by Martha

We stagger through the southwesterly gale. Sodden, exhausted, I carry you home. Wet, hungry, cold, about to cry. Goose-pimpled shivers in a warm bath. Hot pasty and Mummy's blanket hug. I am warmed by your sigh.


Martha clings to a wet rock, spouting random verbiage before lunging for the shore. Anything she remembers, she writes down. (And by the way, this is a 6-sentence, 6-words-per-sentence story with a 6-letter title, by a writer with 6 letters in her name. Now THAT'S sixy!)