I was somewhat surprised that more of our amazing brown creative writers weren’t doing NaNoWriMo with me; no worries, I read your comments and I understand. Writing a novel in one month, no matter which month you choose is a heady, harrowing thing– cheers to everyone who decided that in full compliance with IST, next month would be their time to shine and opine. May you all have more luck than I did during (after?) NaNoWriMo 2003, when I reached a devastating, untimely end to my participation during “official” November and immediately, earnestly resolved that I would pick up my mighty pen to write a good fight in December. One tiny problem. December is a wee bit hectic for Christians and Jews-by-association. No matter. I’m sure that our sepia/IST delegation of 2005 won’t have those issues though. 😉
Meanwhile, I imagine a few hundred of you took one look at my NaNoWriMo post and muttered, “Hell, no!”. Pas de probleme, mes petits choux– I welcome you back to our favorite space to write WAY shorter examples of prose on a weekly basis. While I didn’t have to dodge worried cafe-proprietors and police to post THIS week’s installment of 55-Fiction Friday, I did not do as well evading certain effects of one powerfully narcotic dose of Phenergan with Codeine. There. That’s my excuse for posting this almost 10 hours after I usually do. 😉
Perhaps I am overwhelmed with stress from moving out of my childhood home or maybe I’m exhausted from rushing all over Northern California to see some of you…either way, I am in one exceptionally sadistic mood. I can discern no other explanation for what I am about to issue, in way of challenge. As always, you are more than welcome to ignore my insignificant suggestions with regards to theme or content, and post or link to your fabulous 55 in our comments section even if you don’t follow a trend…but for a brave soul who is emboldened by a dare…I’m your huckleberry.
Have you noticed anything about this post? Something is not here, a word is amiss…I won’t have used it until I kill your curiousity by throwing down my writing gauntlet. I wonder…can you write a “55” without using that most ubiquitous of words? Can you, nay, will you be willing to introduce your nouns article-free?
55 words, none of which is “the“?
Blasphemy, they say. I say, go.
*I really wanted to name this post either “The Beat(en) Generation” edition OR “Armageddon Days (are here again)” edition, but since I couldn’t decide between two excellent songs, I went with a title which contains both of them.
Spookily enough, 1989’s “Armageddon Days” lyrics are terrifyingly apposite right NOW:
They’re 5 miles high as the crow flies
leavin’ vapour trails against a blood red sky
Movin’ in from the East toward the West
with Balaclava helmets over their heads, yes!
But if you think that Jesus Christ is coming
Honey you’ve got another thing coming
If he ever finds out who’s hi-jacked his name
He’ll cut out his heart and turn in his grave
Islam is rising
The Christians mobilising
The world is on its elbows and knees
It’s forgotten the message and worships the creeds
It’s war, she cried, It’s war, she cried, this is war
Drop your possessions, all you simple folk
You will fight them on the beaches in your underclothes
You will thank the good lord for raising the union jack
You’ll watch the ships sail out of harbour
and the bodies come floating back
If the real Jesus Christ were to stand up today
He’d be gunned down cold by the C.I.A.
Oh, the lights that now burn brightest behind stained glass
Will cast the darkest shadows upon the human heart
But God didn’t build himself that throne
God doesn’t live in Israel or Rome
God doesn’t belong to the yankee dollar
God doesn’t plant the bombs for Hezbollah
God doesn’t even go to church
And God won’t send us down to Allah to burn
No, God will remind us what we already know
That the human race is about to reap what it’s sown
The world is on its elbows and knees
It’s forgotten the message and worships the creeds
Armageddon days are here again
“Mind Bomb” indeed. Will music ever be so brilliant again? Ah, “120 minutes”. If only you had never left me…
“A hassle your entire life. Inherited from your mother. I never wanted you. Why did you take birth in my house ?!”
Aman listened numbly. With Neena in his life, his father could never hurt him.
Mr Mehta sneered. He’s clueless I’ve said “No” to Rajesh about his daughter. Now I can finally break him.
I was away from any internet connections last Friday, but here are mine 🙂
Holding Hands One line, two lines, oops or not, One word, two words, fights forgot One round, tow rounds, love sought One scream, two screams, out a tot, One smile, two smiles, say a lot, One step, two steps, run out of cot.
Hand held once, hand held twice Hand held when needed, even more than thrice.
~and~
Miscarriage of Memory Memories are funny things, fading in and out of your present conscious at most inopportune moments. So it was when I birthed my first child. My oldest stood watch in my mind, reminding me of days gone by, bringing back memory of him, my first and only love, miscarried from my life like his son.
Ok, I’m really late. But here’s my 55 anyway:
Bent
He looked at himself intently. A finger brushing each eyebrow carefully, ensuring that every single hair was aligned. Another splash of water on his face to remove any traces of last nightÂ’s orgiastic extravagance.
Reading aloud from English Reader, Class 5, he forced himself to say, “Humans are divided into two genders: male and female.”
Oops, that should have been:
Bent
He looked at himself intently, a finger brushing each eyebrow carefully, ensuring that every single hair was aligned. Another splash of water on his face to remove any traces of last nightÂ’s orgiastic extravagance.
Reading aloud from English Reader, Class 5, he forced himself to say, “Humans are divided into two genders: male and female.”