Reaching the Edge, it’s a Six Sentence Story

OK, the rules say it’s not too late! It’s Thursday night, 8:37 pm and, while I could post tomorrow, it would seem anti-climatic if I did. It’s opening day after all! Thank you Ms. Zoe! for hosting this weekly bloghop, on this, Six Sentence Thursday.

Every week our estimable hostess reveals for us the “word of the week”. This week’s challenge word? Border. Use it however you wish just as long as your contribution is no longer, no shorter than 6 sentences.

Now, without further adieu (pun intended!)….

Bordering on the edge of insanity, Sr. Cedric decided today was the day her first grade students would either behave or suffer the consequences.

Her efforts to control her young charges appeared to have little to no residual effect as they were as rambunctious and noisy, unrepentant and precocious as ever!

Not one child believed her when she told them she was leaving until she instructed Peter Miller to pull the window shades halfway and then open a couple of the transom windows; then… it started sinking in.

The short, somewhat stout nun calmly walked the width of the classroom toward and out the door turning off the lights as she left, closing the door softly behind her.

As the shock began to wear off and the reality that our teacher had just abandoned us set in, many of us began crying as we realized this was the real deal, Sr. Cedric left, she was gone.

And then.. the sound of the principal’s voice sounded over the loudspeaker…

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Anda 1uh, anda 2uh…it’s a 6uh Sentence Story!

Teetering onthe Edge, I bi-bid you greetings. It’s the waning of an absolutely gorgeous late afternoon turned early evening, this Tuesday (but now it’s Thursday night! aack! what the heck you been doin’ for 2 days?!). I did not take a walk. Nope. Despite the sales job I gave myself, the admonishments, the reminders of what might be, what if and still…I could not drag myself out of doors to walk. (but I did walk last night. yay!)

But hey! How you doin’?! Ready for this here Six Sentence Story bloghop?? Excellent! Zoe, our hostess bar none, has graciously given us the word of the week. Scratch. Amazing, isn’t it that I’m actually writing this 2 days in advance? Yes, way! (uh, duh, it’s now Thursday night and you’re late, Girlie!)

fingers bloodied, tips shredded like finely grated mozzarella, I crawled through unevenly shaped shards of glass, colored like the sea glass I searched for as a young girl walking salted, shoreline sands, hopeful ocean tides would deliver me the rare, sought after treasure.

eyes focused, as gray as the slate upon which I found myself sprawled, I set my gaze on the small pinhole of daylight in the distance and imagined my escape.

my life depended on scratching and clawing my way out of this once secret, underground chamber, extricating myself from the lichen coated wreckage of the mighty structure before they returned to retrieve the dead.

only one person could orchestrate this kind of mayhem on this scale in this kind of town and no one, not the Almighty himself would dare challenge his intent or motive as this was the outcome he pursued from the beginning.

plant the seed of doubt, of discension and then let loose a tirade of destructive rhetoric, the rest will take care of it themselves as not one individual stood up when it mattered to question why.

roy wasn’t delusional when he described the patriarch of his newly found family…

 

 

Will She? or Won’t She? It’s SSS Time from the Edge

Welcome to GirlieOnTheEdge. I’ve all but ceased many activities I once enjoyed and perhaps was even pretty good at. But I’m afraid I have succumbed to/indulged in/given over to, the notion that I no longer write. But I haven’t given up completely and therefore, I’ll try. For a little while longer. Hell, maybe for as long as Zoe graciously continues to host this hop.

I have enjoyed writing a 6 (if you don’t know what “SSS” stands for then click on the link in the last sentence) in the past. It is a past that feels far away, and not a little “foreign”. Why? Oh, I know why. I’ve been armchairing it since I was a kid lol

Are the wagers placed? Good. What say we find out what appears on the screen in say the next, hm…5 minutes? …

He half stumbled alongside the rain rutted, gravel strewn driveway, pre dawn dew coating his upper lip.
The light…. appeared dimly, not too distant, he could do this, he could make it to the door, into the house none worse for the….wear.
What a night! Was he recollecting acurately the phenomenal fortune he’d had at the blackjack table? Checking his pockets and his wallet, the proof was still there, neatly banded. Wait, just wait until he told Larissa, surely she would forgive him, this one time when he scored so big.

Image result for score blackjack

6 Sentence Story Time. In Edgelike Fashion.

Welcome to GirlieOnTheEdge. I return here, briefly, to participate in Thursday’s premier bloghop, 6 Sentence Stories. Thank you zoe, for being the hostess of this creative, fun, challenging….vexing weekly exercise. That’s right, vexing. See, some of us, those who build the blocks we call “writers”, find the challenge of writing a little story-ette in only 6 sentences (no more, no less) somewhat daunting.

Cue of the week? Did someone say “Fault“?…

Trading barbs like ancient Mesopotamian traders on the shores of the Euphrates River, the 2 forever friends stood steadfast, their toes digging into metaphorical sand, each trying in vain to make the other understand their point of view.

Their differences, their conflict, manifesting according to their respective worldviews, had driven a wedge between them, the chasm of conflict blinding each to the other’s grievance.

