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 Just pick a six sentence passage from anything you’ve written—published, unpublished, whatever—and post it on your blog on Sunday.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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There are problems with today’s six, mostly because I winged the whole novel, learning about the world, and the Press Corps, as I went.
Now I know that Reynard would find hard copies hopelessly antiquated—all he would have to do is upload the contract into the Corps’ Central Dispatch and send every colleague in the Region a cease and desist.
Though bandwidth usage and speed being what they are and always will be—and mobs being what they are—verbal reinforcement probably isn’t such a bad idea:
I turned my jacket collar up as high as it would go and stepped out of the house. Thousands of red lights trained on me like the reflected eyes of rabid animals. I flinched back as the Press surged forward, stabbing their antenna and wires in my direction, but just as the Police raised their clubs, the little Pressman stepped in front of me, holding up his copy of the printed contract.
“Exclusive!” he bellowed into the teeming night.
The calling voices stopped mid-word, as if he’d flipped a switch. In less than ten seconds, the mob melted into nothing.
It seems a shame to deny Reynard his dramatic moment . . . but I’m still going have to bite down and change it.
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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 ♦ Twenty-fifth
Earful of Cider 