Thursday, December 13, 2007

We encourage your participation in Six Sentences

Check out Six Sentences and be in the book! Tell McEvily that Rion at RF sent ya.
COLOSSAL NEWS IN THE WORLD OF PUBLISHING! The submission period for Six Sentences, Volume 1 – a literary tour de force scheduled to be published in February – is officially underway! If you’d like to be part of the action, just send your work to the 6S email address, and make sure the subject line of your email is 6SV1 SUBMISSION (or 6SV1 SUBMISSIONS if you're sending more than one – you may send up to three). Your work must be previously unpublished, and the same 6S Writer's Guidelines apply. The deadline for inclusion in the book is Monday, December 31st, 2007 (at midnight EST). So... when it comes to being published in the book... what will you say in six sentences?


Robert Scotellaro said...

Metamorphosis II

He awakes in his East Side apartment no longer a roach, but a "man", and crawls out from under the bed—aware of a daunting loss without his feelers, his eighteen knees. His first instinct is to hide behind the stove; the small space along the pipe that enters the wall below the sink, but his six foot two inch frame stops him. When he views himself in the long mirror behind the bathroom door he finds his image ghastly, but powerful like the "Lady of Light" when she comes home and flips the switch, erasing the night—sending him scurrying with the rest.

He tests his new miracle of mechanics: flexes his hands, opens the "Heaven Box" the "Lady of Light" often enters—eats till his belly swells and milk blends with jam and wine down his chest, then empties what's left of its contents onto the floor—manna from heaven for his kind, feeling like a god. He sees two feelers emerge from below the sink and two more from under the table and smiles.

It's getting late and he walks over to the recliner and kicks away a small stack of books beside it; eases back with his feet up and examines the odd shells backing his fingertips, instinctually puts them between his teeth and nibbles—scans the heft and breadth of his new body, and waits.

Annabel Sheila said...

Title: Back At Ya

The path to the front door was dark, littered with decaying leaves, as we approached the steps. Our exertion was hardly worth the meagre treat we might fetch from the old man, but there weren’t many houses in our country location and our bounty would be limited, so in silence we pushed forward. We’d been playing Halloween tricks on the old man for the past two years without getting caught, but at twelve years of age that stuff was beneath our level of maturity now. The front door was ajar, and lying on the floor just inside in a pool of red was old man Sawyer, with a huge knife sticking out of his head. In terror we stared at the gory sight in front of us, rooted to the spot with fear. Suddenly the old man sat up, “Back at ya”, was all we heard behind our hastily retreating backs.

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