1. Go to page 77 (or 7th) of your current ms
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy down the next 7 lines – sentences or paragraphs – and post them as they’re written. No cheating.
4. Tag 7 other authors. (I am not doing this – anyone who wants to do it can. Those who don’t want to don’t have to.)
This is from page seven of short story currently in first round edits with Riptide Publishing for their rent boy line. "Cruce de Caminos" is a dark bisexual paranormal set in New Orleans. It comes out (tentatively) in May.
But still. Forty-something bucks in five minutes? He’d made enough money for a night’s shelter and dinner, maybe lunch tomorrow. It felt... well, it didn’t feel good, exactly, but it felt productive.
A store down the street sold cheap saran-wrapped muffaletta sandwiches. He paid with the quarters and scarfed one down with a cup of free tap water, trying to ignore the yellow tint and the rancid aftertaste. Then he hit the bathroom to crush and rail his last oxycontin. The mirror didn’t show any traces of white powder under his nose, but he stood there for a while as the rush came over him, staring at his face and calculating.
Money. Cristina. The drugs. It was all like some kind of geometry problem. To solve for one, he had to figure out the others. He’d lied to Cristina on the phone—he’d never leave her, not while she still needed him. Wanted him. She was the only one who did. Or would, now.
He considered the angles of his face and practiced several different kinds of smiles. Very pointedly licked his lower lip. Took off his bandanna to tone down any thug factor and ran a hand over the top of his head, shifting the light that caught his buzzed hair. He’d made enough for some bedbug-infested hotel, but why stop there? He could get enough for a steak dinner, or hell, a proper motel with a clean shower and a color TV—but who was he kidding? He knew exactly how he’d spend the money, if he got it. Enough heroin could make even a highway underpass tolerable, and more than that, it might be the one thing to remind Cristina that he was looking out for her still. No matter what.
He was feeling pretty good now. Light and warm and happy and he wanted it to last, but it wouldn’t, not unless he got out there on the street and made it happen. And he was young. They liked young. He smiled again, reminding himself, then walked out of the bathroom head held high.
What do you think?