Part 1 of 6 by Madam Z

Something is in my head that’s not supposed to be... I don’t know what it is, but it’s there; I don’t care what the neurologist says. It’s like a soft, pulsating ball of some kind, lodged between my skull and my brain, on the right side of my head, about two inches above my ear. It doesn’t hurt exactly, it just creeps me out. The doctor says that if anything were there, the brain scan and other tests he’s done would have shown it, but there’s not even a shadow or anything else abnormal. I can tell he thinks that it’s me that’s abnormal; he actually told me, “It’s all in your head,” which is pretty funny, if you think about it. Well, he can just go fuck himself, because I know what I feel and I feel something in there.


Madam Z, author of Shave This!, finds her padded cell quite comfortable, thank you. (Look for Part 2 of Headroom on Saturday, May 5th.)


Hotel Fire

by Montgomery Maxton

you stand by the barely-able-to-open suicide-proof 40th floor window smoking a canadian cigarette, looking out and down onto the greatest living city in the saddest dying fucked-up world: this could be my home; our home you say with an exhale of smoke as your blackberry screams in the other room - i laugh as i roll onto my back and remind you that international businessmen don’t have homes and bi-polar rent-boys reside and live by the hour. i lay in the king-sized bed; you say i’m your prince; i say this is a scandal that only a royal prince could pull-off flawlessly (like the beauty of a mercedes to conceal an ugly conspiracy) while my head lays on the pillow that is hand-stitched with the words ‘sweet dreams.’ i’m coming down off of everything; off of you; off of the four hours that precede dawn; i’m fucked-out - the five hundred thread count white sheet is pulled below my muscled-V pelvis, revealing my erection and you go from one last puff on your fag to puffing on this fag. you know i’m going to japan for awhile, we won’t get to talk much; i won’t be able to tell you i miss you, need you, want you back inside me and i say life is a flammable gamble, this hotel room is on fire and cost a grand a night for sure and you’re here for the hell-of-it five nights in row with just a magnetic strip and foreign identification. i’ll kiss you goodbye at the taxi stand on a sunday morning that even andy warhol couldn’t even find a way to capture and reproduce because some things just cannot be captured and reproduced for the sake of art or life, same difference, same disappointment – and the whole time you’re gone these lyric will loop in my head: (they made a statue of us and put it on a mountaintop / the tourist come and stare at us / they’ll name a city after us and later say it’s all our fault / they made a statue of us / our nose have begun to rust). i’ll wait for you to come back with tales of your world travels and small seeds that you instruct me to put in a pot of boiling water watch to see what happens; seeds pulled from a box written in another language so i have nothing to expect except everything i can imagine.


Montgomery Maxton, author of Putting the Sin in Wisconsin, lives in Manhattan and orders Chinese take-out from Ho Lee at 3750 Broadway (Store 1) New York, NY 10032. The lyrics he used in this piece are from Regina Spektor’s song “Us.” He is also a photographer with exhibits forthcoming in New York City, Cincinnati, Columbus and San Francisco. He eats Uni-Cornflakes for breakfast in the mid-afternoon before he gets on the subway and watches homeless men pee between cars.


The Joy of Pain

by Lesley Pink

They had been friends once, but that had been a long time ago and the friendship had disintegrated through no fault of her own. Jamie was a narcissistic, demanding, insensitive bitch, the kind many men seemed to flock to when they wanted drama - and some element of sadness - in their lives. Anna wondered why she had put up with Jamie's behavior: her nasty comments about her weight and skin and hair, her rude remarks about her choice of profession. Anna knew it was wrong, but she wanted Jamie to suffer, to lead a life full of psychological pain. She imagined Jamie, her husband having left her, sitting in a rocking chair, staring at the wall. There was something to this schaudenfraude thing, Anna thought, and smiled to herself.


Lesley Pink, author of Waiting, is a worker bee who lives in Brooklyn, New York.


The Right to Privacy

by Don Pizarro

Every day, I come home from work and hear you two screaming next door, breaking dishes and furniture and sometimes each other while your toddler wails. And if I can't drown it out with the TV and a beer, I stuff in the earbuds and crank up the iPod, too. That way, I can always be honest with the cops. "No, I really couldn't hear what was going on over there, sorry." You may never know what I do for you, but that's all right. It's a matter of principle.


