Favorite Lines Friday: January 20, 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*Open to published and unpublished writers*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.
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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.







About the author: abbieroads

7 comments to “Favorite Lines Friday: January 20, 2017”

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  1. Christina Hoag - January 27, 2017 Reply

    “Violence happens to people on TV, in newspapers. Not to an A student. But it did happen to me. I’ve become one of those people. How? How did that happen?”
    “You’re like a marble. Every time you roll, I see a different color.”
    From Girl on the Brink, my YA romantic thriller about a girl who gets involved with the wrong guy, voted by Suspense Magazine as one of the Best of 2016 YA. http://amzn.to/2aRFsVZ

  2. Anne Kane - January 21, 2017 Reply

    Excerpt from Love and Wishes – A sci-fi Fantasy novella for sale here: books2read.com/u/4jKp8Z

    Jenna started at the sound of a deep voice to her left. Keeping a wary eye on her would-be suitor, she turned her head enough to see the owner of the voice. Nice!
    She’d always had this fantasy about a high-tech cop, and the man grinning at her from beneath his vintage twentieth century helmet certainly looked like he could live up to it. The skintight blue uniform did nothing to hide his broad shoulders and a massive chest that narrowed to lean hips and a very nicely shaped butt. He took off the helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. The red streaks in his dark hair gave him that bad boy look that sent her pulse racing. She licked her lips in appreciation. Now why couldn’t her wish have conjured up someone like him?

    If he managed to keep up with her, she might just let him replace Green Fuzzy here as her evening entertainment. That touch of alien blood her mother had gifted her with meant most human males had a hard time walking away once she was satisfied — not because they found her irresistible, but because they were just plumb wore out.

    Actually, she recalled a few of them running away screaming. Seems human men were really spooked by a girl who kept asking for more sex, especially after the first couple of hours. Still, this one looked like he might be fun while he lasted. She gave him her best come-hither grin and sidestepped as the monster made a grab for her arm.

    He replaced his helmet. “I don’t think that’s a costume. Greenie here looks like one of the Tra’toni from the Jupiter colony.”
    Definitely a southern drawl. A trickle of heat warmed her belly. “I really don’t care.” Jenna snorted. “When I wished for a male to amuse me, I kind of had a human male in mind.”

    “Should be more careful what you wish for, then.” The man slid out of the path of the monster, landing a nasty chop in the small of its furry back as it stumbled past him.
    Jenna rolled her eyes. “Hindsight and platitudes. Just what I needed.”

    “On the contrary.” He whirled to block the monster’s right hook, landing a kick on its leading knee. “I think you need some personal attention of the type I happen to be very good at.” He waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, a darkly sexy grin creasing his handsome face.

    • Christina Hoag - January 27, 2017 Reply

      “Cops. They thought they owned the world and in a way they did. They could do whatever they wanted and get away with it. Everyone listened to them because they had a badge and a uniform. No one listened to us, we were just cholos. But sometimes they were wrong and we were right—and then what?”
      “Fighting’s the only time when I really feel something, you know, the pain. When I hurt, I know I’m really alive.”
      From Skin of Tattoos, my gangland thriller from Martin Brown Publishing. http://amzn.to/2bSRjqP

  3. Diana Reep - January 20, 2017 Reply

    From WIP–Chicago Movie Girls:
    Marigold sat on the terrace wall clutching Billy Tucker’s shoulders. Her pink taffeta bodice was unbuttoned, and Billy’s hand moved under the taffeta while he pressed kisses along her throat. Marigold gasped into the night air.
    Mrs. Gregory screamed, an agonized shriek, loud enough to be heard behind the closed terrace doors. The music inside faltered for an instant and then resumed. Billy and Marigold straightened, still clinging to each other. Marigold looked dazed, but when she saw her mother, her eyes cleared. She snatched at her bodice, pulled it together, and fumbled with the buttons. Billy stepped back, a drunken smirk on his lips.
    Lucinda touched Mrs. Gregory’s arm. “A scene here simply won’t do,” she said in a low voice. Thrilled with the situation she’d fallen into, she was already writing her column in her head. Could she possibly name names?

  4. Fabrianne Cloud - January 20, 2017 Reply

    Both of these are fantastic! Has me wanting to read more! Great choice! Im going to go check out these 2 books!

  5. Claire Gem - January 20, 2017 Reply

    From Spirits of the Heart – A Haunted Voices Novel, coming soon. Read the first chapter free here: Chapter One

    The child stared at Miller with lips quivering before her face crumpled again. “I don’t know. I don’t know where Daddy is. I’ve been looking and looking for him. Every time I think I’ve found him, he goes away.”

    Miller swallowed. Yeah, that’s one way to describe the mysterious vanishing act.

    He drew in a breath and tried again. “What’s your name, sweetie? Was that your daddy with you just a few minutes ago?”

    Head bobbing, the tears flowed freely now, and she wouldn’t take her eyes off Miller’s face. He felt a lump growing in his own throat, as though she was somehow transferring her pain to him. His hands, clasped in front of him, began to shake.

    When she spoke again, her voice took on an echoed quality, as though she were receding into an empty drain pipe. “I’m Greta. And I’m looking for my daddy. He used to live here. But I keep coming back to find him, and nobody knows where he is.” She dropped her chin to her chest and ground her knuckles against her eyes.

    “Greta,” he repeated, a stab of pity piercing his gut. So freaking pathetic. A forlorn little girl . . .his own memories rose up like foul-smelling steam. Swallowing hard, he pressed on. “Greta, honey, what’s your last name?”

    When she looked up, Miller gasped. Behind her, against the fence, a bright red McDonald’s French fry box clung to the base of the chain link. Directly behind her, yet he could see it clearly. That’s when he realized he could see . . .right . . .through her.

    Shock seized in his chest, causing his breath to hitch. He staggered to his feet and took a shaky step backward.

    I must be imagining this.

    When the child spoke again, her voice echoed, as though from within tiled walls.

    “Sanderson,” she said. “My name is Greta. Can you help me? Can you help find my daddy?” Her voice was fading now, along with her image. Just before she disappeared entirely, her last words cut through Miller’s chest like a searing, hot bullet.
    “I’m lost. I don’t know where to go. I need my daddy.”

  6. abbieroads - January 20, 2017 Reply

    From SAVING MERCY. Amazon: 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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