite cough from the opposite end of the aisle."

Angel Colón's picture
Angel Colón from The Bronx now living in New Jersey is reading A Big Ol' Pile of Books March 4, 2014 - 11:07am

A little something I just started to put together. This is the opening:

“You want in on this?” He was smoking a wrinkled Parliament and leaning against a tree with such ease, you’d have thought we were old friends. 'This' was a light-skinned black girl—no older than 16—sprawled out on the dirt and unconscious.


Me? I was only walking back to the cave I was calling home these days. Had a plastic bag with the day’s haul—three half-finished burgers, a few hot dog buns and a full 2-liter of soda—enough for a solid dinner and breakfast. It had been three weeks into my stay at Bear Mountain and this was the first time I had bumped into anyone off the trails.


“You hear me, boy?” He had a drawl and his way of addressing me pegged him as one of those ‘good ol’ boys’ I always heard about. Never saw much of those types growing up in the Bronx, though we had our own kind of racist assholes.


My answer was a shake of the head and a beeline past the trees. No way was I getting involved in this mess.

kward's picture
kward from Alberta is reading Off To Be the Wizard March 7, 2014 - 2:27am

Bramen pushed his pace. The city was a half hour behind him; good progress. He pushed harder. He pushed until his blood turned to acid. The sun disappeared; stars arrived like apparitions to a dying warrior. Bramen coasted, put his feet on the road and drank from a canteen. The night was quiet; the air crisp and thick. Bramen exhaled slow. The last purple wisp of dusk faded. The hunters were soon out. Bramen caught a dark flash in the streetlights behind him. The lone silhouette of a desperate soul fast on the pedal shot from view. Heavy pants soon cut through the darkness. The wheezes grew louder. Bramen remained still.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami March 8, 2014 - 12:33pm

A brief segment from Valley To Nowhere.

It had been a few hours since the dream, the splinters of shining light shined under Cailade’s lids. Over the roof a morning sunlight hid. A sudden rush, then a moments breath. As she got up, she felt disappointment in her little brother Cane, who scratched the top of his head that was soft as a lions mane. “What took you so long to wake up?” Mother said, who was hardly awake herself, paying more attention to making sure that Luke was not sleeping as he steered the horse and wagon.

By contrast, this from my slightly longer work.

Bernina put the fire out of the fireplace, and was wearing clothes to keep her warm in the cold like her two daughters, as she tidied up her bedroom. She got the bucket out from the restroom, walked downstairs, and handed ito th her eldest daughter Fina to take out to dump outside. Nina waited by the door, staring outside to admire the snow. “I need to take out the pale? Why shouldn't Nina have to do it?” Fina wrinkled her nose, with the disgust of what was inside the bucket. “She did not have to take it out last time.”

ElaineJackson's picture
ElaineJackson from England is reading The Intruders by Michael Marshall Smith March 9, 2014 - 1:53am

Icy needles of sleet sting her face, blown in through the open passenger window. Too dark to see anything but she can smell petrol, taste blood. All she can hear is her own ragged breathing. Then other sounds creep in; the tick of cooling metal, the trickle and drip of escaping fluid. The car is tipped over, resting on the driver’s side. She hangs in the cradle of her seatbelt, the weight of her body compressing her right breast. It hurts, and the fabric rubs her neck with each breath. Something lies just out of reach beneath her – her fingers skitter backwards and forwards until she feels the slope of a shoulder, the soft wool of Pete’s sweater. He isn’t moving, and the fabric is sticky-wet in places; panic rises in a painful swell as she brings fingertips to her nose and smells blood.  A painful thought darts in, swift on vicious wings: Emmy.  Her wordless groan of fear is interrupted by the rumble of an approaching vehicle. A car door slams, and she hears footsteps, a voice she does not recognise. 

Opening paragraph from 'Time Will Tell'.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal March 9, 2014 - 8:03am

^

That one really painted a picture in my head.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami March 16, 2014 - 8:29pm

If you want to know where I live, well believe me you don’t. An area of town where, nobody of any importance resides, but the cat lady walking forever in the street, with no clear idea of what distination she wants to go. If you want to know where I live, just ask my pet cat whiskers, who meows forever into the night -- and nobody knows what he really thinks about, although they just assume he is looking for his next mouse.

This is from a more recent short. A bit of a leap of faith in first person, still not used to it. And yes I wrote this by discovering it.

Stephen James Anastasi's picture
Stephen James A... from Queensland, Australia is reading The Trouble with Physics (Lee Smolin) March 18, 2014 - 11:37pm

‘Mr President?’

