an Online Magazine from Six Sentences
Scot Young is now our latest writer to offer Six Sixes. (Gracias!) To view the magazine, just click the “Open Publication” tab above. You’ll be taken inside, where you can turn the pages by clicking the arrows to the left and right. To view a “full screen” version, once inside, just click the diagonal arrows above the document (located to the left of the little envelope). Enjoy!
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Six Sentences urges you to write, create, and express yourself. On a daily basis.
Showing posts sorted by date for query Scot Young. Sort by relevance Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by date for query Scot Young. Sort by relevance Show all posts
20090113
20081222
A Six Sentence Beer with Bukowski
by Scot Young
It was three in the afternoon and we were the only two in the Frolic Room on Hollywood Boulevard. I sat two stools down from him and studied his face in the back bar mirror through the bottles of tequila and whiskey. He nodded toward the mirror, held up a High-Life, downed it in one Chianski gulp, slammed it down and said, "Another." I whispered to the bartender, who looked like every other actor waiting to be discovered, Tell him I'm a poet. Bukowski emptied another one, tapped it twice and went to the john; I leaned in to the bartender polishing wet rings on the bar: What'd he say? "He said, 'Who the hell ain't?'"
6S
Scot Young polishes wet rings on old bars and often has trouble with whole numbers.
It was three in the afternoon and we were the only two in the Frolic Room on Hollywood Boulevard. I sat two stools down from him and studied his face in the back bar mirror through the bottles of tequila and whiskey. He nodded toward the mirror, held up a High-Life, downed it in one Chianski gulp, slammed it down and said, "Another." I whispered to the bartender, who looked like every other actor waiting to be discovered, Tell him I'm a poet. Bukowski emptied another one, tapped it twice and went to the john; I leaned in to the bartender polishing wet rings on the bar: What'd he say? "He said, 'Who the hell ain't?'"
6S
Scot Young polishes wet rings on old bars and often has trouble with whole numbers.
Posted by
Robert McEvily
20081206
Butterflies on the Rocks
by Scot Young
She has a nightly habit of dropping coasters and half damp books of matches between the tables. As a solicitation of higher tips she bends over knees locked and picks them up, putting them back on the tray always casually giving me a sideways glance. This routine inevitably allows me to catch a glimpse of just the edge of lace on her red panties stretched tight against her silk bronze skin. Like a downtown dancer after one revolution around the pole she spins, leans over the bar with her new breasts still sore from surgery and slowly adds ice to a drink. I study her calves as she leans forward and watch the bar clock slowly tick away seconds of Saturday Night Lonely. Quietly, I stir my drink and practice folding dollar bills into origami butterflies.
6S
Scot Young, back in July, took us for a ride on The F Line.
She has a nightly habit of dropping coasters and half damp books of matches between the tables. As a solicitation of higher tips she bends over knees locked and picks them up, putting them back on the tray always casually giving me a sideways glance. This routine inevitably allows me to catch a glimpse of just the edge of lace on her red panties stretched tight against her silk bronze skin. Like a downtown dancer after one revolution around the pole she spins, leans over the bar with her new breasts still sore from surgery and slowly adds ice to a drink. I study her calves as she leans forward and watch the bar clock slowly tick away seconds of Saturday Night Lonely. Quietly, I stir my drink and practice folding dollar bills into origami butterflies.
6S
Scot Young, back in July, took us for a ride on The F Line.
Posted by
Robert McEvily
20080726
The F Line
by Scot Young
Last night I rode the late night bus down Market. The tourists and drag queens have all but deserted this line by now. I was just a passenger being transported to nowhere with people who ask for nothing and expected less. In the back seat, an old woman dressed in layers of mission clothes chanted a nursery rhyme and rocked gently back and forth, afraid to go to sleep. The ancient ninja in faded black with a worn frame and tired eyes fought the spirits with slow movements of tai chi, conquering them in mid-air, then bowing to nobody. At Powell, I got off knowing I was almost home and they weren't really any crazier than anyone else.
6S
Scot Young sometimes just likes to ride the bus.
Last night I rode the late night bus down Market. The tourists and drag queens have all but deserted this line by now. I was just a passenger being transported to nowhere with people who ask for nothing and expected less. In the back seat, an old woman dressed in layers of mission clothes chanted a nursery rhyme and rocked gently back and forth, afraid to go to sleep. The ancient ninja in faded black with a worn frame and tired eyes fought the spirits with slow movements of tai chi, conquering them in mid-air, then bowing to nobody. At Powell, I got off knowing I was almost home and they weren't really any crazier than anyone else.
6S
Scot Young sometimes just likes to ride the bus.
Posted by
Robert McEvily
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