I’m writing from a bar in Havana.

	Eli Cranor

Three stools down sits Ernest Hemingway, a Cuban cigar in one hand, a condensating mojito in the other.

“Excuse me? Sir?"

Papa turns, rests his beard on his right shoulder, and studies the intruder, a thin-faced man with wireframe glasses flicking open a steno pad.

“Yes, hello. I’m a reporter. I’m with the—”

A rack of lowball glasses rattles. I miss the name of the outlet.

“Anyway…” The reporter taps the tip of a golden pen against his bottom teeth. “I’m here to offer you a, uh, a challenge. Yes. A challenge.” The tapping stops. “If you’re up for it?”

Smoke curls out from under Hemingway’s spoonbill cap. He doesn’t blink or nod, but the reporter has his attention now. I can feel it. The rest of the bar can too.

“We all know about your renowned ‘Iceberg Theory.’” The reporter rotates his torso after this line, addressing the small crowd that has gathered around him. They murmur in agreement. “Keep the backstory submerged, less is more and all—”

“Get on with it."

The murmuring stops. The bar falls silent. The reporter takes a small step back, a smaller step forward, then clears his throat, preparing to challenge the master.

“I was wondering if you could write a story, a complete narrative, in exactly six words.” Like a veteran street preacher, the reporter gives the crowd time to recover. When all is finally quiet, he adds, “Think you can do it?”

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Papa drains what's left of the mojito and drops his cigar into the glass, then pushes back from the bar. The crowd parts around him. He’s halfway out the door before the reporter shouts, “Hey!” and Papa just stands there, backlit in the soft glow of sandblasted street lamps.

A warm, almost wet breeze wafts inside and carries the old man’s voice with it.

“For sale: blank shoes, never worn.”

The bar door swings shut, separating the author from his audience. The reporter turns on the crowd, still clutching his pad, his pen.

“Blank shoes? Blank shoes! What does it mean?”

The patrons shrug. They return to their stools, their drinks watery in the wake of the recent interruption. Shocked at their indifference, the reporter bursts out of the bar and onto the cobblestones, shouting the famed novelist’s name: “Ernest! Ernest! Mr. Hemingway, please!”

Shadows shroud the streets of Havana.

Every time the reporter sits down to put the black on the white, he will remember the darkness, the silence of the void, and he will know that he lost. And yet, it will not stop him from trying to answer Papa’s riddle.

“For sale: blank shoes, never worn?” whispers the reporter. “Blank—”

The crack of a match draws the reporter’s attention. The flickering flame reveals a white beard and two bright blue eyes gleaming beneath a long-brimmed cap.

“The blank is not a word,” Papa says. “It is my challenge to you.”

And this, dear reader, is where Hemingway’s story ends and yours begins.

I promised I’d teach you what I know of writing, and this yarn — this tall tale I tell my students at the start of each semester — is your first lesson.

I showed you more than I told you; I stretched the limits of believability, not to mention credibility, but the question remains: how would you fill the blank?

Consider it your first assignment. Fill in the blank so that those six words become a story, the sharp tip of an iceberg, capable of shattering human hearts.

No cheating. No chat bots or search bars, just you and your pen, scraping away at the problem until the perfect word is revealed.

Good luck.

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