Six Word Stories

Six words. I can do this.

A professor’s bias is still bias.

I don’t want to love you.

Dehydrated mind. Remedy: writing is drinking.

Hipsters are paradoxes. Another labeled box.

Bakhtin with another name: still cool.

Napping turtles are faster than Thursdays.

Why aren’t I scared of earthquakes.

Clichés are just old, not irrelevant.

Grandmother sweater smells: homemade dumplings. Home.

Grandfather glasses off, “what?” On, laugh.

Mother’s tears feel closer than love.

Father’s voice hits harder than punches.

Tell him before he leaves again.

Speak before words leave you again.

Brother’s texts: funnier than they are.

Fake (breathe) it (smile) till (hi).

Exercise your smile: fake it everywhere.

Homesick for people, not a place.

I’m late. Inner clock broke. Sorry.

Me newer, than five minutes before.

Tired but vital, but trying harder.

I’m late. I’m late. Leave. Leave.

The leaves are late, like you.

Sweaty sleeves, moth holes, flip flops.

Eighth notes sound like running water.

Whole notes smell like apple pie.

Cursor blinking, ideas slipping, mind blanking.

Six words. Can you do it?

Now it’s your turn. Comment below.


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