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 Just pick a six sentence passage from anything you’ve written—published, unpublished, whatever—and post it on your blog on Sunday.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.
One of my earliest readers for this story asked me if it was important that Clyota have a therapist. I personally thought that anyone whose mother was a famous space hero-turned-mass murderer should at least consider it, if only for a place to duck the paparazzi for an hour once a week . . .
I’d called Rafe to cancel my appointment, since I would have to meet with my defense lawyer. I didn’t tell him that, and he didn’t ask. He only said that if Thursday wasn’t good, he had the afternoon free, if I wanted to talk.
I didn’t want to talk—I wanted to scream and throw things and crawl into a hole and make the world forget it had ever heard of me. This was probably, I decided, exactly the frame of mind of someone who needed to talk to a psychologist.
So, I went.
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