Don Pizarro, author of Thick and Thin, lives in upstate NY. His writing has appeared online at McSweeney's, American Nerd, and Byzarium.


Mr. Agitprop

by Nathan Tyree

On the street I saw Mr Agitprop: the rumpled grey suit and wide brimmed fedora were only set dressing; his eyes told the story. Those pupils screamed out about addiction and loss and poverty; they told you everything you would ever need to know about sorrow. One look at them and you knew that he would finish up in the lobby of a cheap downtown hotel with a few bullet holes through his rumpled vest. Dressed like this, he had been having a decade long argument with Descartes, insisting that his cogito didn't equal that particular ergo sum. Never mind that, though; killing is a peculiar intellectual process; it is a hyper powerful form of satire that can only be fully appreciated by a few like Mr. Agitprop, who gets it. Or, at least he will.


Nathan Tyree's work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Flesh and Blood, Doorknobs and Body Paint, The Flash, Bare Bone, Dogmatika, Wretched and Violent, and The Empty Page: Stories Inspired by the Songs of Sonic Youth. He's also the author of Spade, and helps edit Magazine of the Dead.


The Prologue to My Life's Flashback

by Victor S. Smith

Looking down the barrel of a Colt .45 tends to give you a perspective you might not have realized you were capable of having; I realized very quickly, as the cold steel slid between my teeth, that I had no business being in the bedroom of the house at 65 Ellerbee Lane. I also realized very quickly as the ever-so-slight pressure against my cheek spun me around so that my back was facing the door, that in Texas it was legal to shoot a man in your house as long he wasn't facing a door, or you weren't shooting the man in the back: the theory being that a man who is heading for a door is looking for an exit and if you shoot him in the back you are shooting in cold blood; but with my present body orientation there was nothing the police could do except write the report up and file it in some ridiculous file named Crimes of Passion. I couldn't really remember why I was even there; but when the hammer on the shiny weapon started to slowly withdraw from its resting place it came back in a blinding light: there was music turned up too loud in the seedy dive bar as we debated the twenty dollar drink-and-drown cover charge, a woman in a crimson halter-top passed by the entrance door and the decision was made for me so I passed through the bright blue door frame and into the belly of sin, twenty dollars poorer. My memory blinded by a drink called a Woo-Woo and copious amounts of bourbon I extracted from my alcohol soaked neurons the details that I could: she was older than I was, she looked emotionally neglected and I knew in the first five minutes that I was going to leave the bar with her; if there was a conversation about a husband I am sure that I didn't remember it—but it wouldn't have changed anything if I had, and it wouldn't have been the first time. Then nothing, a complete black out; until the sound of elephants storming up the stairs, screaming as something kicked down the four panel bedroom door brandishing the implement of a betrayed man's fury. I came to two conclusions, as the hammer on the shiny pistol started its return home; the first, that the sum total of my life would be pared down to a series of vignettes depicting drunken debauchery and second, that there was nothing even remotely funny about a crime of passion.


Victor S. Smith, author of Next Stop: Fountain & LaSalle Square, is a recovering economist who caught a writing bug penicillin isn't clearing up. His two blogs are Like Pollution and Marlowe's Sketch Pad.


Pet Rocks

by Terry Doss

Six sentences? It's a gimmick. It's like Beanie Babies, Billy Beer and Happy Marriages. What can you say in six sentences? I have a better question. What can't you say?


Terry Doss is not Terri Doss.


My Closet

by Kimi Goodrich

I am afraid to open my closet. It is a walk-in closet, which means it is an entity unto itself, large and spacious, ready to be filled with my stuff, my belongings, my life. I have stuffed it to the gills; I have packed, jammed and let it store all of the things that make me… me. I love my closet, but tend to keep the door shut all of the time, only visiting it when absolutely necessary. It could be a morgue, a war zone or a cemetery with the amount of skeletons from the past that I house there. I hear them talk amongst themselves late at night, looking for an escape route, plotting a way to break free from my constraints, come out of the closet and dance joyfully in the bright sunshine, letting everyone see in broad daylight why they were buried in there for so long.


