Yesterday morning SS, a former vice president of a local bank, apparently murdered his wife and four children then committed suicide by driving his minivan into a sign on I-80.

It promised to its Grandma not to speak with no stranger who was in the way. From now on, it would follow the judicious recommendations of its Grandma and her Mother.

It didn’t happen every day, but it happened often enough that it was disconcerting. When she wore the pants, strangers—thin usually, dressed in linen, with puffy eyes—would sniff the air.

Stories of six words do little more than hint at narrative; it’s the hints, then, that speak to readers or don’t.