I'm a gonna put up a few first lines from my fics (because I am not patient enough to type up ALL of them), and you guys -- if so inclined -- could write little ficlets, using them. *bounces* See? It's fun? Feel free to re-fandomize, or whatever.
ALSO, PS: I write a whole fucking lot of fic, is what this meme has taught me. Dayumn. *eyes website in horror/awe*
It’s been raining for four days, and all that straight green grass bristling against the earth of the Shire is starting to lie flat in the mud.
There’s a little girl in the middle of the pond, waving her arms all around and laughing as her dad pulls her around the surface of the ice.
It’s not like the alley’s sexy or anything – it’s just there.
The record player sat in the corner of the cabin by one of the east facing windows, over the hand-knotted red and white rug.
Ray pulls his parka tight, and sits on the stoop in front of his house, looks at his hands in the thin greenish light.
When Fraser lies down, he can feel his bones settle into place, feel them decompress as his back straightens out and his hips flatten against the cot.
This used to be wine country.
The slow hand of the clock takes twenty minutes to wind itself around the fat, yellow face.
There’s a haze around the moon, and ice on the grey leaves that droop toward the roof, where Sirius lies.
The inside of Chloe’s wrist smells like caramel, and Lana licks her there.
You know when the phone rings that it’s your brother, even if you don’t know what ‘brother’ really means.
It's not like he hasn't done this before, he tells himself before getting out of the car.
Clark might not be the smartest person he knows, but he isn't stupid, either.
The Talon at midday was sluggish, as always – people trickling in and out at odd intervals while Lex and Lana went over some kind of interminably boring contract using words that Clark was sure had been invented for the sole purpose of putting people to sleep.
Clark isn’t quite sure how long he’s been standing in the hallway.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon in September and the weather isn’t great.
You watch the sun come up for what might be the fourth time since the fever set in.
The blanket was soft, blue, and probably hadn’t been washed recently.
Lois has big dark eyes that flash when she’s thinking and hands that never stop moving.
He didn't see it coming, and maybe that's why it had worked so well.
Fire licks out the windows, and up the sides of the building – flames wrap around the thin, square apartment complex like sinuous snakes
Winter comes to the farm, bruise colored and bitter
When Chloe wakes up, she’s kicked the sheets off entirely.
The yard is filled with bones and wildflowers.
The hardest thing, at first, was not to stare.
They had dinner at a downscale French restaurant by the water, and after, he put an arm around her shoulder, and held her tightly next to him as they walked along the riverfront.
There is no salutation.
Lily sleeps on her side, one hand reaching out over their green sheets, fingertips brushing his chest.
Her hair was long, and pale blonde like corn silk where it hung lankly beside her rouged cheek.
This next drink will be his very last drink and his very last drink will be his next drink and so he drink drink drinks until there's nothing left in his glass and his lips curl back from his teeth in a grimace as the vodka sears and burns its sour, loving way down his throat.
Las Vegas isn't what Xander expected.
Most men wait until they've been at sea for several weeks before looking for women in their bunk mates - for soft lips, or fine hands, or long curling lashes, and a nice round bottom beneath the blue breeches of the men they work beside.
Simon wakes up early in his narrow bed and stares up at the low, gray metal of the ceiling.
They are shadows and they make their own heat in the big, cold bed.