. . . is that she’s laughing about this right now and sharing it with her friends.*
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. Sometimes, genetics is awesome.
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* And passing around the card I gave her this year. Inside: a picture not unlike the one above—though with a cowboy hat— and Happy Mother’s Day embossed on it. Inside: I figured you’ve been given enough flowers and kittens by now. Mom loved it. Dad wasn’t sure . . .
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 Just pick a six sentence passage from anything you’ve written—published, unpublished, whatever—and post it on your blog on Sunday.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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Here’s another six from my probably-not-drawer novel.
It’s been a busy morning for Clyota . . . and someone called the police:
The female officer escorted me to my bedroom and looked around as I pulled clothes from my bureau. I dropped the robe, and the officer drew in a breath. “Where’d you get the scars?”
“Basic training,” I said, zipping my jeans.
“Army?”
“Library.”
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Previous Installments:
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
Earful of Cider 