Well, rebel that I am, I cheated. The "tag" instructs us to go to page 7 or 77, proceed to the 7th line, and conclude with the next 7 lines. I was faithful in selecting page 77 of my first entry, but, alas, I skipped the first three lines because they ended a chapter. So I technically began the quoted lines at line 4, and, like all saga writers let them carry on until the end of the paragraph. Not fair, I know. And I fudged the beginning of the other two entries too. But that's what you get when you tag this lady. Not sorry either. So there.
And since three wonderful people (Brenda Bryant Anderson, Tim George, and Jason Joyner) tagged me, I have three entries for you. I know: Big Whoop.
Race (working title)
Twenty-four (page 77)
If you’ve never attended an autopsy, consider yourself fortunate. Between the smell and gore it requires more than a strong stomach and the fortitude few people can muster. The horrors of war and serial killings are just about the only things that trump dissecting a single human being. The grief I felt at seeing Roman Diego laid out and ready to be cut open almost tripped me up. I didn’t expect to experience the intensity—as if I’d lost a friend, forced to view him on that sterile slab. I had to clear my throat and blink my eyes. Loren never missed anything—an older savvy version of Jesse—who’d about seen it all over his 30 years in his chosen field of forensic medicine. Mark stood stoic, his right hand covering his left in front of him, looking straight ahead.
Seeing . . . (page 77)
“Why not? I got nothin’ goin’ on tomorrow. We still have some daylight. A person should be able to experience the ocean, you know? I’ll get your room first and then we’ll head to the beach. I’ve got a couple of extra coats in the back. You might want to grab one of them. It’s a little windy. I’ll be right back.”
Returning with the key, he saw that his older black Jer Jones Trucking coat concealed most of her petite frame and bundled her well as she stood with her hands stuffed in the pockets of the warm, fleece-lined jacket.
in a love song . . . (page 7 and 77)
In spite of the generous dose of mouthwash administered before he attempted his rest last night, his mouth proved thick and nasty as he tried to lick his lips and swallow.
He rolled to his back and kept his eyes closed, wishing his mind back to sleep. Instead he pictured her reaction to him last night, and the chain reaction of those thoughts continued into the daylight. He threw the sheet off and forced himself up, headed to the bathroom.
. . .
Her eyes were sad, and he could see the fatigue. “Don’t thank me, Patricia. I’ve been wantin’ to spend the night with you since I met you.” He winked at her and continued to the bathroom, glad to hear her laugh as he walked away.
Seventeen
He took his time getting the Jeep warmed up and tried not to be conspicuous as he surveyed the area. In all likelihood there was nothing to be concerned about, but it had seemed like an odd choice of words for the guy to mention Pet’s place for spending time together instead of his own. It sure shook her up. Dale hoped Keith would show up early for work because if any of the guys would know or recognize the man, it would be him.
Father, you're the supplier of words. Thank you for them. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
