The 777 Writing Challenge

The writing challenge, as I understand it, is to take a current work-in-progress - in particular, the 7th line of the 7th page and then the next seven lines. I have parsed for dramatic effect but have held faithful to the tenets of the challenge. I was tagged by Michael W.Lucas.

This is from my current WIP, The Sundered Veil, a novel of the Schattenreich that takes place in the near future, but also a series of elongated and connected short stories. (i.e., I haven't yet decided what the hell it's supposed to be since I'm only about a third of the way into it. SO this really is showing my underpants).
 
We stood facing each other in the crowded tram. Brev scanned quickly, his brilliant dark eyes missing nothing.

He leaned forward, close enough to whisper, “All clear.”

I nodded and breathed easier. Then I grabbed an overhead handhold and scrutinized the aisle and the seats behind Brevalaer for any signs of the Folk.

The family called them the Tud, but by whatever name you called them, they weren’t human.

Some had bits and pieces of humanity, half-human parentage, knowledge of which was lost in the mists of time. Most could pass for human when they wanted to, making them harder to identify for what they were by those who didn’t know what to look for.

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This is from my finished but not-yet-ready-for-publication SF novel, Daughters of Earth.


Meyna felt a tear run down her cheek as she looked at the boys’ faces.

They idolized Ramsen, and their stricken expressions showed how much his sacrifice had affected them. 

They repeated the storydance, this time embellishing it with another major movement, the escape from the Setkaens into the swamp.

Setkaens and Meynators. Meyna would rather be eaten by the latter, this world’s natural predators, than captured or killed by their invaders.

Meyna concentrated, channeling the ultraviolet of her anger and grief into movement, her arms silky light kryswings, sliding over Reeth’s.

The two women moved as one graceful struggling organism, their hands touching and then moving away. Reeth’s shrill song echoed the puffs of poison mist the Setkaens had hunted them with.

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Bwahahahaha. I'm now entreating the following writers to do their own thing with this challenge.

I've tagged: Priya Sharma, Rob Rowntree, David Conyers, D. L. Young