Monthly Archives: August 2014

Sunday Six

Six sentences for Sunday, August 24:

Well, here we are, she tells him.

The boy tips his head back to look up at the house, to take the whole thing in at once: the weeds growing in amongst the loose bricks of the front steps, the thorny unbloomed arbor, the windows dark amidst faded clapboard siding, once blue, now grey.

He can be happy anywhere, she reminds herself. Children are adaptable. He won’t even notice.

In the tall pine tree, or somewhere nearby, a cardinal asks, then answers its own question: Bir-dy bir-dy bir-dy? Birdy birdy birdy bird!

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Sunday Six

Six sentences for Sunday, August 17:

The woman standing in front of her is tall and raw-boned and ginger-blonde, her hair swept back from her face in a loose knot. Her expression is open, expectant. Behind her, the hanging basket of honeysuckle twists in the breeze.

She slides over further on the bench, making room.

“Thanks.” The woman sits down, tucking one leg up to adjust her high-heeled shoe.

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Sunday Six

I might as well call this Very Early Monday Six, seeing as I’m always slightly late to post it, but that just doesn’t have the same ring to it. In any case, six sentences for Sunday, August 10:

There is no one she can ask. She is alone in the apartment, except, somewhere, for the cat. The cat is holding some kind of grudge, doesn’t rub up against her legs anymore. They are strangers now.

Empty, the apartment amplifies sounds: the rain tapping the windows, the refrigerator hum. Even the sound of her own breathing gets so loud sometimes it’s hard to sleep at night.

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Sunday Six

Six sentences for Sunday, August 3:

Coat collar turned up, cheeks red from the cold. A haze of amber-blonde hair, flecked with drops of water like stars.

Winter. The rain almost ice but not quite, a grey fog in the air.

Winter–

A slow, secretive smile.

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