Favorite Lines Time: July 14, 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*Open to published and unpublished writers*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!

*In order to participate in Favorite Lines Time, please follow the rules…

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.
5. Share this post. Feel free to use the handy Click-to-Tweet link below.

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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.




About the author: abbieroads

Has one comment to “Favorite Lines Time: July 14, 2017”

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  1. Sharon Ervin - July 14, 2017 Reply

    From MEMORY, by Sharon Ervin

    She hadn’t heard Mac’s car, but Memory was whipping cream and the old hand mixer made a lot of racket. She unplugged the beater and sat it on its heel, swiped her hands against her hair to redirect any flyaway wisps, and hurried to the front of the house to welcome her dinner guest.
    The form standing in the hallway, already inside the house, was a squat, heavyset fellow who had his back to her as he gazed out through the glass in the front door. There was something crumpled on top of his head.
    “Can I help you?” Memory asked, wondering what the stranger was doing inside the house. She didn’t recognize him as a neighbor. Nor had she heard either the doorbell or a knock. That darn mixer must have masked more sound than she thought.
    The stranger tugged at the item on his head as he turned, pulling a woman’s stocking down to cover his face.
    Memory sputtered a laugh thinking this was someone’s idea of a joke, until he began moving toward her.
    She whirled, instinct telling her to run. She darted through the house to the dining room, the man in close pursuit. On the far side of the room, he caught her arm and spun her around. Before he could snare her, she was off again, this time in the opposite direction, toward the front door. Her foot slid as she pivoted to run out the door. She flapped her arms trying to keep her balance. Grappling for the Newell post to right herself, her flailing hand bumped then grabbed the out-of-place can of spray paint. When she caught it, the unseated lid that had been perched precariously, toppled off. Neither she nor her assailant noticed.
    Struggling to stay out of the reach of the man’s thick hands, Memory threw him off balance when, unexpectedly, she turned around again, this time heading straight toward him. Raising the can, she pointed the nozzle on the spray paint and pressed the trigger, aiming the stream at his face, his eyes.
    As paint met stocking, the man let out a high shriek and jammed both hands against his eyes, clawing, trying to rip away the improvised mask. Paint permeated the stocking’s mesh and dribbled onto his shirt.

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