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 Just pick a six sentence passage from anything you’ve written—published, unpublished, whatever—and post it on your blog on Sunday.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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Home again, Home again . . .
My block was bristling with Press electronically loaded for bear, shouting for my attention—if I got through this, my neighbors were going to be next, with pitchforks and copies of the homeowners’ association bylaws.
I grabbed the remote and thumbed the Door to the highest setting, donned my shock helmet, leapt out of the car and ran for safety. My Police escort cleared a path for me, swinging their clubs in apparent enjoyment, while the Press recorded them, and me, and each other, the fallen and the still rioting.
I crunched over broken antennae and a lens or two before reaching my Door, which was bellowing a warning loud enough, I hoped, to burst every enhanced eardrum within range.
My peripheral vision noticed the small Pressman Diane had “rescued” standing at the bare minimum of the Door’s range, his stillness isolating him from the frenzy. He made no attempt to approach or call out, but kept his lens focused on me with eerie concentration.
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Previous Installments:
First ♦ Second ♦ Third ♦ Fourth ♦ Fifth ♦ Sixth
Seventh ♦ Eighth ♦ Ninth ♦ Tenth ♦ Eleventh ♦ Twelfth ♦ Thirteenth
Fourteenth ♦ Fifteenth ♦ Sixteenth ♦ Seventeenth
Eighteenth
Earful of Cider 