The challenge? Write a story in 6 sentences, no more & no less, and if you’d like, share your creation or just visit and comment on others’ ideas, with GirlieOnTheEdge, Denise. The prompt is “PLOW”, and here’s where you join the party: Six Sentence Stories
Norm leaned back in the truck’s cab as he fired up his snowplow in the February pre-dawn, the scent of morning coffee, ham, eggs, and pancakes fragrant in his clouds of exhalations. He hadn’t brushed his teeth after the sumptuous breakfast that Dee had prepared, Continue reading
Source: Matt Fraser
The challenge? Write a story in 6 sentences, no more & no less, and if you’d like, share your creation or just visit and comment on others’ ideas, with GirlieOnTheEdge, Denise. The prompt is “Ocean”, and here’s where you join the party: Six Sentence Stories
She paced the widow’s walk in the early dawn, scanning the horizon for signs of his ship.
The wind tugged her pale hair from under her nightcap, pulling at the edges of her tightly-wound shawl and whispering, “Say the words and I’ll help you.” Continue reading
Image based on IBT(2014), with my apologies
A little flash fiction around a prompt of “Wife Carrying.” Because maybe that’s the true test of a strong partnership:
It’d never occurred to them that their participation might not be welcome. Celebrating the fortitude and stamina required to go the distance in marriage–what better way to do this than with a test of physical endurance? Continue reading
Sophie gazed down the long oaken table, half-light of a dozen candle sticks melted to shining copper holder. She squinted to blur the face drooping at table’s end. Continue reading
“WTF! You cut off your toes to fit into my glass slipper? And YOU cut off your heel! What were you thinking?”
“Cindy!” The two stepsisters looked at each other. “You gotta give up something if you wanna marry a prince!” Continue reading
(A moment of peace, the calm in the eye of the storm.)
Just a few short hours ago, there‘d been a clatter of metal against glass, the whine of motors rotating through a thick sludge, the wet thunk of an awkward body, a snip and rustle of evisceration, the rasp of metal on metal, and a clang of slamming doors.
“I think we’ve done all we can for now.” Karen wipes her brow and surveys the damage. “When are the troops supposed to arrive?”
This is my portion of the eulogies written for my dad, Kjeld Oddvar Husebye, born August 11, 1925 and died January 2, 2015, after a very long struggle with cancer.