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 Just pick a six sentence passage from anything you’ve written—published, unpublished, whatever—and post it on your blog on Sunday.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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Last week, someone broke into Clyota’s police-sealed house before Clyota and the Pressman could—some people are so inconsiderate:
Rage trumped exhaustion.
“Stay here,” I said, and broke into a low run. The crunch of frozen grass echoed in my frozen ears, but the target’s ski mask blocked more than the wind; I made it halfway across the lawn before I was spotted.
He reacted instinctively, raising the lockbox for a moment as if to deflect my charge, then dropping it to assume a defensive stance a bare moment before I leapt and hit him like a ton of fast-moving bricks.
I didn’t have my HushMaster or sap with me—the handcuffs would have come in handy, too, and a stunner, since I was making a list—but I’ve always been good at subduing belligerent Patrons in hand-to-hand.
And Library Rules don’t apply in my own front yard.
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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 ♦ Thirty
Thirty-one ♦ Thirty-second
Earful of Cider 