The challenge? Write a story in exactly 6 sentences based on Denise’s one word prompt: PANEL. Visit, comment, and write & perhaps post your own on SIX SENTENCE STORIES. The Café is open. Come as you are!
The sun set extra late and rose extra early in this northern clime, and the journeywoman rose, the normal energic exhilaration that accompanied such long summer days thin in the shadow and grief of her mother’s passing. Continue reading
© Ayr/Gray
Many thanks to Jenne Gray and C.E. Ayr for their photo prompt, THE UNICORN CHALLENGE. (09/27/2024). No more than 250 words in length.
Theirs was an unusual match. If not made in Heaven, then it was surely not made for the other place down below, too hot for either one of them. Here in the Middle Lands, in a small seaside town in the furthest regions of the oldest French settlement in NewWorld Settlement Alpha-dash-oh-niner-three, Cecilia and Norman have found peace. Continue reading
Source: Rawpixel LTD/Flickr
The polished gemstone was arranged
To stand atop the sheet of foil
To yield clarity,
All his best lights gleaming. Continue reading
[This appears to be number 3 in a series that began with “Time 5”, which also ended another series “Time 1-5”. Patience please: just feeling my way along.]
He swore he’d loved her from the moment she first emerged from the ocean, dark hair streaming darker, glittering sea foam sluicing down her lithe young body; perhaps it was merely a vision of their future, because it was more than a decade later when first they spoke. Continue reading
The midsummer sun meant an extra long day, and she and Horse had easily traversed the rocky field, pausing at the liminal space where diamond-sharp stream burst through dense curtain of darkest forest; they would not enter at night. Continue reading
The rocky field lies still, cut open by glacial streams, edged by heavy forest. Further north, mountains beckon, tops occluded in weeping clouds. Continue reading
© Ayr/Gray
Citronella (Part 1)
Citronella leaned over the balcony and sighed, staring down at the village parti-gras. Before, she’d been content to lean on the iron parapet, separate from the mad goings-on below. Before, she’d been satisfied with her mother’s witchy warnings of the dangers of joining the sweaty rabble. Before, she’d felt empowered by her choice of who she’d let climb her long, golden braid to the top floor. She’d lived there for as long as she could remember.
*** Continue reading
Writing and Stuff by Chris Hall - Storyteller and Accidental Blogger
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