I’m still having a lot of fun over at Storyline, so I decided to post a few of my favorite entries. Each segment was written in six minutes and is basically an example of my rough draft writing.
From “Siberia” (Crime):
"My name," he said in an even tone, "is Robert."
The Russian looked at him for a moment, and then cracked a smile—half of it rendered in poor gold dental work.
"Still just as cold as ever, Siberia. Eh?"
Ignoring his response, the Russian crouched down. He was so massive that this brought him to Robert's eye level. It somehow made him more intimidating.
"My friend, Yuri would like to talk to you." He pitched it low, and it sounded like a subwoofer had kicked on somewhere in his massive frame.
From “The Plane Crash” (Adventure):
I told my concerns to Phil and he stopped again. I didn't like the look he was giving me.
"Why would you say that?"
The words came from behind me and I almost jumped. The woman. Jennifer. I had forgotten she was there. I turned to look at her, standing a little lower on the slope. The distance was out of her eyes. I saw something new in her narrowed expression. Determination. Wariness.
"Why would you say that?" She repeated.
"About the valley. Why would you say it's a desert?"
I opened my mouth, but realized an answer wasn't forthcoming. Why did I say it? Why would I think a valley in the middle of a tropical island would be a wasteland?
"I'm ... not sure," I finally answered. "Maybe it's just shock." But I couldn't shake the image. The certainty that the valley was a terrible place.
From “Spite” (Fantasy):
The Other was not like a looking glass. Some of it was reflected in the terrain of the First World, but other pieces manifested their own strange laws. He had once tried to explain it to an initiate of the Pact by pointing to a plain table.
"Pretend the surface of the table is the First World," he had said. Then, with a flourish, he had swept a rough quilt over the top of it. He made no effort to allow it to lay smooth. Instead, he gestured to the wrinkles and folds, the confusing areas where the fabric doubled back on itself.
"That," he had continued in a grave tone, "is the landscape of the Other."
Thus, it was no surprise to Dyra when he emerged at the edge of a dank wood on top of a broad hill. He could barely make out the village as a smudge to the south. Despite the fact that he had travelled only the length of a field in the Other, he exited it some miles away.
As of right now, none of these stories have been completed. Feel free to head over to Storyline and add an entry of your own!