Want to sample other people’s WIPs, EIPs, MSs, or published works,
eight sentences at a time?
Be a Weekend Writing Warrior!
Have to share this first: a friend shared a link to a Pro Wrestling Name generator.
My name, I kid you not, is “Full Metal Earthquake.”
How did it know?
And now, on to today’s eight sentences.
We’re still in the deli (I like delis) and Clyota is still coming to grips with the idea that Charlie might actually be an attractive man as well as the best desk partner she’s ever had—while under the interested observation of the Pressman.
The waitress returned with a thick sandwich buried in a mountain of golden-battered rings. Charlie joked with the woman, and she flushed pink, leaning towards him a little, not quite putting a hand on his shoulder.
Nonplused, I tried to see Charlie from the waitress’s point of view. He was tall, built solid, and was reasonably good-looking. No Adonis, but Tony—of whom I do not willingly speak—had been an Adonis, and who needed one of those?
Charlie smiled, and it was as though he had suddenly snapped into focus. Damn, Christina was right—the man did have dimples. I blinked, stunned for a moment, then looked away, right into Reynard’s lens.
I took a gulp of tea and dropped my gaze to the table, feeling my cheeks heat.
It occurred to me that I never really gave an explanation of this story. The latest incarnation of my query goes a little something like this:
It’s not that Clyota hates her mother. She’s just tired of dodging the half-cyborg, half-piranha Press Corps who are ravenous for a vid-bite on how it feels to be the daughter of the worst mass-murderer in living history. They should try it sometime.
Clyota’s workoholism has kept the press, an irate public, and her own feelings at bay for three years. The public outrage appears to be settling until new info about her mother’s crime hits the feeds. She’s afraid the resulting frenzy will get her fired from the library, but when her mother’s former co-pilot is blasted by Clyota’s own unhackable security system, unemployment is the last thing on her mind.
Especially when her only hope of avoiding a sentence of premature organ donation is the testimony of a loathed Pressman–in exchange for an exclusive of his choice. Clyota has one week to find out what turned her respected space pilot mother into a reviled, dead killer. Even if it means facing her own deepest fears about being her mother’s daughter.