Kimi Goodrich, author of I'm Not Buying It, wants to thank all the kindred peeps who share their sixes and raise the bar on self expression. Rock on witcha badselves!



by Louise Yeiser

I remember summers in Cape Cod at my grandmother’s cottage, sitting on a stool, watching a white curtain curving, flowing, waving into a sunny room that smelled like cedar and pine, and standing in front of a three-tiered rack of baubles, staring at rows and rows of colored, flashing birth stones, fashioned into rings and necklaces, each for a dollar. I fell into the bright, endless spectrum of radiant rubies, precious peridots and luscious, lavender amethysts, and I liked it. “Mom, please?” I begged. “No, they’re only glass,” mom would reply absentmindedly, as she filled her red basket with paper towels, tissues, and Pond’s cold cream that felt like Crisco icing on her cheeks at night, offering me no safe landing for a goodnight kiss. Glass or stone, no matter. I wanted the twinkling on my finger, around my neck, so I could sit on my stool and be the magic, and move the sparkle through the sunbeams of the window with the curtain, and turn it this way and that, and continue my forever freefall.


Louise Yeiser, author of The Secret, is a published writer and Creative Nonfiction student who collects diamond rings.


Spoken Like an Ancient

by Rebecca Jane

Prometheus, I'm cold. Can't you... please? Tonight, the high priest departs on a barge of wild lilies. We have the Temple of Folly all to ourselves. What do you say? You scratch my hubris, and I'll scratch yours?


Rebecca Jane, author of The Vow, writes fiction to stay out of trouble. She always grins. She sometimes fails. She never squeals.


The Last Days of the Cross

Part 6 of 6 by Joseph Ridgwell

I opened up my laptop and switched it on. “Jude,” I replied, as I waited for my settings to appear. Then I began to waffle, “I’m a poet, from London, I’ve come here to write my first book of poetry, you know different environments, different inspirations, I think you could inspire me, you could be my muse, what d’ya think?” No answer. I looked up. Juanita had fallen asleep on my bed holding an unlit cigarette in an outstretched hand.


Joseph Ridgwell's The Last Days of the Cross is excerpted from his latest novel.



by Canterbury Soul

I tried so hard. I really did. But I guess I wasn’t really strong enough... or brave enough. You can say all you want to dispel my guilt, which has been grossly understated. I can never lie, can I? I can never live, can I?


Canterbury Soul is a novice writer who teaches English in a primary school in Singapore.



by Elizabeth Rose

I guess it's always the same; impatient to see each other, stinging with the mere suggestion or apparition of their scent, never mind the taste of skin. A yearn that succumbs to any resemblance or imagining, alert as thirsting ivy when the raindrops fall. The oaths and devotions, shell-shocked by past lover's mistakes ´till their mold is climbed into and we all become clay. Hardening into dust in shared abodes where the earth cracks widen the closer you sit and the more time is spent together. Con and fusion. I just guess it's just always the same.


Elizabeth Rose, author of Valediction, is a UK writer and artist living in the south of Spain.



by Lesley Pink

Mitch loved her. That was obvious. He stroked her hair, her cheek, her back, his fingers light and delicate as they made their way to the various parts of her body. He bent down and kissed her ankles, and then looked up at her with his wide brown eyes, waiting. For something. Anything.


Lesley Pink, author of Unlikely/Likely, is a worker bee who lives in Brooklyn, New York.


The Last Days of the Cross

Part 5 of 6 by Joseph Ridgwell

The girl managed a half-smile and then nearly tripped over. "Juanita," she said, after re-balancing, "Juanita, Juanita!" To my drunken ears it sounded like a wonderful name and she was a wonderful girl, the beautiful girl I'd been searching for my whole life. Okay she was a prostie, but who cares, she had to be mine somehow. We walked back into the Cross like two fucked up lovers, oblivious to any disapproving looks or stares. The Cross was buzzing, crowds of people thronged the pavements, car horns tooted, music could be heard, escaping from opening and closing doors, and suddenly the night was alive with unspoken passion.


Joseph Ridgwell's The Last Days of the Cross is excerpted from his latest novel. Look for Part 6 on Friday, April 20th.


The Secret

by Louise Yeiser

Believing that I have a relatively underdeveloped talent for all things psychic, I made a well-intentioned commitment to myself to practice living my life intuitively. This seemingly benign vow has gotten me into more trouble that anything else I can think of, resulting in several bad marriages (and divorces), and passionate shopping sprees that involved large amounts of money and clothes that were too snug. Apparently, the secret is learning the difference between an intuition and an exciting idea. My friend, Kate from Oregon, once told me, "Sometimes those exciting ideas are little gifts from the Universe." Oh, yeah? Well, sometimes they're not.


Louise Yeiser, author of Night School, is a published writer and student of Creative Nonfiction who has trouble figuring things out.


The Other You

by George Plimpton

Everyone must wonder wistfully if there isn’t something other than what they actually practice in their lives at which they would be incredibly adept if they could only find out what it was – that a paintbrush worked across a canvas for the first time would indicate an amazing talent. Or that one would rise from a minor position at the executive board meeting table and address the CEOs with a proposal so illuminating that around the rim of the mahogany table the officers of the company would rise and applaud. If an idiot savant could sit down at a piano and suddenly bat out a Chopin etude, wasn’t the same sort of potential locked up somewhere in all of us? I have always wondered (less so, I must admit, as the years have gone by) if there wasn’t some extraordinary athletic skill lurking within my body of which I was not aware – as if by chance on some athletic field I had picked up a javelin and thrown it, just to try, and through some perfect and startling alchemic convulsion of muscles the thing had sailed an eighth of a mile and stuck quivering in the earth. Astonished observers would ask to see it done again. Why not?


George Plimpton, the former Editor-in-Chief of The Paris Review, helped subdue Sirhan Sirhan after the assassination of Robert Kennedy. His six sentences are taken from The X Factor: A Quest for Excellence. Plimpton died at the age of 76 on September 25th, 2003.



by Cara Grill

One night he decided to tell me the biggest secret of his life, the one he’d never told anyone, and it boiled down to this: he was a born liar. He knew it, he couldn’t help it, and he was ashamed. As I stood in the cold listening to him talk, I could suddenly see our whole future stretching out ahead, the whole sorry mess, clear as day. I saw how I could really love him, and how he’d never love me back, how we’d push and pull and fight and make up over and over again until we were just too tired and worn out... then it was gone and there was only his sweet-sad face, pale under the streetlights. I hugged him tight, told him it was all gonna be ok, then took his hand and led him back into the warmth and light of the bar. I guess maybe I'm a liar, too.


Cara Grill, author of An Only Child, lives in Seattle, has Superman pajamas, and once taught her cat how to use the toilet.


I'm Not Buying It

by Kimi Goodrich

Whoever said "all is fair in love and war" probably said "nice guys finish last" and "only the good die young." Who says that kind of stuff? Do they really mean it? Does anyone truly believe it? It's contradictory at best, rose colored glasses for our viewing pleasure so that the bad things in life somehow seem better. What a load of bullshit, they all suck evenly.


Kimi Goodrich, author of Down Not Across, wants to thank all the kindred peeps who share their sixes and raise the bar on self expression. Rock on witcha badselves!


Wartime in Reverse

by David Gianatasio

Last week at the gym, I turned up the treadmill as fast as it could go. After about an hour, it seemed as if everything around me was standing completely still, and the hands on the clock began to run backwards. Manny C. -- a self-styled personal trainer, though he's really a part-time property manager downtown -- kept shouting things I couldn't understand. Later, I learned he'd been asking "You OK? You OK?" -- but at the time, his words sounded thick and garbled, like battlefield cries: "Incoming! Incoming!" I slipped off the machine and smacked my head against a pile of nutrition manuals stacked in a corner of the room. The scar could be a war wound, but it's not; I think that makes an important point about life or the universe, but I can't quite figure out what it is.


David Gianatasio's first book of fiction and commentary, Swift Kicks, was published last year by So New Publishing. He's the author of 6 Sentences.



by Maura Campbell

In an effort to shape up and deny nature's push to expand out, my husband and I have been working out - separately. For quite some time we did share the same fun, svelte, savvy, smart and female personal trainer. Then in an effort to turn his workouts up a notch, Duncan switched to a younger buff-bodied but somber-faced male trainer who takes his training sessions very seriously to the point that my husband brags "he beats the crap out of me." All would be fine except that the two now show up in my little corner of our gargantuan gym where week after week Tracy and I and, occasionally an intern, have laughed and sweated our way through my workout - they good-naturedly pushing me and me good-naturedly resisting their efforts to do so. We can sense Duncan and Justin as soon as they arrive - the oxygen is suddenly sucked out of the room and replaced by testosterone while the laughter in the room stills as the grunts, groans and glowers of these modern, macho and overly-serious males overshadows all. Now what fun is that - other than knowing that Duncan is suffering and missing the fun he had with his former trainer with the smiling face and blond tresses - not much.


