Have a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?
Want to sample other people’s WIPs, EIPs, MSs, or published works, eight sentences at a time?
Be a Weekend Writing Warrior!
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When this goes live, I’ll be snoring away in a hotel room in Indianapolis, where a group of online writer friends who met over at Betsy Lerner’s place are converging for some Real Life Face Time™ over a too-short weekend.
Depending on traffic and my level of sleep deprivation, I probably won’t be able to make the warrior/snippet rounds until late tonight or tomorrow. But I promise I’ll get there!
(I’m going to try to get my phone to add a link to the Snippet Sunday Facebook post—if it doesn’t show by the time this goes live, could one of you wonderful people help me out? Thank you!)
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Last week, Turner pitched a werewolf out of the fifth floor window—because dragging a kneecapped, leather-cuffed thug down all those stairs is bothersome and explaining (or not) to the other people in the elevator would be . . . yeah—just as the Talbot City Police, or at least the division that covertly handles inter-species crowd control, arrives to take custody.
There’s something about Kyle that brings out the really long sentences eloquence in Tom . . .
A fist pounded twice on the door and Sergeant Janet Kyle stomped in, five foot seven inches of ex-Army badass cop, and the first person all morning who might have qualified as a femme fatale—except I’d never seen her in a dress, and she didn’t need saving from anyone but these two idiots from her former platoon who kept calling her in to clean up their mess.
She was carrying the arm restraints and wearing an expression that said we were going to pay for every single person who saw her holding a set of custom, studded leather BSDM playware—and not in a fun way. She slung them at me and I caught them, the silver biting cold against my palm.
“You’re lucky I’m not using these on you,” she said, in a tone that dared us to take it the wrong way.
Turner coughed into his fist as I wiped my mind of all spontaneous mental images.
“It was him or me, L.T.,” I said.
She crossed her arms. “Then how come Turner was the only one I saw leaning out the damned window?”
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Thus ends the last of the femme fatale references Tom will be making, at least in this chapter.
Question: solely from the above bit, is it clear that Kyle is a police Sergeant now, but was Tom and Turner’s Lieutenant in the Army?
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Image borrowed from a tee shirt available from CafePress.
Earful of Cider 