First, Happy Father’s Day to those male-identifiers among you who are owned by or have a paternal connection to a kid.
Second, a special happy day to my Dad, who not only reads everything I’ve ever written and applauds, even if he has no idea what any of it means, but is also spending this weekend camping with a bunch of tenderfoot (tenderfeet?) scouts in what is probably a mud-lined rainforest by now.
I love you and Mom needs a raise.
Third:
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 Just pick a six sentence passage from anything you’ve written—published, unpublished, whatever—and post it on your blog on Sunday.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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Being arrested for murder, arraigned, and bailed out tends to give one the munchies—who knew?
After taking Clyota’s order for “anything but peanut butter”—long(er) story—her best friend Christina turns to the cyborg non grata:
“And you?” she asked the Pressman in a voice full of grudge. I wasn’t surprised—Christina is a consummate hostess who would never allow anyone to starve in her home, even if she loathed him and all his ilk. She maintains that since she always feeds her mother-in-law when Her Exacting Majesty visits, it wouldn’t be any extra effort to supply Satan himself with a brimstone sandwich if he ever drops by.
She eyed the Pressman in the rearview mirror as if he might ask for one with a nice bowl of sulphur on the side.
“On the whole,” he said, “I believe a power socket will be enough. Thank you,” he added.
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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 ♦ Twenty-sixth
Twenty-seventh ♦ Twenty-eighth ♦ Twenty-nine
Earful of Cider 