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Check out Six Sentences and be in the book! Tell McEvily that Rion at RF sent ya. http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2007/12/six-sentences-volume-1-book.html
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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 Your work must be previously unpublished, and the same 6S Writer's Guidelines apply.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?

~Madonna by aredsand~

They were waiting to cross over, the immigrants were. Waiting behind the great wall where the lipstick madonna watched them. And they had their dreams, and they made them come alive there while they waited. Alive in blue with outlines of black and of hope, of yellow and of courage. Because it is hard to cross over. But they want it so much.

Trinidad, she wants it, but not, because it means leaving home. So she leaves a little of herself behind, there on the wall, and she asks the madonna to watch over that piece of herself and over her dreams so they might come true.

Waiting for the coyote to arrive and take his money, Guillermo, too, leaves a sign that he was here. And that he wanted to leave, but just please not his name. Because when he crosses over, he will no longer be Guillermo; they will call him Willy.

And the madonna witnesses it, but she does nothing to help.

~Ornament by k's mumbo jumbo~

This little ornament. This one little piece. It is all I have left from my childhood. The final concrete reminder of a mother and father.

Every year when I unpack the ornament and the lights and the tinsel, I think "This is the year I throw it away. This is the year that I move on." But I just can't seem to drop it in the garbage. Letting go sounds so easy, but I know that I am afraid to.

So every year this one small ornament goes onto my Christmas tree to remind me.

~Bear by Dragon~

Sascha doesn't usually let anyone know. You can't get close to him, so you'll never stumble on his secrets. He wasn't always a confirmed bachelor, though.

He didn't look so tough when he married my mama. He looked clean-cut and well-groomed, and he used to smile then. He smiled a lot, big, happy grins. He bought the bear when mama got pregnant with me. For a long while it sat, pristine and fluffy, in the white bassinet they bought. He was ready. Sascha would have been a great father to me.

But I never came, not so you would know. I got close, but all I did was take Mama away with me again. After a while, Sascha took the bear from my empty bassinet, put it in his bed, and stopped being friendly.

~Ink by Comrade Kevin~

I admit to never understanding the predilection for ink that utterly consumes certain folks. As it is, he proudly points to the massive work that adorns the length of his chest, gesticulating towards it by curving the index finger of his right hand inward. It's an impressive study in spiraling letters and flowing cursive that cost him a mere five hundred dollars.

I don't think of such things as remotely artistic and can't help thinking about better ways to spend my money. It seems wasteful, particularly when so many people are going hungry in the world. The design reminds me of airbrushed first names designed to be displayed on the front plates of cars, the kind sold by beach front vendors during Spring Break and sported by women with no conception of how to tastefully apply makeup or properly maintain their hair.

~Pretzels by kj~

"Kelly!" her mother cried.

"What are you doing!?"

Kelly looked up. "Pretzels, mommy," she said, as if the answer were obvious.

"I'm doing pretzels."

Help Wanted

My loyal and talented authors,

I need help managing this site. I read every single piece and think about which to select for the feature, as well as looking for a variety of interesting/evocative/whimsical images as prompts. However, you can see that I've slowed in my fervor as I become busy with other pursuits.

I'm looking for a co-editor for the site who would be willing to trade weeks with me. That way we don't have so much down time between publications. Any takers?

Much love and respect,
The Management

~Convent by kfad~

My convent. My place of peace, reflection, harmony, commune with God. Maybe I never had the calling. Maybe mother was right and I was running away. Always just running away.

I don't think I can be happy here anymore. Doing Gods work is tiring, and unrewarding. They all just want more. More food, better shelter, more drugs. There is no contentment with them. I had thought that I was spreading my joy of the lord with them. Turns out they just want the joy of the flesh. And they are willing to use the lord to find it.

More and more my convent feels like my prison.

~Turkey by Dragon~

"You're going to screw it up," said Sister.

"You're going to screw it up," said Brother. "You don't have the slightest idea how to use that baster. Give it to me."

"The hell I will." Sister squirted him in the eye with hot turkey juice, but brother ducked. Sister put the bird back in the oven.

"Why are we even bothering with this?" asked Baby. "Mom and Dad are gone. We never got along without them. Thanksgiving as a family is stupid."

"Just make the fucking pie," said Brother, peeling potatoes.

They bickered for five hours in the empty old kitchen. They told each other over and over how much they hated each other, how they were glad they'd never have to spend another moment in such miserable company now that they didn't have Mom and Dad to please.

The turkey came out perfect.

~Sex Appeal by K's Mumbo Jumbo~

"Sometimes, when I look at you, I think I am trying to touch the sun, catch the sun and hold it with my bare hands." she said, and then she bit her bottom lip, in that way she though was coy. Really, it was just kind of sad.

He knew what she thought of him, and that was what got him off. That she equated him with a star, and that she would melt from the slightest look from him. He knew he could get her to do anything and she wouldn't bat an eye. Sex appeal that could disolve morals and ethics.

~React by Cynthia~

My neighbors think I'm crazy. I'm not, I just like dancing on rooftops.

In the morning I get the kids off to school, making sure everything is in their backpacks. My husband goes to the office. I drink my second cup of coffee in silence. I then clean a room for that day. Each room is assigned a certain day, it doesn't vary. After the room is cleaned top to bottom, I take a short nap.

