Oh my. Usually, at this moment, I’m sitting in bed dumbfounded because it’s 3am on what I still consider Thursday (midnight never felt like a commencement, to me). Where were we? Oh yes. I was imagining where I normally type this post from– my bed, in front of Degrassi vintage, with the sound off. I’d be staring off in to space, concomitantly shocked and agog because yes, it’s ALREADY time to write and read nanofiction where does the time go blah blah blah.
But TODAY. Today, I am not doing that. Today, I am in California, in my Mother’s new home, where there is no nimble cable modem. There is no DSL. There isn’t even a local phone line hooked up yet, for me to try…(gag) DIAL-UP. So what could I do? I grimly did what I had to: I went, in search of the interweb.
Kinko’s? Closed. What kind of a Kinko’s CLOSES? Seriously! This blows, because I was quite fond of using “Kinko’s” as a synonym for “24 hours”. Beyond that tiny language tragedy, everywhere else? Um, this is the suburbs, so there IS no everywhere else to try. So get this– I’m borrowing wireless from my fave indie coffee place, because lucky for me (AND YOU) they didn’t switch it off like they usually do when they CLOSE.
I’m in a rainy parking lot, typing like a freak, the iBook’s brightness turning my face a not very divine shade of blue. Why? Because I love you and I love this weekly thing we do. When I commit, I commit. After we had moved the last few boxes to the new house, my mother was aghast when I told her during a dinner we were both to tired to eat, that I’d need to have a nocturnal adventure, in search of the net.
“But internet is coming tomorrow. Noon, I made an appointment with the phone company. Can’t it wait? Your friends will understand?”
“My FRIENDS (read: co-bloggers) will. My readers will be disappointed. Besides, I started this, so I have no excuse. Phone lines or not, the mutiny must go on.”
She nodded somberly at me and told me to try not to get lost. If you were previously unaware, I have the coolest Mother EVER. That doesn’t mean she isn’t strict– if I had said that I felt like going out for a martini, HA. If I had said that I felt like a movie, no dice. But stating that I needed…to…blog? Moms has her priorities straight, yo. 😉And there, boys and girls, you have it. No customary Friday55 yammering. Just a story about how I will do almost anything to come through for a cause that I lurve, ‘specially when that cause is writing. My weekly dates with you have become precious to me; when the struggle takes its toll and I think of how it would be so easy to quit, to yield to the dark side…I remember “55” and suddenly, I can pick myself up and fight another day. 😉
Tomorrow (read: in a few hours, when I wake up, get coffee and it’s 5pm on the east coast) I’ll update this post with my picks for the three best 55s of last week. When I do so, I hope to read all your new, juicy examples of nanofiction, since there will be sooo many of them, thanks to the time difference (WesssSaaeeed!)
Oh yeah, almost forgot! Theme? Theme. It worked splendidly last week. How about this one, for today: doing something illicit. Forbidden. Dangerous. You know, like me, right now, since the owner of the cafe has been watching me for the last ten minutes, as she sets everything up for her day. She’s on the phone now– I’ve been made. But I did it for all of you. Was it worth it? In the words of “Big”, “AbsoFcukinLutely“.
Do me proud, mutineers. Your astonishing talent can make the fruit of my covert activities on behalf of the Mutiny taste even sweeter. Hook a soon-to-be-detainee up, would ya?
Bin Laden gazed back at the unnervingly poised mujahideen whose hands were buried in the pockets of his Pathan kurta. Untested in battle, but he will make a fine martyr…..
Black Ops specialist Jagjit Sandhu eased the safety off the CIA-issue handgun in his right pocket, hoping to God that nobody else had heard it.
Jai Singh Dude!! You rock man
no time for short-shorts right now as i rush to work, but just wanted to say, ANNA–your commitment to this cause (and others, of course) is awe-inspiring!
thank you for sacrificing your sleep and risking the wrath of the cafe owner for this month-long SM cause! 🙂
Anil carefully went over his inventory….
Copies of sealed Narcotics court proceedings of the divorcee daughter of the founder.
