Six Sentence Sunday - 6

Writers are encouraged to post six sentences from a work-in-progress or published piece. Sign into the Linky at Six Sentence Sunday, and visit other SSS participants.


This snippet from SAINT SANGUINUS takes place when Cavan, the son of the village wise woman was a boy of thirteen.


Here he watches as a spell launched against his rival--Peredur, future warrior for their 6th century Welsh village--shoots off in an unexpected direction.

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The sword master took his time and methodically drew a bloody pattern in his young student’s skin. When Tanwen finally arrived with her brother, dismay marred her features. I don’t know why that angered me, but it did.

It almost distracted me from the show Peredur performed so beautifully, his fellow students flinching in unison with every turn of the knife blade.

Peredur knelt there for a moment once it was over, breathless and shaking as the sword master rose and turned away.

Eventually Peredur pushed himself up, turned and quickly wiped his face as Owen walked toward the bench--this I hadn’t predicted at all.

Six Sentence Sunday - 5

Writers are encouraged to post six sentences from a work-in-progress or published piece. Sign into the Linky at Six Sentence Sunday, and visit other SSS participants.

This snippet from SAINT SANGUINUS takes place when 6th century Welsh warrior Peredur was a boy of eight.

This takes place just after the men of Yn Wyddfrid return with his father's body, following a battle.

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I clutched tight to my little sister, rocking her as she matched Mam’s cries.

I couldn’t shed tears because I refused to believe. My heart seemed frozen, my sobs not yet formed even though my eyes saw and my ears heard.

After a very long time, some women from the village arrived to join their cries with Mam’s. One young girl walked up the hill to our hut, gazing down at me with sorrow, her face wet with tears. She wordlessly reached for my little sister, who stretched her arms out for the girl and her more practiced way of holding a wee sister.

Don't Mess With an Ex-Marine

This morning while I was having coffee with my mom and reading the newspaper, I came across a story about a Georgia man who'd gone camping with his three sons. A black bear entered their campsite and started to make off with their cooler. When the 6-year-old threw a shovel at the retreating bear, its focus shifted to the child. Not waiting for the bear to charge, the father picked up a log from the campfire.

"(I) threw it at it and it happened to hit the bear in the head," Chris Everhart said. "I thought it just knocked it out but it actually ended up killing the bear." (Associated Press, AccessNorthGa.com)

This wasn't your ordinary dad. He's an ex-marine.

Most dads would have been lucky to hit the bear anywhere, if they'd been able to think and act with lightening speed as Chris Everhart did. His lethal reaction makes me feel proud. It's the warrior spirit that lives in my heart.

I'm waiting, waiting for the DVD release of "300", so to keep me from going out of my mind, my husband brought home a History channel documentary, "The Last Stand of the 300". As we watched the Battle of Thermopylae take shape through the show, as we were shown the harsh, unforgiving warrior culture that was Sparta, my mind kept returning to the ex-marines among us.

It reminded me of another news item from February, where a group of three armed robbers confronted a larger group of Carnival cruise ship tourists on a walking tour in San Jose, Costa Rica. The tourists were seniors from the US, and the 20-year-old with the gun likely thought he was taking candy from babies. Until the geezer next to him suddenly grabbed him into a choke hold and snapped his neck. The would-be robber's body was loaded onto the tour bus by the seniors, where he was handed over to police in Limon. (Reuters, Feb. 23, 2007)

That wasn't an ordinary Carnival cruise vacationing senior. He was an ex-marine.

I know I should be having a different reaction than the one that makes my heart stir at these stories. But I know it's the warrior that lurks beneath my calm exterior. In word and deed, I am a dove. I use diplomacy to diffuse tension whenever I come across it. But I think it's very fitting that I was born on November 11th, the day revered for laying down arms. Because inside of me, my heart belongs to soldiers everywhere, of every time period, of every land.

A little while ago, at my new job at the pension agency, an older man came into the reception area while I was there over the lunch break. He was in no mood to be trifled with. He wanted to see the manager and wanted his long-delayed disability cheque. Ultimately, he had to wait about 15 minutes until this manager returned from her lunch.

My previous job at the live theatre gave me lots of experience dealing with 'do-you-know-who-I-am' types, and I settled the situation down quickly before he could get all worked up. I gave him one option and he knew he'd have to take it. He was an older guy but he was commanding and irritated. He would start trying to talk his way around me but I insisted in my 'I'm-nice-now-but-don't-give-me-trouble' voice. Also, my gaze did all the talking for me, and I saw what I can only describe as recognition in his eyes as he backed off and sat to wait.

Once the manager got there, he told her that I was very good at my job, that I was "guarding the office like a great dane." Then, when she went to get his cheque that had been locked in her desk, he told me he was a retired police officer. I can't tell you how my heart suddenly realized what that look of recognition in his eyes had been. Something inside him had recognized my warrior's spirit. And he'd backed off, knowing he could trust that I wasn't giving him the run-around.

I felt high, all the rest of that day.

It doesn't creep me out that the old guy standing next to me in the post office line-up might know multiple ways of taking out an attacker. It makes me proud. "Semper Fi" - "always faithful". Once a Marine, always a Marine.