There was no seeing what the other was seeing, no feeling what the other was feeling, understanding a foreign concept because, while each walked through the same life, life manifested itself differently, as foreign to one as it was for the other.

The years that grew their friendship, that shored up the ties that bound them, now seemed stretched beyond measure. A gulf so wide neither one recognized they’d already converged at the crossroads.

Choice rarely comes wrapped in pretty paper, the difficult choice… when it is what it is for one, and it is what it is for the other, neither is to blame because neither is at fault.

 

 

 

 

Yeah, put ’em Here at the Edge. All 6 Sentences.

So.  You may or may not have a writing process. I used to. I think. Or maybe I had a special time to write. Yeah, that rings a bell. Any-who, it’s 7:50 pm this Thursday evening, the 1st day of the 6 Sentence Story Bloghop hosted by the wonderful Ivy Walker. Whatsay we begin by giving Ms. Walker a rousing round of applause. She’s still hostessing strong and this week she has certainly challenged me with the word cue of the week: “TAP”. Use this word in any of it’s definitions, acronyms, you name it as long as there are 6 sentences with this cue word appearing somewhere among them, you’re golden.

She faltered in front of the non descript, narrow shelving, standing with the weight of her indecision resting  squarely, if not fully, in her left leg.

Why was this so difficult? No one needs to translate the label, no interpreter is needed to describe what her own eyes were clearly seeing but maybe that was the problem, the choices.

There’s always the option to turn around and return to the reliable, steadfast staples, the tried and true familiar, surrounding us, embracing us, day after day.

What were these breadlike “things”, these baked goods with the odd names? Look at this one, surely a misspelling, as no one, on purpose, would use that many “a”s in the spelling of a name?!

At the first tap of my foot on the industrial tiled floor of the tired supermarket, I reached for the bag that read “Guaaaracha” and thought, why not, misspelling or not, the oddly shaped, squared off ovals of breadlike bread appeared to have a light coating of sugar atop them.

The pavlovian response was unmistakable, certain to overpower last minute indecision fortified by a latent fear of the unknown, my path now leading me to checkout…

Image result for guaracha bread

The Silver Surfer…it’s Six Sentence Thursday

It’s Thursday so why not write a 6 Sentence story. Well, maybe not a story. Maybe a 6 sentence fragment. Yeah, that’s it. Fragment. It’s Zoe’s thing, ya know and a darned good thing too. She offers the challenge every week to any and all to throw some letters, a few words, up on the screen, today’s version of pen and paper. 6 sentences. No more, no less.  So here it goes….

The silver haired surfer gazed hungrily at the roiling waves tempting, teasing, taunting him.
Propped sloppily in an ancient chair, like an oft used stage prop soon destined to be cataloged and archived amidst other relics in a warehouse not of his choosing, he let slip a tear. There were no blinds or curtains on the window, all the more to torment eyes long used to the stinging of salt and sea spray the same salt and sea spray that glazed the panes of clear glass just beyond his reach. The energy was still there, coursing through a frame twisted, like an aged juniper tree welded to a coastline ravaged by decades of storms, every element nature can inflict. This day, he would have given his one remaining leg for the opportunity to walk out of the 2 story faded stucco building. And then he would run, run across sand swept hot asphalt, a lover to his beloved, thankful for burning sand beneath his soles, small price to pay for the chance to embrace the ocean one last time.

 

Image result for gnarled tree on coastline

 

“Standing With My Toes Hanging over the Edge”…It’s a Six.

Welcome to GirlieOnTheEdge and a vaction edition of the Six Sentence Story. Our Hostess Zoe, aka Ivywalker puts on a bloghop each and every week and invites any and all to share a story, poem, limerick, anecdote (catch my drift?) that contains no more and no less than 6 sentences. I have found it to be an enjoyable challenge! This week’s cue word is Craft.

The thin girl, wavy, flowing hair resistent to being contained under the starched bonnet, was barely out of her teens but in this time period she was considered a young woman, an adult subject to the laws of the small minded community to which she was born.

She’d been brought before the council to answer for what she was accused – crimes against humanity and Christianity and all things holy and good, witchcraft – and while older women were the majority accused, she stood as an example that no female was exempt from accusation.

A life had been saved, a young life she saw no reason to be sacrificed to the impenetrable ignorance of religious fervor that permeated the day. She had been taught how to cultivate and mix herbs into healing potions and linaments, medicine surely as effective as anything prescribed by the so called “doctors” of the day by Agwi, an island slave who’d been brought against his will to this fledgling colony.

Bridget couldn’t remember the first time she met Agwi, it felt as if she had always known him, and just as certain was the feeling, the knowing, that there was something extraordinary about the dark skinned slave.

She was tutor to the young boy whose parents, Agwi served, and so it was that a friendship almost magically was able to grow and flourish right under the noses of those who would surely have disapproved, association with a slave was tantamount to the worst crime save for witchcraft.

Under Agwi’s careful, albeit clandestine tuteledge, Bridget learned the craft of medicinal herbs, homeopathic remedies and ways in which to soothe ailments so prevalent to the times but tragically there was no cure for fear and ignorance as she now stood before the tribunal accused of consorting with the devil himself instead of being praised for saving the life of her young student.