Join us for a weekly blog party in Six Sentence Stories, hosted by Denise and attended by some mighty fine, fun folk. Prompt word=SIGNAL. Read, write and come back for more SIX SENTENCE STORIES.  (Link goes active Wed night).

The steel fence was chilly on the meat of her forearms, so she rolled down her sleeves, not bothering to button the cuffs; the sun would come out from behind the clouds any time now.

The right pocket of her light jacket bulged, listing to one side as if its contents wanted to escape and wander the zoo, and her mid-length salt and pepper locks swayed in a similar direction in the uneasy breeze, wanting to join in the adventure.

She hated to wait and especially hated to wait for a signal to move on.

Beyond the fence, a family of giraffes circled the confines of their enclosure, as if moving through water, stretching their lips toward shimmering leaves that were just beyond their reach, for the time ignoring the children shivering in their crocs, t-shirts, and shorts as they waited on the raised deck to feed the animals’ already-harvested fare.

And maybe that was the signal, the message for her to move on toward something fresher, more real than what populated her ever-ready imagination.

She turned away, pocket swaying, bumping her sharply in the thigh, full with a water bottle, a passport, her wallet, and the potential for a ticket—bus, train, plane—out of her current stagnant situation.

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2026)