Rodrigo,
Having read the opening paragraph, my immediate reaction is, ‘More please’. It seems a polished offering from an accomplished author. I will certainly keep my eyes peeled for it’s launch 
This appears to me, to be a typo:
Should it not read, ‘onto a bonfire, in due time’? Apologies if I’m mistaken.
Vic
You’re probably right. (As I said, English is not my native language and the only fiction piece I’ve written directly in English was my chapter for NiaD 2013.)
I’m glad you got that “more please” reaction. The first chapter is supposed to be a hook, and much better if the first paragraph serves that purpose.
I finished the first draft of my WIP (a novel) back in December and decided to take a break before summoning the second draft. That break is over now and I’m getting into it these days. The distance of time really helps to get a new perspective indeed.
Best regards,
Careful what you wish for. I might write you another cat story…
Don’t have a current and last, so I’ll just do two current WIPs:
WIP1:
If you ever hold a gun on someone, don’t stand too close to your intended victim.
WIP2:
A successful interstellar ambush requires four elements.
this one i like. i want to know the four elements now.
Those would not be the four, no. 
Damn. Now you tell me.
Well, okay, they might not be MY four. They sound very nice, though.
The intro is too big to post here, but here’s a snippet:
The first element is position: knowing where the victim will be at a given time. The second element is observation: being able to spot the victim against the backdrop of space. The third element is motion: having sufficient velocity to intercept the victim. The final element is misdirection: presenting the victim with a plausible set of events so that they overlook or misinterpret any inevitable discrepancies until it is too late. Achieve all four elements and the relative levels of force are nearly irrelevant.
This has changed my view of Voyager 1… 
Do you think it’s funny how our minds work sometimes? I know I do. A minute ago I was just staring at the wall and I noticed the paint was flaking off here and there. I reckon it needs a good paint job.
And then out of the blue, I see me old mate Graham standing there in his overalls, paint brush in hand threatening to give me a right going over if I didn’t stop mucking about. We were only fifteen then. Just out of school and trying to make some legitimate money for a change.
Hi all. Michael from Australia here. Like most of us I enjoy writing and have a WIP. It is only being written for fun and to entertain my wife, but I’ll probably release it as a free e-book in due course just for fun.
A few snippets:
Here’s my WIP. Please, be gentle.
2050, a California beach near Monterey:
Rachel danced around Isa, watchedher stand in the sand, her eyes covered by a blindfold. Isa, never one to be still, was shuffling her feet, the heat of the sun-baked sand beginning to hurt, herself moving in a small, dizzying circle. Isa didn’t need her eyes to tell her the sounds of her children were happy ones.
" they say it started when someone ****ed a monkey , if that’s true I hope he had fun because he certainly shafted the rest of us" (its not starred out in the text, but i wasnt sure what the forum policy is on naughty words)
WIPs all in the same universe.
One is a really dark story- which I’m lead to believe is going to be 3 different parts because of trauma that happens to my protagonist, and recovering from it all.
Another one is 10 years or so later.
I’m vague at the moment for the plot, because well- spoilers.
This was done for a class about metqaphors and similes. I don’t know why this came up, It’s not what I usually write, but I thought it interesting.
The weekend at last. A marathon couldn’t be more draining than this week.
A cold beer awaits for me. A beer, late night TV is heaven sent.
The door opens. A late night disturbance. My beer and late night TV will have to wait. The call is from a building in the dark side of town.
Opening the door the silence is heavy. The room is dilapidated with the feel of decay. I call out, no answer. A false report. Time to meet up with my beer and TV.
As I approach the door, a sound. I turn to see something disappear down the hall that was musty and smells of death.
No one is here. My beer awaits. Movement, something brushes my neck. A sharp pain. Oblivion. Awakening a thirst, not for beer but a drink that is warm, sticky leaving me with a burning desire that races through my body. My anticipated weekend is now forgotten for eternal nights of hot blooded temptation.
The first para of my second crime novel: Whisper of Death.
Meredith Bennington reaches for the shrieking mobile. Knocks it to the floor. Pads her fingers across the bedside rug. Probes for the recently updated iPhone.
I write fiction, but am also working on a memoir / auto bio (haven’t fully decided whether it will be a snapshot or the full shebang) that presently stands at 110,000 words. Sounds a lot, but if one can pratt on like I do, it’s a piece of pi**.
Also venture into poetry, but not new-age poetry that even the poet can’t understand. So I might write a few verses of hearts and flowers and then go back to killing characters: stabbings; cling wrap around the head; drownings; knifes; spiked drinks; okay, that’s enough - you’ll all think there’s a very sad case just joined!!
First paragraph of the second scene from my book, Weaver of Dreams
I’ll have to open up Scrivener to get my first line.