Half-inched from misia
If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction or NaNoWriMo or what have you, post exactly one sentence from each of your current work(s) in progress in your journal. It should probably be your favourite or most intriguing sentence so far, but what you choose is entirely your discretion. Mention the title (and genre) if you like, but don’t mention anything else. This is merely to whet the general appetite for your forthcoming work(s).
They were still three bounties short of rent when Nyx found the headless body in the trunk. She painted on nonsdays, the day before worship, the day after sex, when her body was loose and her head was clear and she hadn’t yet purged herself of the week’s paltry sins. The heroes took wing from a dark, raw field the color of blood. When she came home, a few of them always clung to the hem of her coat, the long spill of her hair, the bunched fabric of her stockings. She had long given up the idea of working without a crew, though Roman came into her quarters after every purging, his long face set in a dark, graven expression she had come to call winter, for it came as often as she remembered that season in her childhood, and never in as many varieties as it came on other worlds. They were looking for free locust stew, and they ruminated over cups of cinnamon tea, took comfort in sen pipes and Thordonian cigarettes, and lost themselves to a halo of sweet smoke. He waited only until her ghosts had faded, long after her feet had ceased to jerk, and then he turned away, pulled his hood up, and went back to the hold to inspect Thorne’s leavings. He was not beautiful.