Every Sunday I will write a new six-sentence story. It might be aimed at any age of child. Each story features a downloadable coloring or activity page, which for this week can be found here. It’s a perfect relax-with-your-kids-on-a-Sunday-afternoon treat!

The crowd that was gathered in the square was endless; it had been decades since every single villager had a reason to be in the same place at once. Existence for Dopplestonians was a bitter one, for no one had seen a splash of color on…well, anything…in ages.  Only the very old remembered back before Great Greyler had come, swept down upon their land and eaten everything he could find. Unfortunately for the Dopplestonians, Greylers don’t feast on people or buildings or trees, but on colors. So today was quite a sight, with young Sam running everywhere, waving the strange rainbowesque flower he had found by the riverbank over everything he could find, colors flying wildly from it’s petals and sticking to anything that would have them. From that day on, each Dopplestonian woke up to beautiful blue trees, bright purple grass, and a deep red sky that the whole world would come to envy.

I WON!! I’m so excited I can’t even calm down enough to email Jason my address. Instead I just strapped my son to the front of me and did a jig in front of the bathroom mirror. Which he enjoyed immensely. After yesterday, I really needed that encouragement, prize (which I am really very excited about) or not!

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A blog I follow occasionally runs 5 Sentence Story Contests and this time I decided to enter. A picture is posted (today it was a car stuck in a snow drift) and the assignment is to write one “frightening, moody, mysterious, or otherwise scary” story about the picture in 5 sentences – no more, no less – and name the main character “Hambone.” (Stop asking questions. Nobody knows the answers.)  Our family had two entries this time, one from me, and one from my brilliant hubs. And I’m posting them here. Because this is my blog. And I can.

Mine:

Each snowflake fell slowly, silently, adding its own microscopic mass to the already infinite depth of the surrounding white. Hambone watched from his perch in the tree, his breath shallow, his heart barely beating, as the small car struggled through the blinding snow. He hadn’t eaten in five days. His naked and distorted frame could no longer feel the cold as the car finally slowed to a dead stop. He licked his lips.

Hubs:

Methusela had begged his older brothers for a nickname, but hadn’t expected it to be something as lame as “Hambone,” which sounded so trite, so very porcine. Soon enough, Methusela thought, he’d be free from this condescending dump, this frigid wasteland, and out on his own. He was the most handsome of the whole lot, according to the judges, and he was Mrs. Holland’s favorite. Suddenly, the barn door flew open to the sound of the other pigs squealing, and Methusela spotted the rancher wielding his meat cleaver and shouting, “Dang woman, wreck my car – I’ll show her what’s for dinner! Wher zat dang show pig?!”