Six (eh, or eight) sentences this Sunday:
It was late and all my new neighbors were home, but as I walked down the five flights of stairs, knocking at every door I came across, no one appeared. On the fourth floor I heard someone approach the door and peer through the peephole, and then stayed there, quiet on the other side. I could hear televisions and kitchen sounds, smell food and smoke, but not a single person answered the door. On the first floor, I called, “Hello, I just moved in upstairs and I locked myself out. Can I borrow a phone?” Someone from inside the last room yelled back, “I’m calling the police!”
Six sentences this Sunday:
Water lilies and hundred-petaled lotuses covered the surface in a dense colony. Some of the leaves were large as pies. Larger than the top of their wedding cake even. The pond held some of the biggest fish they had ever seen—whiskered, orange, yellow and white. Some had patches of different colors. Looking at them, the husband started to crave persimmons.
Six sentences from something I’m working on:
Just last week he showed me a knife no bigger than my thumbnail, slim as a toothpick. For ridding a household of a changeling, he said. If I suspected either my boy or girl had been replaced by a changeling, I could place this knife under their tongues while they slept. The changeling would be dead by morning. If my children were truly my own, they might only be cut a little bit. I asked him to make me another, seeing as I had two children, but he said it would have to wait until he finished the knife for killing a Chinese kitchen god.
A writing idea from Carlea, who in turn got it from some trend going around on Tumblr, is to share six sentences from a current writing project every Sunday.
This is from a fairy tale retelling I’ve been working on.
But in the morning these living oysters are dead. Pulverized. Their shell fortresses laid waste to, the valves ground down. Their little hearts limp and grey, leaking wetly all over the dining room floor, leaving paths like the shiny trails of snails.
The cobbler who makes shoes from oysters is dismissed. In fact, he is executed.
Also, two cool photos of “oyster shoes”: here and here.
(Featured image: Illustration by Errol Le Cain)