#kadprose

Each Sunday, post six seven sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever. 

“Can’t you just kill it?”

“It’s a really big spider,” Darius said, throwing a nervous glance back over his shoulder.

“Fine,” Vitus sighed, “then I’ll kill it.”

Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever.

There was a brief pause, and then the sound of the chain being removed, followed by the hollow groaning of the hinges as the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was the tattooed man, as the townsfolk had described him—weary and imperious, taller than any man who had to work for his bread, and corpse-pale like the sun was a foreign concept where he'd come from. All of that, though, came second to what the tattooed man had been given his name for.

Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever.

"All right, I know this is going to sound like a really clumsy come-on, but I'm serious." Darius bit his lip, looking up towards the ceiling with a helpless look in his eyes, like he was mentally asking some deity for aid. The magelit candle in his hand burned low and dim, almost sheepish. "...There is a spider in my bedroom and I need to sleep in yours."

Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever. 

Each Sunday, post six seven sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever.

(Because I wanted all of these seven sentences in this snippet, but also because I missed the last couple weeks and felt like putting in a little extra to make up for it.)

In one swift motion, Barker pulled his sword from its sheath and wedged the blade into the space still left between the door and the wall, stopping it just before it closed. From behind it there came a shout--only one of fright, Barker was certain, as the blade hadn't struck anything he hadn't meant it to. "I'll tell you this one last time," he said, as calm and self-assured as the wizard had been mere moments ago. "Open the door. Now."

"You don't have the authority," the voice hissed, trembling in spite of its bold words.

Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever.

"You know what this is about, mage," Barker snapped, spitting the last word like a curse. The eye might have narrowed, but it was difficult to tell--what little Barker could see behind the door seemed untouched by the day's sunlight, and it was quite high up besides. The townsfolk had said the man was tall, he supposed. "Open the door."

The rules are as follows: Go to page 7 of your WIP, go to the seventh line, share seven sentences, and tag 7 more writer-bloggers to continue the challenge.

“I am personally inviting you to my bedchambers at this moment, and you ought to feel very honored by this because I am the King.”

There. Very direct, very simple, coupled with a reminder of their respective places in all this. It was perfect. Practically irrefusable.

So why did self-immolation still seem like such a good idea?

Libraries were supposed to be quiet, but the stiff silence that now hung in the air was not conducive to a good study environment.