When the alarm sounds, I take my outdated CD player and an assortment of CDs to the roof. I plug the player into the building's electricity, turn up the volume, and move. I'll dance to anything. Nothing is planned in advance. I listen, feel, and react.

When my neighbors scream to knock it off, I know it's time to go back to my apartment. I'm back in time to prepare the after school snacks and to start dinner. I welcome my family back to a clean, happy home.

~Approval by Comrade Kevin~ ~Movie Star by Dragon~

My daughter has lived her life on a cultural divide. The very pious Muslim family to which I was born objects to Western forms of dress, as viewed here in this snapshot. Upon our yearly visit back to Saudi Arabia, Arianna must cover herself foot to toe in black muslin and most certainly never walk around in public without a burka covering her head.

My detractors and supporters alike denote me as a strong woman. Being subservient and ground underfoot, talking only to my husband when engaged in public conversation, never speaking directly to those around me, and always deferring to his will at all occasions was an indignity I was never willing to indulge. My long-lamenting father characterized me as wickedly willful at a young age.

So it was that I married an American citizen who brought me back. He was, at least to the comfort of my family, Arab and Muslim, and though his devotion to Allah had lapsed, he was good to put up suitable pretenses when he met my family. My father, no doubt relieved, approved of him.

~~~Two very different takes on the same image~~~

Krista knew better than to go inside Mr. Allison's house without telling her mom, but Mr. Allison was such a nice old man. He walked his two poodles around the block every morning and gave Krista Lifesavers from his windbreaker pocket.

She knew better, but he was so nice, and he let her play with the dogs, and he brought her presents: dolls to keep in his living room for when she came to visit, and makeup, which her mother wouldn't let her wear.

Mr. Allison had a big trunk full of fancy clothes and pretty ribbons for dress up, and he had a camera. They played such fun games: fashion model, movie star...

~Start-up by Cynthia~

Driving home, I thought about the presentation I made to a potential client. The group included six men, three women; five gung-ho company people, two wanna-bes, two know-nothings. Nine skeptics. Nine people who could make or break me. Nine I needed.

As I was reassessing, and doubting, my effort to drum up more business, I saw a pick-up truck in front of me.

"No, it couldn't be. I haven't seen one of those in decades."

Speeding up, I got close enough to see it was the same kind of truck my father drove to take us fishing.

Suddenly, I was eight years old again. My father was starting the engine, my brother and I were sitting in the front seat with him. This truck was finicky; you had to start it just right, or else it defied you. After the third turn of the key, it sounded like it was ready to go. Instead, the cab of the truck filled with a thick, acrid smoke. We bailed, leaving the doors open to clear the air.

My father waited a few minutes and tried again. The truck started up fine.Looking at us, dad said, "See, just keep trying. It'll work."

We made it to our fishing spot. We were quiet as we watched the lines - didn't want to scare the fish away. But when dad cleaned the fish, he'd talk. That's when we learned about his childhood, his dreams, his real world, his way of getting by.Now, as I passed the pick-up truck, I didn't look at the driver. I wanted my father to be driving. One more time, I needed him to tell me, "It'll work."

***What fine work all writers did on this piece. Please read Cynthia's gorgeous piece, then continue on to the additional writers' pieces in the comments section.***

~Ivan by Dragon~

I knew Uncle Ivan's shell, a withered corn husk wired to boxes that beeped and scratched evidence of his half-life. The few words he spoke were obscene. I filed those expletives for further examination even as my mom hustled me out to the candy machine.

He hung on for a decade.

And then, knowing there is nothing a teenage boy likes better than cleaning, Mom sent me to Ivan's abandoned cabin. Angry at the loss of my summer freedom, I threw dust-covered artefacts willy-nilly onto the lawn, delighting in the sound of broken glass. Then I stopped to look.

There was a 12-inch-long hunting knife with a keen edge and a bloodstained handle. Guns, countless guns in the bathroom, the kitchen, the foyer. A wardrobe holding 6 moldy tuxedos. A box of women's underwear. Used women's underwear. Desk drawers stuffed with stock certificates, land deeds, smoldering love letters dated 50 years ago. Large diamond rings for men's hands. Pornographic German magzines. Animal bones. A full set of mechanic's wrenches. Eight identically bulky and ancient walkie-talkies. Now I excavated the past, tripping over a child's rocking horse and life-sized framed photograph of a naked woman, until I reached the motherlode, the vein of precious metal: in the bedroom, 100 notebooks, neat handwriting, a life.

Diamond mines in Africa, gold mines in Canada, opal mines in Austalia, Uranium mines in the desert. Smuggling in South America, Southeast Asia, the Middle East. Political leaders and mafia bosses, merchants and marines, professors and scientists. Women on every continent, including Antartica.

There was nothing Uncle Ivan had not seen, nothing he had not done. The sum total of all that drives a man filled the lined pages. On the filthy bare boxspring, I read until the light failed, and dreamed myself an adventurer pursued by the French Legion, the mob, a thousand woman, state secrets locked to my wrist, a fortune in gemstones sewn into my collar, until my cell phone buzzed me back into my own prosaic reality.

My mother worried on the other end. "This could take a while," I told her. The power had been cut years ago, but I found a kerosene lamp and read on.

***Such wonderful, telling, chewy details.***