Here are 6 Sentences stories that were created and published by other people. The Writer's Guidelines for creating a 6 Sentence story are found here.

Homeland Insecurity
by Joseph Grant
In an effort to combat the wear on terror, the Government has issued the following statement: "An unidentified flying object maneuvering at will in and out of restricted air space, its transponder apparently turned off and not replying to repeated FAA requests for the aircraft to identify itself, was shot down by the US military over the Midwest. Local and federal authorities wee quick to locate a bewildered and oddly dressed old man who appeared unhurt and apparently spoke no English. He was surrounded by a pack of nine wild reindeer, one with an obviously burned snout acquired from the fiery crash site. In an apparently unrelated event, hundreds of thousands of toys were discovered scattered from here to Kalamazoo. The bearded man was beign detained and checked out by Homeland Security and INTERPOL as he was found on his person a list of many names, some classified and put on a 'bad' list, as well as many maps with 'x' marks scrawled upon them and carryin gwhat one unidentified policeman said were many 'foreigh-sounding aliases,' which were given to the local press as Father Christmas, Sinter Klass, Babbo Natale, black Peter, Jultomtem, Grandfather Frost, Kris Kringle, Shengdan Laoren, Pere Noel, as well as many other un-American sounding assumed names. It is not clear as this story went to press whether or not the man spreading dangerous ideologies such as 'Peace on Earth' and 'Good Will Towards Man' and "To All a Good Night" would be held at the the terrorist detainment center at Guantanamo Bay."
Try to Remember
by Diane Brady
"Good evening, Mrs. Smith, ny name is Margaret, and I want to congratulate you on winning our Great Show Tune Getaway For Two in New York City; the judges selected a classic for you, Mrs. Smith, and to claim the prize you must sing the chorus to a Boradway song - Try to Remember - from The Fantasticks. No, that's the name of the song, Mrs. Smith - Try to Remember; oh, you lost your voice screaming during the Super Bowl last night; I don't care how your voice sounds; I just want to hear the lyrics; do you follow me? Yes, Mrs. Smith, you did enter the contest; I have your entry right in front of me; no, I'm not sure what box you placed it in; we collect entries from boxes at state fairs, shopping malls and gas stations all over the country; just sing that chorus, please. Yes, it's an old song; no, I'm not sure of the year; I wasn't even born when the show opened; I don't know the melody; all I can see on my screen is the chorus that you, Mrs. Smith, must sing to claim the prize. No, you cannot call your neighbor for help; I understand your predicament; no, this is not a prank call, Mrs. Smith; yes, I really have your entry on my desk; it has a mustard stain on it; you were probably eating a hot dog at a state fair; oh, you never eat mustard; you haven't been out of the house much all year. That could be an explanation, Mrs. Smith; his secretary always travels with him on business and entered the contest using your name; yes, I understand; my husband was a lyin', cheatin' bum who disappeared a year ago and left me with three kids to support; yeah, I took this ridiculous telemarketer job at night to pay the rent; I have an idea, Mrs. Smith; we could do the trip together; I really need a vacation; you can't think of the words; well, I've been staring at them on my screen for the past twenty minutes and practically have them memorized; the chorus is really simple, Mrs. Smith; do you follow me?"
514
by Deborah O'Neal
Empty house, you were so glad, however tentatively, to have the scent and warmth of people moving in, hanging on your long-bare walls the ornament of first one celebration, then another, and another. Your water ran, your windows gleamed, your floorboards creaked with weight and activity; doors were opened, lights were lit, and cool then warm air coursed through your open rooms. People laughed and glasses clink; you hear again the squeak of the old glider bench; some nights, you watched a fire blaze from the pit in your backyard. A flag was hung, another; you had your picture taken time and again; dressed again with care, with returning awareness of your beauty. Always, there was music, of the people you had now, even when the visits grew scarce and sometimes sad. The music played when the doors stopped opening, the aching of the silence almost more than you could bear, but it played on and it plays now, when you are empty once again.
Twelve Noon Siren
by Monica McFawn
Every morning in the summer when I was a nine or ten, I would walk uptown to the Party Store to put twenty-five cents into the twenty-five cent trinket machine after which the twelve noon siren would sound. The fire station was right across the street, so the initial high peals of the siren were very loud, but then the sound would begin to get lower and quieter. The end of the siren was painfully protracted and profoundly strange. It went on and on and on and sounded to me like a sinister, endless mumble that crept closer the quieter it got. Even when it ended, if it ever did, it felt like that sound was at the back of everything, a rattled-off lower than bass assertion that things were not right. I thought I would never stop hearing the end of the siren buyt then I became distracted by a horse on my walk home, and forgot until the following noon.
