Favorite Lines Time: May 26, 2017

You’re a writer. You’re awesome. Share your favorite lines from your novel here.


*Open to published and unpublished writers*
This is a positive place for writers! A place where you can show off your writing!

In the comments, post some of your favorite lines from your work-in-progress or a book you have published. Feel free to drop in a buy link too! Encourage your friends to stop by.

*Even if you don’t enter your own words, please comment on your favorite submission! Positive words are food to a writer’s soul!


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1. Sign up for my NEWSLETTER.
2. Keep your favorite lines to under four hundred words.
3. Keep things PG rated. Or mostly PG.
4. You can submit twice if you’d like.
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Abbie Roads writes dark emotional novels featuring damaged characters, but always gives her hero and heroine a happy ending… after torturing them for three hundred pages. RACE THE DARKNESS and HUNT THE DAWN are available now! SAVING MERCY is available for pre-order.

RACE THE DARKNESS

HUNT THE DAWN

SAVING MERCY

About the author: abbieroads

2 comments to “Favorite Lines Time: May 26, 2017”

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  1. Patrick Tylee - May 27, 2017 Reply

    From UNIMAGINARY, sci-fi thriller for YA. Currently in Kindle Scout competition.
    You get a free copy with your Nomination, and Kindle Press publishes the e-book.
    https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/3JODMXSWZ9NYO

    Page 205 –

    Hidden in the shadows, Ahnim and Wynn explored every possible way to kiss. His mouth grew sore and though he wouldn’t admit it, she’d exhausted his tongue. He came up for air to the dark and musty reality of the parking garage.

    “Um…wow!” he said.

    “Wow is a good word for this.” Her arms draped around his neck, she pulled herself up again to where they were face to face, her feet dangling a foot off the ground.

    She’s impossibly light, he thought, yet so strong.

    *****

    Exhausted and frustrated, the four pursuing cops paused to rethink the situation. One went back to get a cruiser. The two in the worst shape would turn right. They’d attempt to cut off the couple if they turned back toward their own vehicle. Officer Johnson, the athletic one, would resume the chase.

    *****

    Ahnim’s legs wrapped around Wynn’s waist. The rubber soles of her shoes squeaked on the smooth wall as she hooked them together behind his butt. That brought a huge grin to her face, and a good reason to dive in for another deep kiss.

    *****

    Officer Johnson slowed from a sprint to a jog. The kids, hand in hand, loped about fifty yards ahead. Around him, the tall grass and weeds crackled in flames. The couple had taken this path only a minute before. Bare earth burned hot beneath his shoes. A swath of overgrown foliage laid charred, as if a streak of lightning ran across the ground to where the couple now stood. And there they were, ignoring him. A mirage, shimmering, locked in a lovers’ embrace. His view closer, the two bodies flowed together like melted wax.

    *****

    Wynn focused his complete attention on where their two bodies met. His hands touched more than skin, he tasted more than her flavor. At some level, his own cells merged with hers. Ahnim’s surface inundated his own. Her particles washed through the fabric of his clothing. They mingled into his outermost layers of flesh. She met his body with her living light made fluid. He lost himself in the girl, with no desire to be found. They marveled at each other and the miracle of two made one.

  2. abbieroads - May 26, 2017 Reply

    From SAVING MERCY.
    http://hyperurl.co/SMAm1227

    The air reeked of dirty pennies and death. Days ago the bodies had been removed, but Cain Killion could still feel the desperate energy of the dying and almost—almost—hear the echoes of their screams imprinted on the bones of the house. He abhorred the sight of blood and yet here he was standing in another murder house, in front of another wall smeared, splattered, and sprayed with gore.

    His heart banged against the cage of his ribs, trying to bust out and make a break for it. A bead of sweat slid in agonizing slowness down the center of his spine.

    “You don’t look so good.” MacNeil Anderson stepped into his line of sight, diverting his attention away from the blood. The furrows around Mac’s eyes cut deeper than normal and three days’ worth of old man stubble fuzzed his cheeks, giving him a haggard and homeless appearance. Not exactly the look the FBI was going for when they promoted Mac to Senior Special Agent.

    Cain almost smiled at his own thoughts, but laughter no longer existed in this place. Only horror could thrive here now.

    “Do I ever look good when I’m about to…?” Yeah. There wasn’t a name for what he did. To the bureaucrats with their thumbs jammed up their asses Mac called it profiling—had to call it something. But it wasn’t profiling. Not at all. What he had to do with the blood was something worse than profiling. So much worse.

    “This is different.” Mac reached up and put his dry palm on Cain’s forehead. “You sick? Have a fever?”

    Cain might be thirty years old and lived on his own since he was eighteen, but Mac had never outgrown the role of his adopted dad.

    “You can always walk away.” Mac made this offer at every kill scene.

    And every time, Cain’s legs twitched with the urge to run. Only determination, masochism, and the promise of sick satisfaction kept him locked in place. “I’m staying. I always stay.”

    “I’d stop calling you out for these cases, but I know you’d just find someone else who would.” Mac’s words were slow and glossed with sadness.

    “No one else has the history I have. No one else can do what I do. No one else can give you the information I can.” Yeah. His profiles were more accurate, more detailed than anything a traditional profiler could come up with. In the majority of cases his work guided law enforcement directly to their perpetrator. “It’d be stupid not to call me.” Not to mention he needed to be around that dynamic duo—blood and death. They stripped away his mask of normalcy leaving him naked to the one truth about himself he could never forget.

    He was Killer Killion’s Kid—Triple K—the media called him. The spawn of a killer with the genetic predisposition to be a murdering machine. One of the only ways he’d found to curb the ugly urges was to force himself to attend these murder scenes. Force himself to witness the destruction.

    His deepest, darkest, dirtiest secret—the thing he would never utter out loud because it terrified him: Sometimes he enjoyed himself.

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