Welcome back, Six Sunday compadres. I'm glad Bartholomew made so many of you laugh last week. Sometimes he's so droll you can scratch the word "dry" right on him. Today we're picking up in Flight where we left off: Bartholomew has awakened from a nightmare (in which he remembered his own death), and Claire, unfortunately, remains in his bed.
He splashed his face at the washbasin and rinsed his mouth. The acrid taste of Claire lingered on his tongue. It mixed with the memory of Lydia’s transformative blood—a viscous potion in which his own stolen soul had comingled with the Catcher’s. One last swig of water, and then Bartholomew spat regret.
He wiped his hands on a towel, moved to the tall windows, and pulled back a heavy blue curtain. The late winter sun was setting, and humanity hurried past on the sidewalks and streets below.
I hope you'll take a moment to visit the official Six Sentence Sunday site and follow the links to more writers' snippets. SSS is a participatory sport.