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Entry tags:
Minimum pain, moderate exhaustion, maximum peace.
Jaime's bones are hurting less, I managed to catch a few extra hours of sleep, I finished my statement of purpose and submitted one general app, and I have four letters of recommendation lined up. Life's pretty sweet at the moment.
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
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“You spoke to someone who knew you in the RG during the game.”
I smirk. “You saw that, huh? And here I thought I was sneaky.”
--------
Lips moving slightly, subtly, so much so that I’m not sure if he’s actually speaking or if I’ve become so used to his body language that it’s verbal in my head now, he says, “Could you get me some medicine?”
“The stomach stuff?”
He nods.
“Yeah, sure,” and as I gather up pills and a half-full glass of water, I don’t even rattle off my usual spiel about how there’s no way these particular OTC drugs will solve his intestinal issues and he may as well tell himself his stomach will magically settle on its own. It wouldn’t get a chuckle out of him this time anyway.
--------
Around her, walls stained like old bricks fade seamlessly up into inky blackness. The crease between them and the impossibly unmarked floor is immaculate – no dust, no wear, no texture of any sort. When she lifts her feet up, she sees gray, slick, uniform like a barium smoothie. The scuffed soles of her shoes leave no trace.
--------
Panel 3: Through Cornelius’s eyes, we see Mol and Cynth standing. Cynth is looking to the side and clutching her arm (the one that’s hiding the sword) as if it was hurt. Mol has her head down and hands linked in front of her, attempting to look shy. She’s looking straight into his eyes.
--------
“Why do you eat that stuff?”
“It’s tasty, that’s why.”
“No, it’s not. It tastes like nothing.”
--------
Most of the time, you can tell who’s a patient by looking for a white wristband. They vary a little from area to area – bands for admitted patients have a blue border, for example, while general day bands are wide and pure white – but as a general rule, if you see white on someone’s wrist, that person is undergoing treatment.
--------
“I don’t know this for sure,” he says, tapping the cards into a neat pile, “but I heard the missing girl’s one of Leonhart’s inner circle.”
“Get out of town. Where’d you hear that, Tustin?”
He cuts his cards and shuffles them with a shrug. “Around. Besides, it makes sense. Why else would he be going so over the top with this?”
--------
When his palm touches his cheek, the unnatural coldness of the contact startles him. His hand jerks back involuntarily, or tries to, and he’s confused to feel resistance against the quick movement. The air’s thick, like a wet blanket swathed over top of him, crawling into his nose and ears, choking him.
He realizes he’s not breathing.
When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
--------
“You spoke to someone who knew you in the RG during the game.”
I smirk. “You saw that, huh? And here I thought I was sneaky.”
--------
Lips moving slightly, subtly, so much so that I’m not sure if he’s actually speaking or if I’ve become so used to his body language that it’s verbal in my head now, he says, “Could you get me some medicine?”
“The stomach stuff?”
He nods.
“Yeah, sure,” and as I gather up pills and a half-full glass of water, I don’t even rattle off my usual spiel about how there’s no way these particular OTC drugs will solve his intestinal issues and he may as well tell himself his stomach will magically settle on its own. It wouldn’t get a chuckle out of him this time anyway.
--------
Around her, walls stained like old bricks fade seamlessly up into inky blackness. The crease between them and the impossibly unmarked floor is immaculate – no dust, no wear, no texture of any sort. When she lifts her feet up, she sees gray, slick, uniform like a barium smoothie. The scuffed soles of her shoes leave no trace.
--------
Panel 3: Through Cornelius’s eyes, we see Mol and Cynth standing. Cynth is looking to the side and clutching her arm (the one that’s hiding the sword) as if it was hurt. Mol has her head down and hands linked in front of her, attempting to look shy. She’s looking straight into his eyes.
--------
“Why do you eat that stuff?”
“It’s tasty, that’s why.”
“No, it’s not. It tastes like nothing.”
--------
Most of the time, you can tell who’s a patient by looking for a white wristband. They vary a little from area to area – bands for admitted patients have a blue border, for example, while general day bands are wide and pure white – but as a general rule, if you see white on someone’s wrist, that person is undergoing treatment.
--------
“I don’t know this for sure,” he says, tapping the cards into a neat pile, “but I heard the missing girl’s one of Leonhart’s inner circle.”
“Get out of town. Where’d you hear that, Tustin?”
He cuts his cards and shuffles them with a shrug. “Around. Besides, it makes sense. Why else would he be going so over the top with this?”
--------
When his palm touches his cheek, the unnatural coldness of the contact startles him. His hand jerks back involuntarily, or tries to, and he’s confused to feel resistance against the quick movement. The air’s thick, like a wet blanket swathed over top of him, crawling into his nose and ears, choking him.
He realizes he’s not breathing.
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3 of those are original works, 3 are memoirs-ish, and 2 are fanfics. I'm thinking it's pretty obvious what's what.