Six Squared
Six (quite short) stories, written one after the other.
Six Ways To Her Love
Last time she wore five watermelons in her hair I told her that fruit was no longer safe since the war broke out between dirt and seed. She refused my warning, continued to plant her lush fingers inside her rinds and suck the red juice.
Fearing nothing, I held her close and whispered that we were all bound to glory one day, but shouldn’t hurry it along. Her reckless heart bubbled up to her lips and she told me to find my courage, which gave me no choice but to yield to her love. We sat on the couch and sipped. The moon crawled over the window sill and lay its leftover light upon the floor.
Six Squared
When they howl they really talk about shadows and possible cows.
That was Marley talking, who could dance with wolves he claimed, one morning when we stood on a heat vent outside the laundromat.
My coffee was still hot so asked Marley about: what do wolves mean when they appear on the screen dressed healthy and confident that they know what’s best and tell us to quit consorting with truth and buy a wheel of fortune discounted for sure good luck?
Marley waved at a frosted passing bus that winter he died before he answered.
A forever friend, he told his story in steam breaths that spoke in words that can’t be blocked, words that say we have much more in common that not.
He told his story the way a lot of people do when they buckle up their abs, but his was quieter and more gentle.
Six Minutes
However it went, whether snake or alligator, Harold Burns could not find his way back to the car in the swamp and may have died with a small or large bite or maybe simply sank in quicksand.
The simple explanation would be that Harold gave up on himself a long time ago when the boss called him into the factory office during the strike and told Harold that the strike line wouldn’t hold and that his position at the factory would be best served betraying his brothers.
When Harold refused, the boss turned to the window and grew another mustache, this time emboldened with a little cash. Nobody mentioned cancer.
Harold walked out and down to where the his brothers chewed soft banana outside the picket line at lunch break and asked them if they would please keep the volume on their music up. Although lost in the swamp of his conscience, he too wanted to dance in the mud.
Seven Sixes
When the Buick broke the guardrail that night nobody thought they died, the pay phone in Pasadena gave florescent shelter to the teenage driver who had with no choice left the car smashed below in the canyon and walked down from the hills into the suburbs. He was in trouble.
Sometimes better to die than face parental wrath is something an adolescent would think, and he did while he dialed.
That number is gone an operator announced because driver hadn’t paid real attention to his surroundings, stunned to cross into the unknown.
Teenage driver served his integrity wisely. He called other parents to let them know that he had driven too fast on a dark road and that he was no longer sure if he was in Pasadena or among boulders but could they please summon a tow truck for the light?
Six Times Fool Makes Wise
One evening a fool walked into a convenience store with a hubcap he had found in the parking lot and asked if anybody needed a metal hat. Nobody did.
Undeterred, the fool bought a box of ammo to feed his pet gun and a dog-eared paperback copy of Immanuel Kant’s Metaphysics of Morals. He would read it to the end or kill himself trying.
Six nights later, cops found the fool buried in a cardboard box under the snow smoking a rich pipe. When they lifted the makeshift house flap, the fool tapped the book with the stem of the pipe and told them he was nearly there and therefore almost ready to receive a welcome dose of old wisdom.
Six Days To New Love
In six days Ethel would enjoy herself more than she had ever enjoyed herself before when the bailiff dragged her by the hair into court to testify about what she saw the night an old guy screamed at the president to quit pretending to be smart.
The prosecutor said wrong voices had to be charged, or there would be no peace, and when he asked Ethel in his fake English accent to point out the unscrupulous agitator, Ethel turned to the TV crew and told the truth (as she had sworn to do) that murderers and child rapists still roamed free. The old guy at the defendant table chuckled.
As agents of the state may do, the prosecutor called for a recess in order to look through his books for another crime. When court reconvened, Ethel and the old guy were nowhere to be seen. Some say they flew to South America on a private jet, but they were both of modest means, and what really happened was they fell in love and were content to pass their remaining days feeding squirrels in the park.
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There you have it lovely readers of Dynamic Creed, six stories of six sentences each, written one after the other with a bit of coffee and nap in between. Very little editing.
gave me the idea the other day and I paired it up with inspiration from and if you want to know how that happens, let me know. I can’t say for sure I understand it; I only work here. Anyway, it was fun. Thanks guys!Victor David
This one sings in riddles and prayers, like a beat poet eulogizing the absurd beauty of collapse. Each fragment feels like a found object—rusted, bright, and still humming. There's something holy in the way these characters fail and wander, wrapped in pipe smoke and fluorescent light, confessing to vending machines and vanishing from courtrooms with their dignity intact. I don’t know what you’ve written here exactly, but it’s true.
Excellent, beyond words. Like skydiving into your subconscious while on a literary hallucinogen. Brilliant, inspiring, wild. Thanks for sharing this.