I've been tagged by [livejournal.com profile] pir8fancier to participate in the 7 lines meme: seven lines from page 7 or 77 of a WIP. I'm going to cheat and post two, one from a fanfic, one from an original fic.

(For the first WIP I opened, the entirety of page 77 is filthy, filthy porn, and I'm too embarrassed to post that out of context. So, second WIP. I must say, you can get a lot of mileage out of compound, comma-spliced sentences. *cough*)


Downward he streaks like a shooting star, picking up speed, the speed of light, faster and faster, the blackness growing, growing brighter, and then—oh Merlin he's on fire. He blazes through the void, keening, "Harry, Harry," while everything he was, everything he is, is being burned, burning up, consumed down to the bone.

"SEVERUS," someone screams. It's too late, he can't stop himself, it's already too late, he's on a collision course with the end of the world, and like a flaming asteroid his life, his whole bloody life, falls through years and space and memories and stars, and detonates on impact.

The force of his landing emits a thunder of light, endless and annihilating. The sum of himself, rage and grief, sacrifice and passion, loathing and love, explodes outward.

For an unknowable span of time Severus Snape disappears from the universe.


Excerpt 2, of which only eleven pages exist. So these convoluted sentences are plucked from page seven.

>The prehistoric horrors that lurked in the superstitious brainstem of the whole species surfaced in him, and abruptly Manny felt around him the burden of infinite blackness, silence, nonexistence, the presence of thousands of tons of rock suspended above his head.

He stared for a moment without approaching the Celtic knot of young limbs tucked and twined around the central t-shirt. It seemed an obvious cross between fetal position and a magical calligraphy meant to ward off the horrors of premature burial. The figure’s hands covered its face. Its glitter-dusted jeans shone incongruously blue in this realm of white limestone. Despite that homespun blue, and despite the ragdoll fringe of curls yarning wildly above the shielding hands - it was the long, knucklebone hands, by the way, that confirmed Manny’s hunch that his quarry was a boy, besides the fact that he was pretty sure no girl would ever have been so stupid.

But despite the mass-produced fashion sense and the coxcomb hair, the contorted boy was a dead ringer, in the grotesque, paralyzed beauty of his contortion, for one of those lava-embalmed figures taken intact and alien as rock from the excavated ruins of Pompeii.


(Yes, believe it or not, all of that consists of only seven sentences. I should have been born in the Victorian era.)

Let's see, I tag [livejournal.com profile] kellychambliss, [livejournal.com profile] cerberusia, [livejournal.com profile] _hannelore, [personal profile] delphi, [livejournal.com profile] pauraque, [livejournal.com profile] lash_larue, and [livejournal.com profile] writcraft.

Have at it, you seven brilliant writers.
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