Staring out the window of the Oval Office, Joe Chalmsy did not at first respond.  The weight of the chalice that had just passed to him was so heavy, for a time his world collapsed in on itself to the point that he could barely stand, and certainly he was unconscious of his surroundings and the presence of the other man.

‘Mr President.’ The voice, more insistent now. A no-nonsense voice; controlled, yet almost melodic.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami March 25, 2014 - 8:37pm

Technically I'd include line breaks, but:

Their faces, they live in other places, Other realms worse than hell. They walk unseen, where nothing is as it seems. Crouching, Crawling, they pierce through the heart, and borrow from the start. Skulls as masks on faces, they cry for their young fairy queen, a cult-incorporated in the un-lit night until they die.

Heaven voices, they feign to thee walking in multiples of two and three. Longing for the sun, to be normal and have some fun. Yet they walk aimlessly forever, wandering into the night crying, decrying the darkness In two’s and three’s. Skull-fairies of the night, darkness they cannot feign to fight.

Originally there were line breaks, but the spacings a bit weird.:/

Angel Colón's picture
Angel Colón from The Bronx now living in New Jersey is reading A Big Ol' Pile of Books March 29, 2014 - 7:23pm

Opening to my new novel/novella

Jimmy Ryan’s Bar and Grill in the Bronx is mostly bar, but no grill. A day-drinker’s paradise. Low light. Three televisions showcasing horse races. The smell of smoke and stale beer. There’s a juke box in the corner that’s seen better days. Pisses me off that it doesn’t work. This place could use more noise.

Sound's picture
Sound from Azusa, CA is reading Greener Pastures by Michael Wehunt March 30, 2014 - 6:41pm

From The Coal Miner's Daughter

The newest dead boy, Ignacio, takes my hand as I make my way down the shaft, my sandaled feet slipping on the wet log staircase, black and glistening from recent rains.

I could never see him, or any of them for that matter, the ones that came before him, the dead boys, but as my feet dipped into that cool dankness of the coal shaft, the darkness a pool—black and still—one always takes my hand, guiding me. My little helpers in this cold and unforgiving hole.

Devon Robbins's picture
Devon Robbins from Utah is reading The Least Of My Scars by Stephen Graham Jones March 30, 2014 - 9:30pm

The lone bulb overhead dangles like a hanged man from exposed wires. Dusty and stained with nicotine. Rain outside. Lightning. God’s fingers playing with the earth, each touch flashing through the window. The bright white of burned silver. And the weather finds its way through the cabin’s cracks. The rain drops seeping through, down the wires.
The droplets fall from the bare bulb onto the table in front of you. There’s blood on your hands, under your fingernails. The blood of a once white baby dove that you’ve stolen the wings from. The tarantula taps it legs against the glass as if a mime, no longer playing the game, inspecting the inside of the quart mason jar beside the dove’s body.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal April 2, 2014 - 5:20pm

^  always love your imagery. Ill get back to your other one hopefully soon, by the way.

Stephen James Anastasi's picture
Stephen James A... from Queensland, Australia is reading The Trouble with Physics (Lee Smolin) April 14, 2014 - 6:59pm

The change from cold to warm was like a loving hug to Moe Hawkins as he stepped off the street and into the Dorsey Street Soup Kitchen.  Never mind, he thought, it will be waiting for you when you step back out again.
‘Hey, Moe,’ said the woman in front of him, puffing into her hands, made blotchy by winter’s embrace.
‘Hey Clara.’ he said. Clara had been a professor at a university once, before the world decided she was too old or ugly or unnecessary for work. Underqualified, overqualified, it seemed to Moe that once you found yourself on the downward slope, only fate might pull you back. He didn’t like Fate much, and the feeling was mutual as best he could tell.

Angel Colón's picture
Angel Colón from The Bronx now living in New Jersey is reading A Big Ol' Pile of Books April 16, 2014 - 6:46am

Opening to my first "western" short:

He woke up near the tree line where they had set up camp. His chest burned. Got on his feet. Spotted the tattered remnants of their coach. No supplies. Dead wife. Missing horse.
Took time to bury her. She was a good woman—deserved the extra care. Pious and loyal to the very end. Never asked for anything more than he was able to give her.

There wasn’t a way to tell how long it took to dig a hole and bury her. By the time he flattened the earth over her cold body, the sun peeked over the horizon. The light gave him a chance to inspect his own injuries. Scattered buckshot peppered his chest. Their attackers had shot from too far away. He remembered them in shadows—a man and a woman—opposite sides of the same coin.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal April 16, 2014 - 9:42am

^

Nice opening...