Warm Milk Didn't Work; Pontification Perhaps?

One of the more underrated thrills of having the flu is the insomniatic onset of dementia.

A certain macabre calm sets in late at night when, after thousands of minute body adjustments result only in different regions of your head becoming alternatively solid/liquid, you make peace with the fact that sleep will not come any time soon.

It's 4:54 in the ante meridiem. Embrace it. (The situation, that is. Too tired for the other.)

For this morning's TheraFlu-induced revelries, I found myself recalling an article heralding the merits of Very Short Stories, an old concept that [kinda sorta] recently reemerged in [kinda sorta] meme form and even more recently became a mental exercise for the Generation Me to summarize themselves.

Basically, one has six words to conjure up a story. The most famous and, probably, best, is courtesy Hemingway: "For Sale: Baby shoes. Never used."*

I think the concept is far more fun/effective in narrative form, and besides, had I been in an autobiographical mood this morning, any memoir in my debilitated condition would be something to the effect of "Exhaustion and phlegm reign eternal, internal."

That being the case, here's what I found scribbled on the back of an envelope next to the bed this morning, which I share with you in hopes of myriad new submissions from you, left in the COMMENTS section.

Six Word Fictions:

Now to hide the bloodstained uniforms.

Repent, dear husband; I survived you.

Turns out expiration dates are important.

Their marriage left their passions unresolved.

My prison penpal hadn't mentioned probation.

"What college fund?" lamented the gambler.

But his guide dog could swim.

The obituary downplayed the prostitution aspect.

*Often quoted as "For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn."