To Half and Half, Not

Okay, Creepers. The Six Word Story experiments are going well enough. At the very least, Words Warrior comes out here and “likes” my posts. So thanks, Amigo! If you haven’t seen his site, check it out. He’s a scholar and gentleman who speaks more languages than a Tijuana bartender.

And thanks to 3tara for dropping by; long time no see.  She’s raw, and real:

So here is my next effort in writing exercises before going out for karaoke: Bad Hemingway. Suffer through.


The fisherman walked in the dark. He thought of the woman back in bed. How she had packed his breakfast at night while he drank the Montepulciano. They had lain in restless sheets until the fog horns woke him. She was a good woman. He thought about how he hadn’t kissed her when he left. He wondered if she thought of him and the restless sheets when she did the laundry. When the town women made supper and the men came home.

He thought of the woman when the sun rose and he stopped for his breakfast. The bread and the cheese, and the coffee in a jug stopped tight with the cork from the Montepulciano. He thought of the fish, and the waters of the sea. The way the water rushed out between the islands with the tides. There were rocks, and he knew them all the way he knew the woman’s hips. Could feel them in the dark with his hands, on the darkest nights when the ship passed the islands to the left.

He drank the coffee, dark and bitter. Like that day in San Rafael when the guns boomed and the horses screamed and the men sweated through their uniforms on the long retreat. He thought of the lieutenant swearing at the men for throwing down their rifles then dying, gutshot. He saw the woman had put the little can of leche dolce in his basket. He opened the can and poured it on the earth. The woman didn’t know he drank his coffee black while she slept.





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