“Yeah…I am ready for the Board Meeting.” “This company is going to have a brown CEO”.
“The sun oozed over the horizon, shoved aside darkness, crept along the greensward, and, with sickly fingers,pushed through the castle window,revealing the pillaged princess, hand at throat, crown asunder, gaping in frenzied horror at the sated, sodden amphibian lying beside her, disbelieving the magnitude of the frog’s deception, screaming madly, “You lied!”
She slipped on her bangles, anklets and put on the long bindi she had bought on her recent trip to India. It was Diwali! Would they come? She put all the tea candles outside on the porch and sat and waited. The living room seemed empty and rich. The grandkids did not arrive. Hopefully tomorrow…
Love the title. “Why does it always rain on me”, Travis. That song is in my head now.
ohhh PSU…that’s sad. 🙁
Mine here
As Kate and Leonardo set sail across the Atlantic, she stood, shaking, in the Movieplex bathroom stall, holding her fate in her hands.
Two lines. She wipes back her tears. Nope. Not blurry, still two lines. Fuck! Two Lines!
“What is wrong, beti? Why your eyes are so swollen?”
“The movie, Ma. They sink, remember.”
Foreign land, foreign clothes, foreign car. She had expertly passed through them, unnoticed. Now, she worked frantically, haste making mistakes she couldnÂ’t afford. This mission was critical. Shit. What was that? Had they detected her? Fear and exhilaration formed a heady cocktail that fucked with her focus. No, not now. CanÂ’t stop. Must…hit…”publish”…
Shawty, I have a few things to say.
For Everyone else, My 55 is here, please feel free to comment.
Back to you,
a) If your mom wants to adopt a son, please feel free to nominate me.
b) I think I speak for everyone when I say “Thanks”. Only if everyone (or most of us) had the kinda commitment you do.
They had held each other tightly, his face buried in her hair, their joy overflowing into silent tears flowing freely. My love, my love…..
The memory taunted Ranjha as he cradled her, the waking nightmare engulfing him, Heer’s lifeless face porcelain perfection. The beauty of their passion now ephemeral, intangible; like whispers in the wind.
My 55 here. Hmmm… may write another one with the theme in mind.
Is nonconformity the new standard, she wondered, the benchmark by which her attitudes and independence are assessed? Must she break tradition to assert her identity, a woman who knows her own mind?
Ultimately, she resisted: call me repressed, insular, boring-—by flaunting old conventions, you create your own and I want no part of that.
For years their plot had unfolded with sinister perfection, stirring even their bitter souls with something close to emotion.
Then one stupid loose end, and everything crumbled. Now police surrounded the bunker, reporters close behind.
Grimly they considered the two little blue pills on the table. They knew it was time.
“Ready, Scooter?”
“Ready, Dick.”
“Remember your dad’s words” he thought. The angry crowd was throwing things and calling him names. He kept walking. The only thing standing between him and the enraged mob was a line of national guardsman. “Go home N****R” someone shouted. He remembered what his father said “Keep your eyes on the prize”. And kept walking.
Ears started to pop. Nomads with same fate, even if only for a moment, were encapsulated in a mobile metal box.
Bagels and Starbucks coffee tagged along with the usual uninterested facial expressions. Today wasnÂ’t any normal day; eyes started to water, fingers pinched noses, and a few coughed. Damn those refried beans and chorizos.
The young sardar carefully poured the crimson-stained soil from his hands into his container. He paused, and stared into the mix of native dirt and native blood.
“They can have their ahimsa” he said to himself, “after IÂ’m dead.”
Bhagat closed the box, rose to his feet, and walked out of the garden.
ANNA, the fact that you referenced DeGrassi (old skool, of course) in the post completely made my day!
As he extricated himself from the tangle of naked flesh, his exhausted eyes flickering, remembering, researching, resting briefly on a massive thigh here,a saggy derriere there, listening to the low groans and sobbing, growing faintly nauseous over the aroma of cheap perfume and sweat drenched leg pits mixed with the smell of burnt and beaten leather, the Marquis coolly considered his latest experiment, wondering if his next novella would find a distributor, and laughed silently, imagining the look on Victor’s face if he titled it Lay Misérables.