Numbers
by Andrew David King
Sometimes it seems like these fields stretch into eternity. If you stand facing the midday sun - lifting your eyes just enough so you have to squint - and stay still for a minute, you can feel like you're floating, almost hovering above the headstones. "Hmm," I say, looking down at the nearest grave marker, "only five words on this headstone, five words to stand for a life..." She looks at me a bit oddly before she says, meticulously, "if you only had five words to say that people would remember you by, maybe a lesson, maybe a memoir, what would they be?" I hardly consider this question for long before the words leap from my mouth, a spring of water in the desert of silence between us. "Time passes fast," I say, lifting my head towards the sun, my eyes beginning to squint, "don't blink."
Not Just a River in Egypt
by Jason Davis
The water rises around our ankles and shins, it floods our doorways, swamps our front porches, comes glistening and wet in dirt-flecked rolling rivulets down the basement stairs. The streets go fluid; highways become rivers, alleys become streams, and the day-to-day tracks of our lives submerge. We live in submarine suburbias where trips to the grocery store are triathlons, and every house has a dinghy or a pontoon moored to its personal dock; the stock of outboard motors soars. The city highrises transfigure into salt-stained pylons, barnacles braid the street signs, the homeless float or drown, and abyssal fish make new homes in our abandoned, silt-filled subway stations. Dolphins and catfish come into vogue and wealthy young women carry mudskippers in their designer, wet-to-wear purses. And the whole time the government man on TV says nothing has changed.
The Harvest
by Tara Lazar
Good apple pies are a considerable part of our domestic happiness,
wrote Jane Austen; so inspired, we hike to the orchard in the early October morning, our fleece jackets and brisk pace keeping us warm despite the chill. Streams of sunlight escape around the trees, the limbs and leaves in shadow, like fragile silhouettes in a yellow sky. He offers his hand, but I duck under the canopy of trees to discover golden and crimson orbs peeking out in unexpected places, unwilling to announce autumn's climax and the inescapable descent into winter. SHould we capture them to our asket and reward ourselves with a crisp bite, once again savoring the taste of beauty? As the sun climbs higher, swirls of our breath rise to the clouds. We reach for the cool, smooth skin of the fruit, twist gently, and hold Austen's promise in our hands.
Corn and Moonlight
by Heather Leet
When I was a teenage I dreamt of getting out of there. THe dreams were filled with big cities, exciting jobs and fascinating people. I saw myself in the gleaming city, dancing, working, loving and living the life I knew I was destined for. I did not see myself staying there in that town surrounded by corn, stifled by it, drowned among it, wasted by the corn. SO it shocks me each time I pull off the expressway to visit my parents, how it draws me in that corn; the smell of it, the sound of it, the look of it as the moonlight bounces off the glistening ears. It sometimes creeps into my dreams the way the city did before I lived in it, luring me back to that town I swore I would leave forever.
Snow
by Melody Gray
It was past midnight, the illuminating snow stole the darkness from the dead end street. She watched as it covered the ground, like a blanket gently thrown on her bed. She could hear the silence surrounding her, white, muffled and still. CLosing her eyes, she tilted her head up towards the sky. FLakes of snow fell slftly, melting as they touched her warm skin, tickling her lashes. With a gasp she inhaled, her lungs taking in an icy breath mixed with snow, she heard her son shout "FACE WASH" from behind, her face now covered with the white flakes she had admired only seconds before - the fight was on!
Noisy Neighbors
by Robert Clay
It seems quite a nice planet, sitting there in the warm zone of a comfortable, stable, if not particularly exciting star. It is the third one out from the star, and has a large solitary moon, which I'm sure must look truly beautiful from the surface. But the dominant species are ill behaved, and above all, they are very NOISY! They live the religion of the bomb, which they construct in vast numbers from small annoying bangs to the brutal reality of the atom. Even worse they transmit radio signals to all points of the sky, on all frequencies, modulated with the most appalling rubbish, which to a species like us, who communicate personally by radio wave, has become unbearable. We are an advanced race, capable of interstellar travel, so we are going to cater to their fetish and how them a bomb much, much more serious than anything they have ever see, not that they'll see it for long, and then maybe we'll get a bit of peace and quiet in this corner of the galaxy.