And you. And you. And definitely YOU. Those of you who’ve viewed 2003’s sublime “Love Actually” will know exactly who I’m imitating, as I inaugurate this week’s nanofiction orgy.
Speaking of imitation, I’m still marinating in the afterglow of last week’s tryst with wit and creativity, when you, ahem, “emulated” other sepiates. One of you made me laugh out loud, the first time a bit of flash fiction has ever accomplished THAT rare result. Which one of you, you wonder? Why, a lady never tells. 😉
I will let you know that it was one of the three outstanding flashes of fiction below:
I have just completed downloading all the Sepia RSS feeds from past Nano-55 orgies into a central database. Upon regressing the frequency of posting comments/nano-fiction against Anna’s time-to-post (measured in hours-past-Friday-00hrs), it can be easily seen that as winter progresses, Anna feels like staying in bed longer, confirming our genetic propensity to hibernate. [DDiA]
Now, I think you’ll find I explained this in my articles on Sulekha HERE and HERE and HERE and HERE. It seems clear to me that poor, working class people should really stop complaining. If they canÂ’t work their way out of poverty, expel them from these compassionate American shores! They should learn from Hindus. [Bongsie]
I was with my girlfriend last night (stop sniggering), and we were chatting about whether certain desi morsels (cut it out) translate effectively to a Western audience. For example, do people like their lassi “sweet” or “salty” (careful now); or, if paan went mainstream, if they would prefer to spit or swallow after they’d finished. [Jai Singh]
Brilliant. 🙂
This week? Get in the Chrismukkah spirit, whatever that means to you. To me, it means wishing you tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, ohhhhh ti-i-dings of commmmmfort…and joy. Quite predictably, you’ll bring me enormous amounts of joy simply by leaving 55 words of fiction or links to it in the comments below.
Merry everything, y’all, and to y’all a good night. 🙂
Pimp-Stylin’ Claus
Santa chilled in his polar crib, ice everywhere, ogling GQ.
“Is Rudolph fuelled-up ?” He stroked his beard like a hirsute Prem Chopra.
Mrs Claus nodded, looking tantalising in her ermine-lined red mini-dress.
Let’s see who’s been bad this year, thought Santa, grinning at the memory of all the hoochies who’d sat on his knee.
Merry Christmas Anna, JS and all the mutineers. Have a great new year. Wish you all much happiness!
“Only you working , Senor ?”
“Si, Nacho.”
“No vacation for you , Senor?”
“No, Nacho. I have to finish the project ….”
“No Vacation even on Christmas day , Senor ?”
“Nacho, You are working too…..”
“Si Senor, but I go home now to family. You no celebrate Christmas?”
“Of course I do, Nacho, Feliz Navidad to you”
Sometimes it was just easier to lieÂ…..
Christmas in Bombay: people dressed up, performing at weddings. The laughter a cover for hours of arguments between mothers and daughters over waking up, making up, hooking up. The beginning of the business year for the marriage market. Not to mention difficult times for the digestive tract. Dreams, drunken tears and resolutions. But always hope.
“Range check.”
“200 yards. Wind from the northeast at ten.”
He squeezed the trigger and witnessed pink mist spray from the back of the Mahdi soldierÂ’s black head covering. In 1914 on the Western Front they held a Christmas truce and sang songs with the tired Germans. There would be no such singing in Fallujah.
wow, it IS Christmas if ABHI wrote a short! 😀
In the pink colonnade of her palace, the Armenian Princess told the great Mughal the story of her virgin namesake. Though attentive, he was doubtful that this had ever actually happened – yet he admired MaryÂ’s childlike trust. Then Birbal the wise replied, “is it not also a mystery that trusting women should birth indeterminate men?”
At home in her closet lay countless memoirs of Christmas past: exquisite silks, sapphire drops, sparkling diamonds. But nothing he had given her was as precious as the gift she was cradling in her arms, a smattering of fine hair and eyes black as midnight. “Welcome to the world,” she whispered to her Christmas baby.
Only a seed can match the watchful expectancy of a wrapped present. A feast for the senses: its heft while being shaken, the texture of the wrapping paper, the gentle rustle of ribbon. But most of all, the potential – at this moment, it could be anything. As the saying goes, it’s the thought that counts.
God’s forcing me to atone for my Hall of Fame threadjacking attempt, he thought as he flung his dead cell phone onto the bed in his tacky room in the Best Western motel in Detroit. Another holiday season, another series of missed connections: flights, friendships, family. What the hell’s on HBO? Nothing good, that’s for sure.
Badmash: Thanks for the well-wishes — same to you buddy. I really liked your 55 too {who would have guessed ?} 😉
Merry Christmas also to Anna and everyone else who celebrates it.
(By the way — slightly off-topic here, but everyone should check out the GQ link I included in my own 55. Nothing dodgy, but it may raise some eyebrows since it involves OBL’s niece. A lot of the British newspapers have also run articles on this).
She cut her hair with no thought except the perfect chain for his pocket watch. He exchanged his watch for the perfect jewelry for her long flowing hair
The girl looked at the hospital mirror and beamed as she saw the wig covered her head.
His memories flooded her mind as she clutched the watch
Little Charan, perched atop his fatherÂ’s shoulders, fumbly placed the final ornament atop their tree as the whole family applauded.
“What do we call this holiday, Papa?”
Papa looked at the Khanda shining on the treeÂ’s top, and then turned his head to his son.
“Happy Khalsamas, Charan!”, he exclaimed, as everyone cheered in approval.
i think a khanda would look great atop a tree. 🙂
Looking at old issues of Maxim and the pole in the center of the room, the family fondly recounted their favorite Festivus memories.
Suddenly, she jumped into the tub of jello and then called out to her twin sister – I challenge you to a bikini jello fight.
We never do anything together – she grieved.
The three wise men had finally reached their destination. Their journey had been long, arduous; filled with drama, tears and laughter.
They knew that countless lives were endangered by the villainous leader. And now, at the pivotal moment of the story, it was finally time to introduce themselves.
“Amar.” “Akbar.”
An unmistakable, baritone growl.
“Anthony.”