# But what have you written lately...?



## Ralph Rotten (Apr 6, 2018)

Okay, here is something fun: post two paragraphs that you wrote today.  Any two, first two, last two, middle two...this is your chance to show off a snippet of what you wrote today (and I emphasize SNIPPET!)


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## Ralph Rotten (Apr 6, 2018)

Maria’s eyes showed the pride she felt in the wagon begore her.  The frame had been built from a lightweight trailer with oversized wheels.  Atop that she had attached a series of drawers and cabinets.  With a large working area at the back end, it was the modern equivalent of a chuck wagon.
It was a small piece of western culture she had always found fascinating.  A trail chef was expected to provide more than beans and salted pork.  A good cook would bake apple pie, prepare fresh bread, or even pound out some corn tortillas.  There was just something about


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## bdcharles (Apr 6, 2018)

The door hadn’t been there yesterday. Attendo was certain that the hefty breezeblocks, carved from local feldspars atop stacks of worn, ancient brick were, despite their age, a new addition to the city wall. 

There was no way some bug-eaten door was going to stop his twelve-year-old’s hand.


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## moderan (Apr 6, 2018)

Blind rewrite of part of first draft. Anthology story.



> Some time before the naranja sol said vaya con dios, I was out toward Tortolita with a last round of pies when I was overtaken by a pack of perros satanas and nearly didn’t get my shields down before they gnawed my tires off.
> I scattershot some tacks and beef gravy for them to fool with and proceeded in a northerly direction, coming around via Catalina Highway and back onto 77, just ahead of a horde of cabezas de velos and their zombie dogs, who were hot on my tailpipe.
> Burning rubber, I careened from Oracle through the Plaza del Tierra and into the lot, vaulting from the driver’s seat into the gangway and through the airlock in record time. The adrenaline-crazed fiends rumbled on north, looking like extras from a Big Daddy Roth cartoon, seeking whatever it is that they seek in their tweakdreams.
> The velos-heads are so scatterbrained that you can’t see what they’re going to do, no matter how much go-juice you imbibe. There’s just no way to see around that corner.
> ...


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## JJBuchholz (Apr 6, 2018)

For some reason, he found that spending part of day in his office filling out reports and listening to some ancient classical music was really quite enjoyable for once, having not had any temporal missions in a couple of weeks, not even a historical research foray. Realizing he was thirsty, Six turned his chair to face the hexagonal device that sat near his desk, it's surface glowing a calming green at the moment. "Orange juice, cold. No pulp." he said to it, and seconds later, a tall glass of orange liquid materialized. He plucked it off the hexagon and turned his attention back to his datapad, taking a couple gulps of the juice and enjoying it very much. "Very pleasant day indeed." he mumbled to himself.
                                           Having worked for the Temporal Enforcement Bureau for some time now, he was quite content living and working on the Moon's surface at the headquarters in Mare Crisium, an interesting place on any given day. His short blond hair was neatly kept, complementing his green eyes. A man in his very early forties, Six was in excellent shape and maintained a workout regimen to keep himself that way, preferring to be at his peak no matter what. Being a temporal agent was all that he had wanted to do, occasionally dabbling in historical research as well, being a aficionado of twentieth and twenty-first century Earth. However, he still had days like today where the administration of his job came first.


-JJB


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## Ralph Rotten (Apr 6, 2018)

Moderan; The writing style reminded me of A. Lee Martinez. It really covers a lotta ground. 
I have found that when I use Spanish in the story, it flows better visually if the _spanglish _is italicized. Just my 47 _centavos_.


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## moderan (Apr 7, 2018)

Thanks. Italics are an option. I'm on the fence right now, but leaning toward them. There's another 10K to go still. Heh, sorry, this was more than 2 paras. Hot off the press though. Thanks for the kind words. That's a mighty comp to live up to.


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## Blackstone (Apr 7, 2018)

First draft of new novel TBC:



> She didn’t feel a thing. Not at first, not really. Perhaps because in her mind it was not really there at all. Dead men could not hurt you, could they? Even when they did. Even when their fists, dead and broken sprang like traps. Even when they knocked you spinning backwards with more power than they had in life. Even when you felt your head clatter against some diner’s cook line. No, there was something misshapen about that hurt. Something not real about the[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana] blood that came rushing to the surface. Something about t[FONT=&Verdana]he black draw and its nooselike encircling. Something that was, yes, almost absurd.
> [/FONT]
> [FONT=&Verdana]“I killed you, you bastard!”
> 
> ...


[FONT=&Verdana]
[/FONT]


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## Ralph Rotten (Apr 7, 2018)

_This is a bit rough yet, and I have to cut the tail end of the scene it belongs to, but here is a snippet of something I wrote this morn._


     Her wagon had been moving for hours, but it was a rough bit of trail they were on.  Really it was not a trail or path, just the flattest patch of dirt & rock they could find after leaving the interstate.  Cutting into the low hills to the south, they were miles off the main road.

