Category: Six Sentence Story
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2701: Six Sentence Story
A View on Voyeurism Louise’s kitchen window faces two houses: Alison’s, her husband, a retired podiatrist, and Jean’s — her husband lies face-down between the hydrangeas and the electricity meter. Southeast Ambulance Service stands with him, or rather does not; the defibrillator is put away, as if it’s a game they lost interest in playing.…
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2601: The Liturgy for the Watching People
Liturgy for the Window Vigil I. The Geometry of WitnessingA window is a frame.Not for art,but for the ordinary.We think we are looking out,but we are really looking in. Into the small, sudden theatre of endings.Where medics close a defibrillatorlike a book whose final lineno one wants to read aloud. II. Of DistanceWhat we see…
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2101: Six Sentence Story
Untitled In the church across the road, up a hill too steep for cars when it snows, they gather every evening — always the same few — coats damp, smelling of wool and fish. They sit on worn pews, reciting worn prayers, asking for health, or pardon, or nothing they can name, until twilight and…
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200125: Six Sentence Story
Dancing with Lions — Part 2 Brigid arrived home from the Six Sentence Café and Bistro in a rainstorm designed by and for fish; the gin was still amusing her, but even so it was an impressively Dickensian squall. She went straight to the kitchen, reached for a frosted mug, dropped in two scoops of…
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1301: Six Sentence Story
Dancing with Lions She anchors her black stiletto heel to the bar stool; the ritual wait for a man that doesn’t exist, polishing the fantasy of him until it shines. A muffled laugh works loose, a private rebellion echoing in her throat — the kind you make when a voice you invent leans in and…
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1201: The Voice, A Six Liturgy
A Liturgy for the Hollow & the Heel The Invocation This is the hook on the polished stool,the calling of lacquered lightand murmuring ghosts. This is not emptiness,this is a chamber.The Bistro.The Stiletto.The Anchor.The Hook of the Night. The Invented Whisper. Of Anchors and Architecture This is sacred geometry.This is waiting.The black heel,the spike of…
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0701: A Six Sentence Story
Clinging to Small Solid Facts in Six Sentences We talk about Venezuela, as if naming it might steady the water, and I drift in the jacuzzi like a bubble, briefly convinced of my own shape. I mention that Einstein had flat feet — facts don’t ask questions because saying something solid feels like ballast against…
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05.01: A Liturgy for a Bubble
A Liturgy for the Bubble in a Current Once upon a time We gathered at water’s edge,in a jacuzzi between the spokenand the dissolved. We knew when a metaphor was not a metaphor,but a bubble wearing a skin of air, and we spoke to the Brief Republic,the Spinning Borders,the diamond thinning to memory.We called it…
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30.12: Six Sentence Story
It Sings at Night At dusk, on the edge of a pond bordered by palms and deciduous trees that have forgotten how to lose their leaves, a call rises only at night that sounds like a woodpecker at work. There are, however, no woodpeckers in the forest of Anapoima, Colombia. This is a goatsucker; a…
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25 December: After the Funeral
A Six Sentence Story After the Funeral After the funeral, after everyone returned to their version of living, we covered the mirrors with black cloth, draped like shawls, like leftover fabric scraps, anything to keep the glass from looking back at us. Sometimes a corner would slip loose, and the mirror would peek through —…
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