“The law talks too much! In this world”, he paused, leaned forward, dipping his polyester tie into the foie gras, “we erect Maginot lines for these suckers…they’ll come screamin’ again. The law cares who built the levee, not the people! The people care about beignets and titties.”
My cell vibrated. “Mr. Brown, it’s for you.”
Afterwards she lies coiled, disappointed. He slips away, voice fading. “You want a sandwich?”
“Sure” she whispers sliding into the chair opposite his laptop. Then, little louder than necessary, “I’ll check email.” A surreptitious click on history reveals visits to the chatroom. Her throat tightens. She reads the name. “Anita.”
My story
And mine
“We shouldnÂ’t be doing this,” he said. “But why? Why shouldnÂ’t we?” She demanded, “ThatÂ’s how civilization progresses, right? Through experimentation.” A smile played on his face as he looked at her, “Yes,” he said gently. “So are you with me?” she asked. “You bet,” he said as he bit into the juicy red apple.
Wrote this before the theme was announced… but hey, the campus police do frown on this sort of thing.
Must.Run.Fast and far away. But this wall wasn’t here before! Impasse. A crowd descended upon him. He let himself be carried away by the enemy. One, two, three then a rebaptism in the campus fountain on a cold October night. Echoes of “Happy Birthday” were muted by the deafening sound of his chattering teeth.
He paced the empty apartment, lonely and dark. Why did she keep leaving him? Hopefully sheÂ’d return. He almost howled with despair, moving from room to room. Her scent lingered in the bedsheets; her presence lingered in the air.
He heard a door slam. “Sweetie? I’m home!” Tail wagging, he ran yipping to greet her.
Whatever A N N A wants…
🙂
If she can go to these lengths to post, I can post from crappy dial-up!
Driving back home… “I have something to show when we get home”. “Now”. She tugged her pants down to reveal his briefs. “Stupid girl”. “Disappointed”? “Umm, I thought you got a Tattoo” “Should I have”? “No! I want to be there. Hold your hand when you scream and writhe in pain”. Sigh. Can’t wait to have his babies.
“Get the car Samji,” hollered my dad across the hallway that separated our house from the mechanic’s family. No curfew, even if imposed by the Big Daddy aka IDI Amin, was going to keep my Dad from setting out to look for my brother Amir, who was 3 hours late returning from the daily bank deposit run. Had he succumbed to the kondos or was he taken to the dreaded prison at the famous hilltop? Samji’s beat-up Datsun 1600 SSS rolled out of sight as he shifted from first to third, as was his customary habit…
Amir rolls over and awakens suddenly and notices the clock on Anna’s wall hitting midnight. “Shit- I’ll pay you later Anna” and he throws his pants on and fumbles with the keys to the Peugeot 404 station wagon. He wonders what price he is going to pay for mixing curfews with prostitutes…. Dad had remembered to wear his famous steel-buckle belt…the same one that had made contact with all the boys in our family.
C’mon turbanhead, you can do better than plagiarizing an old Bullwer-Lytton entry?
The Un-Kindest Cut In his head the debate raged for months. Data shows that it protects against AIDS, protects a female partner from cervical cancer. But was it painful? Would he still feel manly? Would his wife like it?
Finally deciding that if he was cheating on her, he should at least protect them both, he got cut.
“No I musn’t,” He tentatively eyed the soft white flesh that would give way like a warm sponge to the touch of his fingers.
“Just one more.” she eyed him coyly, sweat dripping past her forehead, her fists clenched nervously.
“Beta, have another rosogolla. She made them specially for you. She cooks very well too.”
Burning Bras Reflecting on what she was about to do, her hands shook with trepidation. Fear coursed through her veins. She knew that she could be imprisoned, beaten, or worse if found out. Still her resolve did not waver, as black gold coursed through her system.
Engines revving, adjusting her moustache, she moved the car into first.