     Shaking the reins, Maria urged on the listless cows that pulled the chuck wagon.  Show and shiftless, they required constant attention lest they stop and graze at every opportunity.  Although horses or oxen would have been preferable, they had no alternative.  The few horses that were available were either riding herd or out on advanced recon. For this reason they had done what they could to train a dozen or so of the beasts to pull wagons.


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## SueC (Apr 7, 2018)

In the year she turned ninety-seven, she took me aside, telling me that she missed being called Fanny, and was looking forward to seeing her siblings again. It had been some sixty years, she said, since her brother Hugh had called her by that name, as he chased her around the farm yard for killing his prize chicken for Sunday dinner. Since then everyone who had called her "Fanny" was gone, and she had been _Mom_ or _Grandma _ever since. She was ready, she told me, to _go upstairs _and be Fanny once more.

My family had an odd penchant for using terms that typically define a thing, but meant something entirely different coming out of their mouths. They were never direct. A married woman who was pregnant was _in the family way_, but if she was un married, she was _knocked up._ A woman's cycle was either _having a visitor,_ or _her friend._ None of it made any sense to me, so I didn't understand Grandma's words either.


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## Terry D (Apr 7, 2018)

In all its WIP glory, and old-timey manuscript format, I give you Rose Hunter...

   Leaning forward, Hunter picked up a file folder from Donnelly's desk and flipped it open to a copy 

of Grace Cole's mugshot. A long, J-shaped scar crawled from her jaw-bone to the corner of her 

right eye in the profile shot. Hunter turned the picture so the detective could see it clearly 

and tapped on the glossy print with a fingertip.


“Take a good look at that scar, Detective. I gave that to her. Do you think she's forgotten that?” 

Ellen's hand started to shake. She leaned back in her chair, folded her hands in 

her lap, and continued, “Remember, this bitch was psychotic enough to keep her own sons locked in 

dog cages. Evil enough to sell her... to sell me to a pedophile.”


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## Ralph Rotten (Apr 8, 2018)

I finally figured out how to tell Shepherd's back story: Get someone else to tell it for him!  This is just a short snippet of the conversation:


“What do you put our chances at?”  Her voice a little hesitant, Maria asked a question she really did not want to know the answer to.

“I don’t know.  My business isn’t fortune telling.”  Shrugging, Billy looked like the archetypal cowgirl with her Stetson tilted low and the collar of her jacket pulled up.

“What exactly is your business?”  Feeling awkward for even asking it, Maria had come to believe that she had a right to know a few things about the woman who led them.
Exhaling sharply, it was obvious that Billy was not happy about the question.  Nonetheless, she gave a sigh of resignation.

“I spent the last twenty-four years working for the CIA.  I headed a team of nation builders.”  Nodding as if it were no big secret, Billy spoke in a level voice.

“Nation builders?”  Maria asked the obvious question.

“Yeah…but first we have to tear down the old government before we can start a new one, if you get my meaning.”  Not keen about going into detail, Billy left it to her imagination.


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## Blackstone (Apr 9, 2018)

Ralph Rotten said:


> _This is a bit rough yet, and I have to cut the tail end of the scene it belongs to, but here is a snippet of something I wrote this morn._
> 
> 
> Her wagon had been moving for hours, but it was a rough bit of trail they were on.  Really it was not a trail or path, just the flattest patch of dirt & rock they could find after leaving the interstate.  Cutting into the low hills to the south, they were miles off the main road.
> ...



Ralph, I am interested in the use of the term 'interstate' in a story that looks at a glance to be a western. I think there's a bit of a gap in today's market for '21st century westerns'. Am I barking up the wrong tree?


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## Bayview (Apr 10, 2018)

Blackstone said:


> Ralph, I am interested in the use of the term 'interstate' in a story that looks at a glance to be a western. I think there's a bit of a gap in today's market for '21st century westerns'. Am I barking up the wrong tree?



I'm assuming it's post-apocalyptic? But then I'm confused by the distinction between oxen and cows who've been trained to harness... oxen _are_ cows (well, cattle) that've been trained to harness. They're not a separate breed of animal. Possibly the distinction is because they're female (cows) not steers, but that could maybe be made more clear?


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## Ralph Rotten (Apr 10, 2018)

Bayview said:


> I'm assuming it's post-apocalyptic? But then I'm confused by the distinction between oxen and cows who've been trained to harness... oxen _are_ cows (well, cattle) that've been trained to harness. They're not a separate breed of animal. Possibly the distinction is because they're female (cows) not steers, but that could maybe be made more clear?




Tis indeed a post-apocalyptic cattle drive...with cannibals!
Also true that oxen and cows are essentially the same species.  The practical difference is that oxen are not only trained & practiced at being draft animals, but they have developed the muscle for the job.  But if you take a buncha heifers and try to use them as draft animals with minimal training, the results will be underwhelming.  They'll pull the wagon...but you'd have to stay on them constantly or they'll try to graze every three feet, as well as tiring easily.  It would be less than ideal.
But you are right, mebbe I should explain that angle better.

