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

She lifts the chalice, pausing for just a moment to allow the aroma to reach toward her, then retreat as its contents settle.

Behind her, standing on the back of the heavy wooden chair where the woman bides her time, the black cat shakes a paw, gazing straight ahead with cold green eyes, then lowers his head to lick and smooth the paw, and finally scrape and sharpen each claw.

Before her the dark wenge wood table is simply adorned with a hand-turned ewer and a small loaf of the morning’s bread; it is otherwise spread with an elaborately embroidered runner—its figures seeming to writhe in the shadowy light—and the weight of unresolved history. This end of the darkened room is chilly, located too far from the fireplace and embers that had warmed it earlier.

Cat settles into the thickly padded chair back, paws now glinting and immaculate, and his head lowers to rest on them, though his eyes remain wide and vigilant green.

She sips from the chalice, and then holds it in her hand, crossing one wrist carefully over the other.

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2026)