I'm choosing to post from 'Brake Fluid, Blood & Body Bags', a YA Contemporary/Murder which hops between three timelines. For the newbies who followed the blogfest link here, if you're curious, you can check out my 'What I'm Writing' page. This story is listed as Project #4.
Since I have only just completed my first draft, and always end up adding a lot of words during the first editing pass, my hooks and hangers will probably change as I continue to refine this story.
And, true to (lazy) form, I prepared this post and the hangers post the day I signed up for the blogfest, and don't plan on updating these two posts even if editing has changed the content since.
It’s easy to forget that crazy is relative.
It wasn’t our fault, not really, like flicking a lit cigarette from a car window doesn’t always cause a forest fire that rips down the coast and burns up a kajillion dollars worth of rich-white-real-estate.
What Jackson didn’t know is that I was the one who swiped his bedroom key at the party.
When we reach her mom’s house, Triss starts to swing into the driveway, then thinks better of it, pulls a u-turn, and parks across the street.
A single white light turns the corner followed by the whining putter of a scooter engine.
“I’m tired,” Triss says.
I’m standing in the brightly-lit bathroom of Triss’ dad’s condo, slowly building up my courage.
I think Triss’ body heat is catching.
Chapter 9 (holy run-on-sentence Batman! This needs to be cut in two)
After we clean the breakfast dishes, Triss and I pile into the beast where it takes twenty minutes of swearing, coaxing, pleading, before I finally have to get out and give the beast a push-start, then she sputters a burning-oil-gasp out her tailpipe and the engine turns over.
That night, after Jackson stomped down the stairs, Triss held out her hand to Spence.
Through the cracked windshield, I can see Triss talking fast with an old man.
As Triss and I sit in the tiny coffee shop, I wonder how things would be different if I had stayed with Kate that night.
As Spence disappeared down the hall to find Kate, Triss hopped off the counter and crossed the kitchen towards me.
With her foot off the gas, the beast slows in the time it takes Triss to reach over the gearbox and lightly run her fingers over the brand-new tear in my jeans.
Triss touches my face and I finally lift my eyes to hers.
His voice cuts through the line, “I want to talk to my daughter.”
There’s about a dozen red, plastic gas tanks piled up next to rotting cardboard, broken pallets, and a small dumpster.
The road through the park is long and quiet, with miles of giant trees that shut out any hint of melted sunlight.
The lake is difficult to pick our way around.