Ernest Hemingway’s poignant six-word story launched a genre that’s popular with writing teachers. I recently led the exercise in a residential drug treatment program. Most of the women there had just come from jail. Their children were in the custody of Child Protective Services. These are the women’s stories.

Spent money on dope. No Christmas.

Picking up where I left off.

We are family. I got sisters.

My baby’s daddy in jail. Forever.

Pimps. Punks. Pervs. Done with them.

Got no home to go to.

Bound by addiction. Relieved by recovery.

Late for life but starting over.

I took Norco and lost everything.

God forgive me. I can’t forgive myself.

My babies saw me in cuffs.

I cry and water my flowers.

Dopeless hope fiend searching for God.

See me? Not yesterday but today.

Pacify the moment to gain momentum.

Baby and me tested tox positive.

They took her away at hospital.

Shooting up got me shot down.

I always get what I give.

Lost my kids. Nothing else matters.