Continuing on with my life in drafts.

This week in class,we worked on six-sentence stories.  Not to be confused with six-word stories which, I hear, are shorter.  Unless the six words are each an individual sentence.

Well. It. Could. Work. You. Know.

The think I like about good six-sentence stories are that not every sentence is long and full of commas and semicolons in that attempt to get it all in.  Not that they don’t work, I just prefer some variation and choosing words that get the point across without having to add a lot more. And not to say I am good at this. No.

We took on the exercise in two parts. 6 minutes to write one six sentence story.  Then another six minutes to tell the SAME story in a different six sentences.  The idea was that it should be the same topic or story, but be different.  I did not really accomplish this second part, but I tried.  Perhaps this is an exercise you come back to in a day or two and with distance, you can really re conceptualize.

So, here in honour of the fact that I was “in class” listening to thunder roll all around me (when we literally NEVER have thunderstorms here – in 16 years, I can count them on one hand) are my two takes on Thunder in six sentence.

Thunder

I used to be afraid of thunder, like a cat cowering under blankets. Then I grew to love the sudden bursts of power, counting down after flashes of lightning for the crashes. But with age comes the understanding that thunderstorms can bring tornados and destruction, at least when you live on the prairies. So, while my husband watched, fascinated with the concert coming our way, I stood behind, wary and worried. Now, I miss thunder. Living on the west coast brings many wonderful things, but nothing as wonderful as seeing and hearing the storm coming to put on its best show.

Take 2

I dive under cover with the flash, safe from the thunder I know is coming. As years pass, I lie in bed, thinking “one, two, three” knowing that the higher the number, the further away the storm. One day, the storm comes and before it passes, a town is in ruins, and I am afraid again. “Come on, watch the storm with me,” my husband calls, but I stand behind the screen door safe from falling trees. Then one day I move to where the sounds thunder can be counted on one hand after 17 years. Was that thunder I heard today, I wonder, but it was only wishful thinking.