The middle is not like an Oreo cookie…

In other words, lacking sweet sugary goodness. I’m talking about the middle of the story, otherwise known as the slump. Yep, I’m there. It’s the point when churning out words becomes just that–a churn, rather than an easy flow. I’m posting a bit of my WIP below as part of my Tuesday teaser (keeps me honest :)).

I pull back slightly so that I can see him before he can see me. He comes around the corner, wearing a faded olive green tee shirt and jeans. I notice the outfit, particularly the fact that the jeans look new, before I notice the other thing.
He’s not alone.
There are three other guys with him. Two don’t look like anything to worry about—they’ve got Hunter’s reedy build. But the fourth is big, football player big, with muscles that strain against the fabric of his tee shirt. My stomach drops, and I feel a cold tingle in my spine and palms. I glance up the street and wonder how fast they can run.
It’s not my voice, or any voice familiar to me. I look around and see a girl running across the street. She’s familiar, and as she gets closer to the boys I see why—she’s the one on Hunter’s Facebook page, the girl with her arms always around him, the girl Hunter’s always looking away from. And as I see his face now, I feel a sudden flicker of concern for her. He doesn’t even look her way when she reaches him, panting. “I was calling you, like, all afternoon! Why didn’t you call me back?”
He’s still not looking at her. “I’m busy.”
The other three guys peel off and move a couple of feet away. One of them—not the football player—laughs loudly. I see Hunter’s face darkening.
“Busy? Come on—you’ve been telling me that for, like, weeks.” She reaches for his arm—he pulls back slightly, then stands still. His lips curl back from his teeth. “Please, Hunter. I’ve wanted to see you…my mother’s, like, losing it completely and my dad’s about to move out…”
He finally looks at her. Whatever’s in his glance seems to hit her like a blow—she shrinks back, even before he says to her, softly, but not so softly that I can’t hear, “I don’t give a shit.”

So who’s got milk?

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