Maura Campbell, author of My Catch-22, usually writes for other people - putting words in the mouths of (and on the page for) assorted public relations and marketing clients. This time of year in Michigan, she misses the sun and finds herself longing for her home state of Colorado.


Debt Repaid

by Rod Drake

It was a strange, eerie fog, coming out of nowhere, swirling its ghostly way rapidly through the little town of Pyrite, Missouri, covering everything in minutes. Ben Morgan had a feeling that the fog was a sign, and not a good one; the diary of his great-great-grandfather had mentioned this day in 1872, 135 years ago exactly, when his ancestor, who was the same age as Ben was now, had shot Jesse James in the shoulder. It was during a bank robbery in Pyrite that Ezra Morgan put a .44 slug into James’ shoulder, a wound that history indicates bothered James the rest of his life, and one that he swore repeatedly he would like to kill the man who did it. But Ezra lived a long and full life, and Jesse James was shot in the back in 1882 by his “friend,” Bob Ford; it was a curse that James didn’t live to keep. From out of the fog rode seven riders, the James Gang, Frank and Jesse, with the Younger Brothers and the two Miller brothers, as though they had just stepped out of the Old West, but with the hard look of hell on them. Jesse James swung down painfully from his saddle, Colt .44 in hand, smiled a ghastly grin from the inferno itself and fired, killing Ben as he stood on his front porch, the debt repaid at last, then the outlaws vanished back into the fog which suddenly lifted and disappeared.


Rod Drake, author of Nuclear Physics Nightmare, lives in the neon fantasy city called Las Vegas where he can visit Lake Como, the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building, a 14th Century castle and a pyramid every day. Check out Rod's longer stories in Flashes of Speculation, Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward and MicroHorror.


Unspoken Words

by Sara Pufahl

She knew what she had to say in order to stay alive - three little words. His eyes had that wide eyed, ready to fight with the devil look again and nothing would calm him down but her capitulating to his will once more. His screaming turned to smacking, her crying to numbness. His hands shook as he loaded the gun. Every other time she said what he wanted to hear, made it sound good and believable - though her love had withered and died long ago - but this time there was no way she could choke out the lie. Some things were worth dying over.


Sara Pufahl writes about her novel writing pursuits at Aspiring Romance Writer. She will either finish her first novel or go crazy trying.


The Last Days of the Cross

Part 4 of 6 by Joseph Ridgwell

I wiped the wet patch on my tee-shirt and hid the bottle behind my back in a desperate attempt not to look like a total alki. Why I bothered I’m not sure because the aboriginal girl was totally out of it. She was stumbling towards me, offering herself to almost anyone as she went. She had on the yellow blouse and the white plastic pearl necklace. We were almost in front of each other. She looked fucked, swayed, swirled, opened those wonderful blues eyes, and my heart burst into a million smaller hearts, which exploded on the floor in front of her like a multitude of orgasmic rose petals scattered on a long forgotten Damascus street one sad lonely morning eight hundred years ago.


Joseph Ridgwell grew up in the East End of London and left school with few qualifications. He then embarked on a succession of menial jobs. After being stabbed in a bar brawl and getting robbed at knifepoint he decided it was time to leave the country and promptly travelled the world. He returned to London in 2001 where he lives and writes to this day. The Last Days of the Cross is excerpted from his latest novel. Look for Part 5 on Monday, April 16th.


Shave This!

by Madam Z

Sadie was fifteen years old, shy, thin and plain, and had to ride the school bus five days a week, no matter how miserable she felt because no one ever spoke to her or sat next to her. But one day, as she sat next to the window, staring straight ahead and pretending she didn’t care, Bif, the big, handsome, high school football champ she had admired from afar, came charging noisily up the aisle and plopped down next to her, giving her a big, friendly smile. She managed to smile back at him, in spite of her heart pounding so hard she was afraid it would break her ribs, and she thought, omigosh, maybe he likes me, even though I’m shy, thin and plain. Bif looked her up and down, his eyes finally settling on her thin, hairy arms, and then asked, in a loud voice, “Why don’t you shave your arms?” Sadie flushed bright red, first with embarrassment, then with anger and snapped back at him, “Why don’t you shave your ass?” Everyone within earshot burst into laughter, including Bif, and from then on, he sat next to Sadie every single day and by the end of the school year Sadie was still thin and plain, but she wasn’t shy anymore.


