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
The challenge? Write a story in exactly 6 sentences based on Denise’s one word prompt: CLAW. Visit, comment, and write & post your own on SIX SENTENCE STORIES. The Café is open. Come as you are!
The girl kept to herself, eyes wary and movements silky like a night cat rounding a dark street corner, as she hopped off the back of the stagecoach just outside of Lula’s Saloon; she knew where she was headed but still distrusted the townfolk, based on all the stories she’d heard from other women who’d passed through Lula’s on their way to autonomy. 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
© 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
A.I. Art and Poetry
Independent Publisher of Poetry and Prose
Chel Owens
Live music in St Paul Minnesota
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my views.. my way
Challenging the barriers of the way we define reality
Stories and thoughts about being a queer girl geek in the 21st Century.
Valley of the Trolls 