Six Sentence Sunday is open to all writers. Just pick a six sentence passage from anything you’ve written—published, unpublished, whatever—and post it on your blog on Sunday.
Registration for the upcoming Sunday list opens the previous Tuesday evening at 5pm CST. More information is here.
Thanks to everyone who has been kind enough to leave a comment here over the past thirty-three Sundays! I really appreciate your encouragement and input. Eventually, if I’m actually going to get this completely out of the drawer, I’ll need to stop giving the story away . . . but not this week.
This week, Clyota has clobbered the thief who tried to waltz out of her crime-scene-sealed house with her mother’s lockbox last week (and it was an epic and glorious fight, trust me) while she and the Pressmen were trying to break in to find the same thing. Naturally, they’re a bit curious about his identity. . .
“Assistance, please?” he asked, indicating the mask.
I squatted and peeled the black fabric up to the forehead, then studied the narrow face: sharp, long nose, cheekbones like blades, thick blond brows over—I rolled up a heavy eyelid—pale blue eyes. “Never saw him before.”
The Pressman stared intently at the face for a long, still moment. “I have.”
He turned and walked back to the Beacon.
First ♦ Second ♦ Third ♦ Fourth ♦ Fifth ♦ Sixth
Seventh ♦ Eighth ♦ Ninth ♦ Tenth ♦ Eleventh ♦ Twelfth ♦ Thirteenth
Fourteenth ♦ Fifteenth ♦ Sixteenth ♦ Seventeenth
Eighteenth ♦ Nineteenth ♦ Twentieth ♦ Twenty-first ♦ Twenty-second
Twenty-third ♦ Twenty-fourth ♦ Twenty-fifth ♦ Twenty-sixth
Twenty-seventh ♦ Twenty-eighth ♦ Twenty-nine ♦ Thirty
Thirty-one ♦ Thirty-second ♦ Thirty-third