"…and that's when Megan made me learn first aid for a sucking chest wound," Alex Jarrett said, waving his glass of single-malt scotch without spilling a drop on his tux.
--from Wolfed!Alex. Yeah, I'm over 8000 words into that one and have no idea where to go with it that doesn't break the Pack Dynamics universe.
Critter-mation Man. Animator-nator. Plushie Pusher.
--from my Christmas Superhero story. Inspired by "useless superpowers." This guy can animate figurines and plush animals.
Sometimes, I thought with exasperation, it just didn't pay to get out of bed. Not that I actually slept, but it was the principle of the thing.
--from my "cruel and unusual reward" story. You get two sentences because it's funnier that way. Not that the story, as outlined, is in any way funny. There's a reason I haven't gone back to it. Shit gets dark in here, yo.
The snowflakes wafting into the loading zone dumpster didn't melt on the abnormally pale skin of our murder victim, sprawled on his back atop the detritus of a high-end downtown hotel. His bare chest was hairless, and a deep, rib-exposing burn marred the spot above his heart, the black scorch radiating outward like a sunburst and fading to angry red at the edges. Sharon Jackson, my partner, stated the obvious. "He's got pointy ears, Duffy," she said.
--from my Fantasy Novelist Cop story. I really want to finish this one.
"I can stop anytime I want. But why would I?"
--from the thing I started for the Fearful Symmetries antho and never finished. It's about a demon who feeds on addiction. His latest mark is an adrenaline junkie.
I knew the competition for the position of head sorcerer wasn't going to go well for my rival when he accidentally set the drapes in the throne room on fire--scattering retainers and courtiers, both orcish and human.
--from my Swords and Sorcery with Werewolves story. It was supposed to be a little dark, and then it went funny, and I have no idea what to do with it. 2200 words into that one.
"The antique dealer said that the guy who drew the map was crazy," I said to my two crewmembers as our shrimp trawler steered out into the foggy Gulf evening at the start of a three-week trip. "That they literally locked him up because he wouldn't stop talking about monsters."
--from my Shrimp Trawler story. I was going to write this one for Unlikely Story's Cartography issue and never finished it. Stalled at 3500 words.
Hitmen rarely die of old age, and I was no exception. The universe, however, has senses of both humor and irony, and it wasn't the job that killed me. It was a selfless act of attempted heroism.
--from Hitman in Hell. It was supposed to top out at 18000 words, and then it said "SURPRISE I'M A NOVEL." Not quite 13000 words in. It's next on the list after I finish novelizing Angry Bitter Angel.
I poked my head around the corner and fired my Ruger nine-mil at the [cop] hiding behind the shelving unit.
--from my Inner Workings story. Yeah, I have no idea. Notice that "cop" is in brackets.
Martok, Destroyer of Worlds, sniffed suspiciously at the mixture of hay and timothy pellets in the dish, which the adult male human had just deposited in the cage he shared with his friend Fozzle. "Ack! What the hell is this crap?" he asked.
--from my second Guinea Pig Sorcerer story. I really should finish this.
"Ain't you a purty one?" the ghostly girl-voice whispered in my ear. I jerked awake from an unending nightmare with the bare taste of death on my lips.
--from Cowboy Sleeping Beauty. Because why not.
I slapped the notice down on the mayor's desk. "Is it true you're looking for a virgin for a unicorn hunt?" I asked.
--from my Unicorn Hunter story. Yes, our narrator is male. Of course he is.
I thought my life couldn't get any weirder--until a crossbow bolt transfixed my chest in broad daylight in the middle of downtown Los Angeles.
--this one is code-named "weird life." Yeah, no idea where I was going with it.