Anyway, I thought I'd share some snippets that I really liked with you today
From an erotic ficlet I wrote based on one of my role-play character's dreams about her lover:
It hurts. He's biting her hard enough to leave a bruise, and she wants more. She wants him to hurt her; she needs him to hurt her. If this wasn't a dream, she tells herself she'd stop him. She wouldn't enjoy this so much if it were real, she says in her head, but deep down she knows it's a lie.
From another little ficlet I wrote a couple of years ago for a different role-play character, who is now retired:
"But torture isn't exactly a great way to gain information. Foldy believes she knows proper application of the various techniques - if there truly is such a thing. However, by using my knowledge of your central nervous system, a few well-placed spells, and a couple of medical instruments, I could get you to confess to some of the worst crimes in history. I could make you turn on your own pack and label your closest friends as monsters. You'd do anything to get me to make the pain go away, even if it meant your own death. You'd tell me everything I'd want to hear, regardless of whether it was true or not."
"The confidence with which you said that both frightens and slightly arouses me," Stephen admitted, barely getting his arm up in time to block a slap from Clotho.
Here's something from a novel I'm starting:
Of course it would be just like Devon to do something at the spur of the moment, including commit suicide. That was just the sort of person he was. Act now, think later had been his motto throughout most of his life, whereas I was the type to look thrice before I leapt. That probably explains why I was the honor student to his juvenile delinquent.
And finally, here's something I rediscovered today that I had totally forgotten about. It's over two years old, and I think I'll come back to and turn into a short story.
"Just a second. Stop knocking, will ya'?" He managed to get the zipper up before reaching the door, but his hand stopped short of the doorknob. Whoever or whatever was banging on his door smelled foul. He knew that smell. It was the overwhelming scent of decay and rotted flesh. Zombie? It wouldn't be the first time he'd encountered one, but in his apartment on a Sunday morning with all the fresh meat between wherever this thing had come from and his apartment? It wasn't behaving as a zombie would.
To the right of the door was his old Louisville slugger, which he picked it up. It wasn't as effective as a bullet to the head, but he was certain his clueless neighbors would get a little miffed if he fired off a gun, and telling the police he was defending himself against the undead would win him a one-way trip to the mental ward. He opened the door a crack to see what was there. It was a woman, mid-twenties he guessed, with long dark hair. She wasn't a zombie, but the smell of death and decay clung to her and he noticed she was caked in dirt from head to toe. It was dirt from a grave. Her own scent was underneath the stench. It was pleasant and somehow familiar, but Brian couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"Uh, can I help you?"
"Shower," the woman answered.
Brian scratched his head and opened the door a smidgen wider. "What?"
"Shower," she stepped foward, putting a hand on the door and pushing it open. "You do have one, don't you?"