Sunday Six

Not a lot going on around here other than Sunday Sixes these days, it seems. Six sentences for Sunday, July 20th:

A bright white light erases her. It always goes like this: the light, the light, an indelible flame on the inside of her eyelids—and then she wakes.

Outside, a storm. Lightning breaks from cloud to cloud. There is the light of the storm, but no sound. Trees bend and twist, sharp black shapes against the violet sky.

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Sunday Six

Six sentences for Sunday, July 6th:

Consider the coming awake, no dreams to rise from. What must it have been like, to wake never having woken before? That first light through stuck-shut eyelashes—clear white and sharp, refracting through untested corneas, causing new pupils to contract in milky-blue irises. And the first stuttering breath—lungs balking. The vulnerable ribs, the bones still soft. A body shivering to life.

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Sunday Six

After a house showing and an unexpected trip to the vet this evening, here are six slightly belated sentences for Sunday, June 29:

I am so sorry. Really and heartily, I am.

I’m sorry that my wretched life was ever twined with his. I’m sorry he clambered into my house under the pretense of friendship and I’m sorry that my husband trusted him and I’m sorry that he crept into the dark yearning garden that night and held me down until my lungs ached, until my legs stopped thrashing and I lay still.

Is that right?

Is that what I was supposed to say?

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Who is Thomas Carlea?

The most common search terms people use to find this blog have to do with knitting, based on that one post I made about cable-knit infinity scarves, like, two years ago that I have since accepted will probably be my sole legacy on the internet. (Greetings, would-be cable-knit scarf havers! Sorry there isn’t more knitting-related content, but soon your necks or the necks of your loved ones will be very warm.)

The other day, though, I noticed that somebody arrived here via some truly bizarre search terms:

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I mean, what? Do you mean Thomas Carlyle? Is that it? How would you define Thomas Carlyle?

I want to help you out here, random search engine user, I really do, but I’m afraid you’re beyond my help.

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Microsoft What?

I am the first to acknowledge, often with no small amount of righteous indignation, that Microsoft Word’s spelling and grammar checker often doesn’t know what the hell it’s doing. But recently, I’ve been having a fight with Word that is so perplexing to me that I’ve actually begun to doubt myself.

Below is a list of sentences from something I’m working on. Word tells me they’re all fragments, and politely suggests I consider revising them. They may not be perfect sentences, but none of them, as far as I can tell, is actually a fragment. At first I thought the problem was that I’m using made up names the dictionary doesn’t recognize as nouns, but I changed each instance of “Wyn” to “Jane” and that didn’t make any difference. I know I’m not the number one grammar guru in the world, but this has become a persistent issue in this document, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what the grammar checker is seeing that I’m not. Any thoughts?

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Sunday Six

Only a couple of hours late, six sentences for Sunday, June 22:

We ride in a van with its windows blacked out. Every judder over every pothole is magnified. Time seems to stretch out, though the journey is not far. Nobody quite looks anybody in the eye. We are not competitors, quite, but neither are we friends.

There are twelve of us this year.

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The Golden Key No. 4

I’m a bit late in announcing this, but The Golden Key recently released its fourth issue, and it’s full of amazing writing about hungry things! Go check it out!

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