Clandestine meetings and stolen kisses are the hallmark of romance in Nairobi, where PDA is unlawful and parents watch children like hawks watching prey. It was especially painful watching this one particular couple, joined by marriage, try to keep their hands off each other.
Siblings to everyone, the “step-” part glaringly obvious only to them.
Paradise Lost
George Maxwell Richards bent down to slide the plate of stale bread and the tin water cup under the door. Straightening up, he couldnt resist taking a quick peek at his sullen prisoner.
Should he let her go? After all, he had got what he wanted- Trinidad’s tourism was looking up, but then again, what about Greta’s offer, that was a lot of money just for stashing the slut for a couple of more months.
Decisions..Decisions..
hello toes. hello nose.. hello typing finger hello roseÂ…hello vase hello hand hello back of your hand that talks to me from three thousand miles. hello subject hello lines, hello normal priority, my sensitivity is high iÂ’m private i have attachments and yes iÂ’d like to save a draft. now send sent? now; breatheÂ… breathe.
He hesitated because he knew that this would be a life changing decision. He fiddled with the coiled wire, going over the reasoning in his mind again and again before dialing the number. An instant of doubt – too late now, the phone was already ringing. “Yes. it’s Libby, I have some information for you…”
They furiously type away on plastic pieces. Ideas conceived in the mind stream as bits of data that apparate on the CRT in words, sentences, paragraphs, and finally essays. Labels of progressive and conservative fly around as trolls and educated passionately debate. Maybe an original thought; don’t tell the masses. Jesus was crucified for one.
Desparado, That was not cool man.
Scooter, darrrling!! How simply divine to hear from you! Yes, Chalabi is fine. Such a sweet man…
Not as sweet you though… is this line secure?
mmmm…. yesssÂ…. Playing under the Apens again.Â… ahhhhÂ… diving beneath the leavesÂ… searching for a rootÂ….so naughty!
You have something for me? Hang on, getting my notebook.
What?
Flame?
For the guys they shouldn’t even include words, just the thumbnail pictures. We all know who I know who I’m going to click on. “Average” body type…like HELL you say. Can we say fat-ass?
Hmm, local…mentions alcohol…wearing a halter-top in three pictures. Score!
Ah, browndating.com. Without you, I’d be so unlaid.
Should she? What will people say? What will her parents say? Will someone ever marry her?
But then, her agent said that it will bring her in line with the worldÂ’s top models. All the hard work and years of training. Wasted. With a shaking hand, Sania signed the VictoriaÂ’s Secret contract.
Mum and I went shopping the other day.
We bumped into one of the awful Aunties in the store.
She commented on my “so sad” divorce, again!
Mum just looked down, embarrassed.
I slyly stuck an “ONLY 99 cents” tag onto Aunty’s back.
I know, how bloody immature! So wrong, but damn it felt good.
sigh. i lied, i didn’t get to pick my three faves from last week…yet. the DSL guy never showed, so i’m still w/o net.
i’ve had 15 mins of wifi here at panera, and i used it to post a reminder about the meetup instead of update this post with last week’s finest…sorrrrry. soon. PROMISE. thanks, authors. 🙂
I’ve been wondering if, by selecting this week’s theme to be about something “Illicit…..Forbidden…..Dangerous”, Anna actually intended us to write 55’s a bit racier than the PG-rated stuff most of us have been posting so far…..
Jai,
I have been wondering about the same thing for a while now. And the fact that we did not come up with something she wanted could contribute to the dealy in her responding to our stuff 😉
Shawty, you know I am kidding.
still accepted?
here it is:
My son said it was for the cause, the Motherland. I forbade his going to the valley, but he vowed: IÂ’m a child of this soil, and I will fight, even kill for it.
Minutes before the gunfire caught him, another child of the same soil had taken the same oath on the other side.
In the hours after the explosion, the colony was tense. Mr. Arora had summoned a security guard. Colonel Garewal suspected Kashmiris or even Osama. No one was seen on the streets.
Except for Mrs. Mehta, who threw on her white shawl to go to the market. Never be afraid, she said to herself, and stepped into the empty world.