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 Just pick a six sentence passage from anything you’ve written—published, unpublished, whatever—and post it on your blog on Sunday.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.
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More drawer novel . . . More angst . . .
I turned on my terminal with a defiant ping and brought up my messages.
There were more than forty, and most had Press flags attached. I deleted all of those—I didn’t know what had stirred the muck bucket, but I wasn’t having any.
I grinned. Let them try to break down my Door for a vidbite—I hadn’t had a chance to test the heavy artillery, yet.
My reflection in the screen grinned back at me . . . until I realized I only had one message left.
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Previous Installments:
First ♦ Second ♦ Third ♦ Fourth ♦ Fifth ♦ Sixth
Seventh ♦ Eighth ♦ Ninth ♦ Tenth ♦ Eleventh ♦ Twelfth ♦ Thirteenth
Earful of Cider 
I hear the drum beat in the background!
That’s probably the dryer . . . 🙂
Da, da, da… Great world-building in this six with a cliffhanger in the end! Always wanting more. 🙂
Thanks, Jessica! Cliffhangers R Us with this, I think.
uh-oh! Great 6! You seriously need to get this out of the drawer/trunk….
Thanks for the encouragement, Angela! Once I finish my current WIP, I’ll start looking it over in earnest.
Great detail with just enough to intrigue. Great six!
Thanks, Cherie! Yours, too!
I love the thought of testing artillery on the press. great six!
Well, these Pressmen, anyway. 🙂 Thanks, Wendy!
Intriguing six!
Thanks, Paula!
Awww, when can we read the whole thing?
That’s a good question, Sarah. Haven’t a clue!
Muck bucket!
You know I love these.
Thanks, Lisa! 😀
I love her nonchalance–both towards the press and the possibility of their very serious danger from her door. But then for a message to make her so anxious? Makes for great reading. 🙂
Hey, it’s their choice, right? 😀
I can really identify with the situation – thinking I can cavalierly throw away something valuable, because I’m looking for something better, then realizing I have almost nothing left. Then, it’s too late.