Unfortunately I am faced with the terrible job of closing out volume 1 with a suicide that'll cast a shadow over the entire ending.
You ever have one of those scenes you know you need to write...but don't want to?
I've been sitting here for an hour.  Every now and again I'll type a word, then delete it 2 minutes later.  _This is going to be a tough scene to write_.
I have to make the reader understand why Billy kills herself after surviving for 500 pages.  I have to convey the idea that in addition to the demons in her past, she simply did not want to spend the rest of her life trapped halfway between a man & a woman.  She did her duty and got them to Fort Huachuca, but decided this was no longer a world for her.
I've gotta write it so that even conservatives are reaching for the kleenex.

*Writing is hard!* [insert whining sound here]


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## ScarletM.Sinclaire (Apr 11, 2018)

A prologue I just started writing as of yesterday. 

  Aspen scampered across the cobblestone path. His worn black boots splashed in the puddles of water as he ran. His breath came in shallow ragged breaths. At 35 measures, old age was becoming of him.

 He clutched the golden watch that hung from his necklace, glancing briefly at the time. His heart hammered in his chest. He had just seven tills to arrive to the birthing unit or the Proposition would find retribution. Sided as part of the Conquest, it was mandated for him to be present for births every three measures. But this time, he wasn't traveling as part of business. No, this time, it was his own wife in labor.


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## Elenita (Apr 15, 2018)

A short story I'm reworking:

He promised to be back, so she waited. 

She had been waiting for years, a little longer wouldn’t hurt. After all he was the first person to see her in decades. No one had seen her since she had died. But when the group of people came up into the attic where she lived he was the one who turned towards her immediately, like he could see her, like he knew she had been sitting there all along. He stayed when the rest left, decorating her dusty corners with black shapes of different sizes with long strings that ran along the creaky floorboards.

She told him her story and he listened, the little box in his hand beeping colorful lights in murmuring sympathy for her tragic tale. The stepfather that bruised her, the lover that swore to escape with her but never appeared, not even when she was locked away among the dust and mice to slowly starve. Her stepfather held the key and no amount of weeping and screaming could ever get him to set her free, not even after her skin had shriveled and fallen off her bones. Once the door had cracked open, a circle of new faces peering in, but the second they caught sight of her bones they had fled, slamming the door behind them.


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## nadiiiiiiii (Apr 17, 2018)

Last thing I have written was a short article about presentation tools (other tools than just the boring old powerpoint etc.). Currently also writing a short story (romance) that plays in Northern England.


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## Kyle R (Apr 17, 2018)

It's fun being able to glance over everyone's shoulders here. Makes me want to read all these fascinating stories. :encouragement:

A snippet from my WIP:

She angled her head and held it there, everything about her as motionless as a statue. Then something clicked and hummed inside her chest, and her eyes curved ever so slightly. “I appreciate your candor,” she said quietly, bringing the tweezers back to his leg. “And I also appreciate the compliment.” She dug another stinging shard out of him and said, “I _am_ quite good at being emotional.”

He spent the rest of the surgery in silence, except for the occasional groan or hiss whenever she stuck the tweezers a little too deep, or yanked a little too hard. Most of the time he kept his eyes on the ceiling, stealing only the occasional glance at her fabric-wrapped face as she peered at his wound. Whatever the strange attraction was that he’d felt for her earlier, now it was replaced by a clinical sort of detachment. She was beautiful, yes, but in an inanimate sort of way. Like a hand-crafted vase without its flowers. Or an abstract painting done by some long-dead artist, whose intentions one could only guess at. And he _liked_ seeing her this way—like something less than human. It was safer. Less complicated. Less . . . confusing.​


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## Ralph Rotten (Apr 17, 2018)

I am switching to editing phase, so here is a clip I am currently tweaking.


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## ArrowInTheBowOfTheLord (Apr 18, 2018)

Snippet from a (very) rough draft in progress:

The man, by now, had noticed the first body on the floor, and began to put two and two together.

"What is this?" He twisted his head up, panicking, catching Leon's steady eyes. "What the fuck is this?"

Leon felt cold and strangely detached. "This is death," he said softly. He hardly knew whether he was speaking to the man, or himself.


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## James Riley (Apr 20, 2018)

It’s a fur piece from the Vishnu Schist to the distal twist.  Climbing from the depths of the Grand Canyon to the tip of a bison horn will cover some miles of vertical distance, and one thousand seven hundred fifty million years.


And from this are missing tens of millions of years of steps on this Grand Staircase below Escalante.  It’s entirely possible that everything we know has come and gone, several times, and left no trace.  Hell, there was the “Ancestral Rockies”, a mountain range arose and reduced to a sea which lay where my Rocky Mountains now stand.  Again.  How do you wrap your brain around that?  How do you look at these granite peaks and see them melting rapidly away, like an ice cream cone on a hot summer side walk?  How do you see that continental crust, that sidewalk, and the countless trillions of tons of rock above it? How do you see that as light and fluffy, floating on a magma sea?  The oceanic crust is too heavy to support us.  

How do we know there was no creature before us, better than us, smarter and more artsy?  We don’t.  We don’t know schist.


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