So I read a Wired article about six word stories, the most famous of which was by Hemingway (For sale: baby shoes, never worn). There are dozens more by authors such as Alan Moore, Joss Whedon, Kevin Smith, Stan Lee, Frank Miller, etc.
Of course I'm no Hemingway but I decided to try my hand at some six word stories. It's much harder than it sounds, but it's also kind of addictive. Here is a few I came up with:
He plucks the strings. I sigh.
Futility: I repeat myself; nothing changes.
One thousand breaths, slowly pain subsides.
No calls. No messages. You're gone.
Four hundred beached whales at dawn.
I can’t remember what city we were in, but we traipsed through the cobbled street at three in the morning still high off the adrenaline from the rock show that ended two hours earlier. We stepped over puddles of god-knows-what while Lucas gushed about his favorite band eating just two tables away from us at the diner. We walked arm in arm, hardly able to contain our impatience for the next show, the one we would have to drive six hours in the dead of night to get to. Will and Carrence wanted to hit a bar before we got on the road promising to keep us awake as we barreled down the interstate at ninety miles an hour. Predictably they fell asleep ten miles outside the city limits, so we pulled over at rest stops and cut lines of coke on the backs of CD cases to keep us awake. We managed to catch some sleep on the concrete outside of the venue while the police watched over us, a sea of still bodies wrapped in black fishnet and sleeping bags. The next morning, someone told us that the drug dog went crazy; barking its head off, but the cop just told it to shut up because he was chatting up some underage goth chick and didn’t want to be bothered. We exchanged glances that said “Thank god he didn’t find that eight ball in our luggage.” The show was everything we wanted, loud sweaty and violent. We clung to the metal railing that was the only thing between us and our rock gods, not letting go even when the men with shaved heads and leather jackets punched at us and pulled at us hoping to pry us off so that they could have our spots. We would withstand any abuse to show our devotion to the rebels without causes that waved their flags and made our nostrils flare with the promise of sex and glory. Afterwards, we hobbled out of the venue, covered in sweat and bruises. We all piled into the car, convincing ourselves that we could hit one more show, one more city, that we could miss one more day of school, of work. We never wanted that trip to end.
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