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 Just pick a six sentence passage from anything you’ve written—published, unpublished, whatever—and post it on your blog on Sunday.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.
___________________________________________
This bit follows from last week—Clyota is interrupted from her personal angst by a vidcall, but she can’t exactly call it being “saved by the beep”:
“Cly, what the hell is going on? All the Pressmen in the world are outside our house, yelping for you!” On screen, I could see the outrage on Cristina’s face and little Thomas leaning against his mother, thumb in mouth, big eyes worried.
I thought of all the flagged messages I’d just deleted—talk about missing a clue. “What do they want?”
“Mostly they’re just screaming your name, and I’m sure as hell not asking them for details.”
________________________
Previous Installments:
First ♦ Second ♦ Third ♦ Fourth ♦ Fifth ♦ Sixth
Seventh ♦ Eighth ♦ Ninth ♦ Tenth ♦ Eleventh ♦ Twelfth ♦ Thirteenth
Fourteenth
Earful of Cider 