WIP Meme . . . and mine are ready for foster care . . .

[peg22]

Post a single sentence from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick).  No context, no explanations.  No more than one sentence!

And I know I cheated about the sentences . . . sue me. Or take these babies off my hands . . . whatever!

House

Wilson got as far as the parking lot before it all broke apart. 


Starsky and Hutch

The audience leapt to their feet as Kenneth Hutchinson, international singing star, finished his concert. He stood in the spotlight, soaking up the adoration. The roar grew louder and louder until suddenly, he realized it was the phone.


Starsky sat staring at the piggy bank, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders slumped. Hutch’s heart cracked every time he snuck a look at him over the typewriter, where he tried to turn the horrific events of the past few days into an acceptable report..



Captain Dobey sighed and threw the tie on the bed. It landed on top of the colorful pile of the other seven he had already tried on and discarded. He frowned, wishing he could walk into the department in a pair of sweats and tennis shoes, like some of his detectives. Well, two of his detectives. He sighed again and sat on the edge of the bed. It wasn’t the tie – he knew it. He could pick out a tie in his sleep. Some of his men had even suggested that’s precisely what he did every morning. Well, one of his men.

The day he fell in love with Hutch started out like any other day. He woke up, ate a bowl of Trix cereal standing at the sink, washed it down with a root beer, and grabbed an apple on his way out – his one token effort to eat healthy.

“So what do you believe in, Starsky?”

 

“I believe in Christmas, Huggy’s triple chili cheese-burger, UFO’s, the Boston Red Sox, and you.”

 

Harold Dobey sighed. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He counted to ten. He glared at the light, willing it to green. He glanced up and down the street, and then gunned his car through the intersection, tinted scarlet from the still-red light.

 

“Violation, Cap. If I had my ticket book . . .” Starsky said, eyes closed in the passenger seat.

 

“Starsky, if you still had a ticket book . . .”

 

“I know, I’d be dangerous.”

And just for good measure: PMG/DS

Davey knocked softly. Smelled the cigar, the incense,heard Croce, an accompanying guitar.

Damn. This was bad. He knocked again and heard the guitar stop. The door opened and Paul stood before

him. Barefoot, in shorts, no shirt, hair a mess, a cigar chomped between his teeth. 

Comments

[dipslikeramon.livejournal.com]

You have made me a very happy Susie! :D :D :D