SELF INDULGENCE

I recently read an article about a genre that includes literary offerings that are precisely six words in length. No more, no less.

As an example, Ernest Hemingway once wrote, “For sale. Baby shoes. Never used.” The details that one could infer in this short story are limitless? Hemingway was reported to have said that this was his best work.

I decided to try to my hand at this so, yeah, this means ya'll will just have to suffer my "six word" self indulgence.

Self indulgence: A blog's true reward.

Wright City conceives country souls. Forever.

Casinos devour cash, reaping conscientious consistency.

Epitaph: Hold my beer. Watch this!

Future physician. Abandoned school. Healed self.

Want marital freedom? It's lonely, dammit!

Adults only. Naughty - nice? Dessert first!

Slippery path? Hell's waitin'! More grease?

Nice suit. Buried cold. Ashes warm?

Human suffering without charitable grace. Tragic.

They meet. Hearts melt. Grandkids? Maybe!

Times hurtles forward. Avoid the rush.

Third eye remains undisciplined. Metamucil blamed.

I'm right - when she says so.

Turned right. Direction void? Nothing left!

Coal claims discrimination. Diamonds seek immunity.

Grim reaper denies manic depressive rumor.

I wrote all I knew, quickly.

Ain't this enough? (lazy blogger pled)

BS detector patented. Ranch Hand retires.