Mechanical snakes slither through my city.

A New Exercise

I've had this idea for awhile: write a 6-word short story from a photograph. You know, find a story in the image and tell it.

So here we go. This is a photograph I saw this afternoon in a gallery of Thanksgiving photos at Slate.com. This image was shot by Erich Hartmann in New York City, in 1961, during a Thanksgiving dinner at a homeless shelter. I'm going to try to write a story (in the "comments" section) inspired by the photograph, but I'm not kidding myself here: this image needs no words to tell the story; the photographer has already said all there is to be said.

Happy Thanksgiving.

"Howdy, Applesauce," I'll say. "Miss me?"

Hoboken Station. Men peeling the ceilings.

I replenish vending machines. Nothing else.

Red flashed and broke his cross.

"Can I cut in?"
"Why not?"

Here. You take the first whack.

I begged. I bet.
I'm busted.

Most of all I love you.

"I'll pray for you."
"Save it."

The plotting gave him sleepless nights.

How does it end? Just does.

Fish – flopping, choking in the market.

Smoking, in her black dress. Helpless.

Help! Never again? Sir, it’s fine.

Six words from a neighbor

One of my roommates took a shot at constructing a few of these, and a fine job at that.

Chardonnay. Lipstick. Left passport on nightstand.
Baby Grand prodigy learns sign language.
Coke™ vendor rocks sandals at Mecca
Scratch ticket laying in the gutter.
Famous athlete is facing serious allegations
Critics are skeptical of recent developments.
Anything at all please she repeated.
Silver soldier, gelatin Normandy, buttered popcorn.

a.a. bowles

Schoolmates scoffed at his filthy fingernails.

Cole needed every bit for courage.

Cole, shaking, couldn't lose the smell.

Beneath starlight Cole accelerated past haunts.

Three children. Orphans. Two slept outside.

In a moment of final resort…

Struggle. Revolution. Struggle. Constitution. Struggle. Institution.

Calmly, he detonated. Bright. White. Light.

Rainfall. Her sandal down the street.

Lost: Empty notebook. Lead pencil found.

Sirens. Blaring. God's son shuffles in.

I'm tipsy

I've drunk beers. Now I wiz.

there was a time he believed.

-J

throughout his formative years he plotted.

-J

"You believe he'll cry?"
"Let's try."

slowly, it grew and consumed her.

-J

there were three.

there were two. one came home.

-J

Like riverbeds at dawn, they appeared.
JWS

Last, chance. So he spoke softly.
JWS

Cole bathed mother. Mother: "Good boy."

Bells pealed. His last chance lost.

He fired, then started home. Limping.

The First 6-Word Short Story

About a month ago, I came across a blog post about Ernest Hemingway. Specifically, about how he was once challenged to write a story in just six words. Here's what he delivered: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Rumor has it, Hemingway considered it his finest work. Since then, other writers have done the same. Some are OK, others are very good, but none, I think, come close to Hemingway's.

Not long after I read the story, I told a friend about it, and he shared it with a friend of his. Since then, the three of us have started writing our own. We're not kidding ourselves: Hemingway has us beat. Regardless, we think there's a lot to this form of storytelling: it's challenging, precise, and, when successful, open to so many interpretations.

So that brings us to this blog. It's simply a way for us to share our own stories and comment on each other's. If all goes well, and this blog happens to find its way to readers besides the three of us, hopefully you'll share your thoughts or, better yet, share your own story. Just remember: Six words. No more. No less.