If you happen to be working on some creative writing project, fanfiction or NaNoWriMo or what have you, post exactly one sentence/paragraph/whatever from each of your current work(s) in progress in your journal. It should probably be your favorite or most intriguing sentence so far, but what you choose is entirely your discretion. Mention the title (and genre) if you like, but don't mention anything else -- this is merely to whet the general appetite for your forthcoming work(s).
Prisoner of War, original fiction
The spark took root immediately, growing and multiplying into a raging fire. Wood charred and darkened, fiber went up like tinder, tin warped and sagged. I witnessed its swift passing, though it gave me no pleasure. Would that I were still on good terms with my siblings; my sister could have cleansed this place of gore and its inhabitants of memories for me - but I had not spoken with her in nearly three millennia. This would not be the first time the fallout of that quarrel had cost me.
Prick of the Needle, original short fiction
Leading Vince further into the house, she called back over her shoulder, the top of a spiraled double helix on her spine twisting with the motion. “That article has led more lost souls like you to my doors than I expected. I should pay them for the favor.” Her contralto had a sly smile in it.
Daughter of Air, original fiction
I shaved my head, shed her shapeless hippie clothing for leather and safety pins, pierced my nose and tongue, etched tattoos on every inch of skin. I played The Residents and Black Flag at top volume on my stolen stereo. She'd just smile at me and put in earplugs, and every dinner was still full of her little predictions about me; even when she couldn't caress my hair anymore, she'd run her hand over the dragon tattoo I'd had stenciled into my scalp, rough fingers catching on fresh blonde stubble.
Untitled Torchwood fanfic, short fiction
The blast radius rushed past them and the light died down to the flickering orange of a fire. Tosh hoped it wasn't the Torchwood SUV burning out there; Ianto might have to take the money out of the budget for a new espresso machine.
A Tide of Memories, original short fiction
Dendra is a whiner and always has been, but she also knows how to pick locks. Throwing disdainful words like well-aimed stones, Malea berates her into the theft of Sister's sewing kit and its many-sized needles. Dendra's hands tremble at the barred library doors, one knitting needle slipping in clammy fingers, but Malea pushes and prods and cajoles until the tumblers fall and the doors creak open. Dendra gives a loud sigh of relief. Malea sniffs at her cowardice and drags her witnesses into the green-lit halls of the stacks.
The Clouded Ruins of a God, original fiction
The massive reception hall was dimly lit by scattered lanterns, as it had always been, and echoingly empty, as it had never been in his entire life. The high priest sat hunched forward in his throne, leaning heavily on his staff of office. It glittered blue and green and silver in the wavering lamplight when his age-spotted hands shook.
This tells me that I should really get my butt in gear and finish these.