From lots of places:
If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction or NaNoWriMo or what have you, post exactly one sentence (or more) from each of your current work(s) in progress in your journal. It should probably be your favorite 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).
I have 12 short stories as well as a novel to choose from — I’m just giving a random selection. This was actually very interesting for me — while I have some short stories that I love lots of individual lines, there are others that I’m much more “meh” about. I’m going to look much harder at those stories now. The plot of those stories is good, and the characters are good, but the language could be more exciting.
I find a branch of thorns and rake it across my forehead, letting the words bleed into my eyes, enabling me to see all of God’s glory, the scripture written on every leaf, the revelations waiting to burst from the soil.
Purple-hearted tropical blossoms as big as his head followed him with beady pistils as he walked in.
On her feet she wore cheap plastic mules with pink flowers pasted on top, and on her head were kilometers of yellow cloth, close in color to the neon emergency workers wore, wrapped around and around, with a few black dreadlocks hanging out, like tiny roots from a hidden tree.
“The Cold Snap”
The slice of brilliant blue sky above Morley mocked him with a false promise of warmth never to come.
“The Escape Artist”
The workmen hadn’t found a body bricked up in the wall. Orville had jokingly asked about it, but he’d also checked the rubble as they’d carted it away. There hadn’t been a heart or a hand or even a buried locket with hair woven into the chain.
Those were the mornings he’d stand on the footboard of his bed, arms out, fingers spread wide, and fall toward the mattress, hoping at the last minute the air would catch him and he’d start to fly again.
“A Sword’s Poem”
Norihiko ventured away from the carriage as we rode along, going to the side of the road to gather beautiful mementos of our trip to give to me: a tiny pinecone hanging from a sweet-smelling branch; a sprig of brush clover, full of the tangy essence of spring; a partly-decayed leaf, half still in its yellow winter splendor, while the other half was just a spider-web thin splay of veins–a shadowy reminder of its former glory.
My tears streaked like falling stars as they flew from me, sizzling as they landed.
It (the mouse) squealed merrily while I vivisected it, draining its blood into a tiny porcelain cup and drawing the tendrils of its spirit to me.
I will always think of the days during our ride home as dark, full of angry storm clouds and thunder, though in truth, it was still spring, and most of the rain that fell was in the form of my tears.
It was the length of a man’s arm on all sides and unsymmetrical, a series of twisted lines and characters, like a book, torn apart by the wind, then the pages caught in a spider web.
Then I went back to my sleeping rooms, drew on a fresh robe, and sat in the tranquil darkness, watching my beautiful Kayoku sleep, composing poems to her that I could never speak aloud but that I prayed she would feel in my hands when I touched her, see in my eyes and witness through my acts.