A Six, named by the Six Sentences writing community, is a story told in six sentences, no more, no less. Although I don’t specialize in this form, here are a few I’ve done.
After the Rain
Winds howls by, whipping tree branches as though they are weightless. Streetlight reflections glisten on sidewalks, looking like unmoving flames, almost all shiny white.
Now, the sidewalk looks like a checkerboard, as the water dries, and the outlines are seen. Still bitter cold, making me think it should be snow. People tell me I should be grateful it’s rain, not snow, but I say to them that you can shovel away snow, while wind-driven rain will soak anything and everything in seconds. Just another episode of wait-a-minute weather in the late Fall of New England.
A forest of green, sweet smelling and delicious. Yummy seeds, good to eat; I’ll fill up before carrying some back. Gentle breeze carries lots of smells. Sniff, sniff! What’s that? Oh, no, a cat!
Hurry, hurry! Can’t let them catch me! I hold it inside my jacket, close to me, away from the cold and from eyes. Away from them all. They want it, and they’ll take! Precious, so precious.
The eastern sea in morning is a wrinkled blue blanket with sparkling sequins, silvery braid at the far side, and white lace at the near side. The sky challenges you with every shade of blue, all reflected in the sea, and, all about you, gulls circle and cry their welcome. Near the horizon, miniature ship shapes bracket a needle pointing skyward, as freighters pass by the lighthouse. Land curves around the bay, and apartment buildings ring the curve like a laurel wreath on a winner’s head. The breakwater stretches out from the curve, into the sea, a thick dark pencil line drawn on the water.
I am a creature of the woods and the fields, but the sea draws me—maybe I have elfin blood?—and calls me home.
The green calls me, and I walk along the paths, mindful of foot-tripping and ankle-twisting roots and rocks, stepping around slickery mud and leaves, listening to the scurrying of unseen animals in the neighboring undergrowth. I take a step, sense something, turn, and….
What is that, transparent as smoke, sometimes wolf, sometimes human male, woodsman-clad and beckoning, before changing? What is going on, a mind game, or am I sleepwalking? I am awake, I think, and yet here he is, summoning me. My teacher, my spirit guide, here, away from my dreams, away from mountains and lake, here in the deep woods, calling me, saying “Welcome home!”