Madam Z, author of Going Down, seldom shaves anything above her knees.


Down Not Across

by Kimi Goodrich

She sits on the edge of the bath tub, reading the letter over once more before she places it on the toilet lid, grabs a cigarette out of her brand new pack and lights it with the lighter that came free with the purchase. Savoring the first drag that is immensely enjoyable, she remembers that voice she knew as well as her own saying that cigarettes were coffin nails, she laughs at the irony, takes two drags out of spite for that thought, she begins to prepare. As the tub fills with lavender scented water (her favorite), she flicks her cigarette into the sink and listens for the satisfying sizzle of the amber hitting the faucets dripping water while she undoes her robe and lets it intentionally fall to the floor instead of hanging it up. She puts her hair into a long braid and fastens it to the top of her head (neatness in appearance always a part of her perfectionist nature) once it is secure she steps into the tub inhaling the organic aroma of the always welcoming water. Waiting for her body to adjust to the heat she reaches for her newest obsession, admiring its shiny strength and power, now is the time for it to work it’s magic. She uses her left hand first remembering to cut down (not across), inhales a sharp breath as her flesh is sliced apart, wasting no time to feel pain she works quickly and efficiently to get the other arm done, wondering how long it will take, allowing herself to slide down into the poisoned crimson water she tries to take a deep breath... but her time runs out before she realizes that there isn’t any breath left for her to take.


Kimi Goodrich hasn't had much free time to write lately, which makes her sad. She's the author of Mindless Conversations.


The Distressed Damsel

by Saoirse Redgrave

The door splintered beneath the shoulders of the rescue party. “Princess, we’re here!” the Captain shouted as the crossbow bolts hummed past. She was kneeling by her kidnapper, loose; his head in her lap, his blood a cooling, thickening pool edging into the fine fabric of her skirts. But she leapt to her feet to greet her Captain — and slapped him. “He just freed me so we would have a true and lasting peace,” she snarled, rubbing her wrists. “You have doomed us all by rescuing me.”


Saoirse Redgrave has always written something. She is currently working on a historical romance novel (scoffing not allowed ;-) based on a bunch of old ballads with entries posted here, and has just posted some of her poetry (inadvertantly) here. She hopes you visit!


The Last Days of the Cross

Part 3 of 6 by Joseph Ridgwell

Within seconds she had swept past me, but I kept an eye on her until she disappeared out of sight. Then I pulled my notebook out of my shirt pocket and wrote down a quick description. Another subject for my poetry, I ruminated, another muse, the teenage aboriginal smack head with the blue eyes. I could easily write a thousand poems about that one girl, fifty alone on the eyes, I was sure of it. God what a dream, an aboriginal dream, but a dream none the less. I thought about those long dusky legs, her crazy blues eyes, her breasts, easily a handful, and the ripped fishnet stockings and it was too much.


Joseph Ridgwell grew up in the East End of London and left school with few qualifications. He then embarked on a succession of menial jobs. After being stabbed in a bar brawl and getting robbed at knifepoint he decided it was time to leave the country and promptly travelled the world. He returned to London in 2001 where he lives and writes to this day. The Last Days of the Cross is excerpted from his latest novel. Look for Part 4 on Saturday, April 7th.


The Payoff

Good-Natured Ribbing from Robert McEvily

Oh, SNAP! Did you fall for it? ZAMMO, BABY! I gots y’all pretty GOOD, huh? NICE! Let the sixes roll on, you APRIL FOOLS!


Robert McEvily, creator (and pseudo-killer) of Six Sentences, will now loudly re-enter stage right.


The Final Day

A Sign-Off by Robert McEvily

I’m so sorry, but for personal reasons, I’ve decided to discontinue Six Sentences. Today will be the final day. Believe me, this was not an easy decision. As you know, we’ve created something truly special: a diverse group of voices, perspectives and talents. It’s with a heavy heart that I say goodbye. Thank you so much for sharing and caring, and best of luck in your writing careers.


Robert McEvily, creator (and killer) of Six Sentences, will now quietly exit stage left.