The gentle tapping of rain against her apartment's tin roof whispered good morning in her ear. She stirred slightly. An October gale thrashed against her window and demanded she get up. She glared at her clock with its glowing red blurs. Her hand searched the nightstand for her spectacles, only finding them when they were sent to the floor. In frustration she buried her head in the pillow. Retrieving them, she read that it was six thirty-four. She let out a yawn. Too early to be up and too late to get more sleep. There was little motivation to abandon her warm blanket, but work would not have her late again.

She growled softly at the prospect of moving. "Fuck," she whispered to the gently tapping rain that would surly soak her at the bus stop. "Double fuck," she replied to the wind that would mess up her hair. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," she spoke her daily mantra before rolling out of bed. She wrapped herself in the quilt and sat at her desk. Empty bottles of beer and glasses that once held stronger stuff littered the surface, as did packets of cigarettes and assorted discount lighters. They gave way at a point to a keyboard, mouse and monitor. These, and the tower tucked neatly under the mess, were what gave life meaning.

Sure the paper and pen were nice, but the computer let ideas flow. In a fit of writing she could lose herself, lean back in that chair, close her eyes and write, truly write. A single blank document would be replaced by several pages of coherent text, ripe for editing and critique in simply minutes. The keyboard was her finest tool. Slightly discolored by tobacco and singed in two spots from dropped ash, she had no desire to replace it. The text of "Backspace" key had begun to fade, along with the "S" and the left "Ctrl", a testament of her compulsive saving.

While I was going through some document files I had saved across the several computers I use and my online Web storage, I came to find a few pieces of writing that I started working on, but didn't finish. While some of these will require time to go through, edit and, of course, complete, I was amused at some of my previous attempts at six-word stories. I've posted two below. Nothing special, but they amuse me.

Guns? Check. Ammunition? Check. Paints … fuck!

"I'm sorry"
"For?"
"Killing you."
BANG

I'm sure I'll be posting more stories over the next few [arbitrary-period-of-time]s. Though I am going to enterain the idea of more regular updates, as if anyone reads this.

I am truly captivated by the six-word story. I first became aware of it after reading a Wired article about the subject. Then I found out that an anthology had been compiled. After learning of the structure, the simple word-limit, I set off creating my own. A lot can be said in six words.

At some point I may share some of the ones I came up with. But for now, I'm only posting a poetic story, under my pen-name, I created using the structure of six verses containing six lines each with six word. It is a short story with limited detail, yet I am sure it creates an image in the reader's mind. Adjectives and metaphors help us understand, but too many can get in the way.

Sometimes a simple action and simple speech can convey an entire scene. Between many, words need not be expressed. And though words are here, the movement and the notions carried let the reader bring their own images to the story. It makes it for a more personal and hopefully more emotional experience.

I believe this is the first story I've written where the ending was a happy one. Usually mine end on a sour note or with a larger, more sorrowful story to tell. But this one is short and its ending is sweet.

Happy endings, I think, are harder for me to write. Its not that I've never had good things happen, its just that to end on a positive note leave one to wonder what happens next, what negative thing is waiting around the corner. In this latest work, I think I could have expanded it, either showing them growing older together and living life to the fullest, or I could have had them break apart, return to their lives and end it with a tone of regret. I feel that either is fair.

What happens to these two is not for me to decide, except as I see in my own life. I picked to end with a kiss because, in Western American culture at least, it is an action that transcends personal space. Holding a hand, an arm or embracing in a hug are all actions that can carry both platonic and romantic notions, but a kiss is one whose message is clear. Even a kiss on the forehead denotes a much greater level of closeness than a hug.

As for me, do I see myself in the character I created? I'll let you decide, but I will say that all creations of the individual contain little pieces of themselves, their hopes and their dreams.

Like a bottle cast into the sea, writers leave little bits of themselves all over the world. Once cast out, what happens to the words and what comes to the writer depends, but that's part of the joy of writing.