A few shame-spiral-filled weeks pass and the prodigal blogger returns. My apologies for not giving you a space and reason to play— an especially regrettable fault, since the last nanofiction orgy inspired some of my favorite 55s ever, as you wrote miniature matrimonials for yourself and others.
One-time SM guest-rockstar Cicatrix was two for two with her dead-on impressions of certain boys we know:
Mysterious pajamahadeen, muscular yet partial to velvet, seeks wheatish girl for soulful rocketblogging sessions. Must be fluent in Unix, C++, Perl, DHTML and more. Lissome, long-haired, and bra must match panties at all times. Jewel-toned clothing preferred. Implanted microchips a plus. Come let your airport meet my wifi, as I bathe you in rosewater…my Padma. [link]
Open-minded parents seek adventurous girl for rocket-scientist son. Must have beauty and wiles of Sita to draw son away from this blogging plogging nonsense. Must be outdoorsy since he likes to hanky panky on campsites, hiking trails, zero-G flight simulators, the moon. Must also be ready for a three-way with Paul Krugman should opportunity arise. [link]
Meanwhile, over in the Ewe Kay, Jai was making me (and countless others) swoon…as if that’s novel:
Roguish-but-charming professional North Indian guy seeks equally saucy girl with a good heart for lots of naughty, borderline-illegal fun and potential marriage. Romantic fool at heart, much more sidha than he pretends to be. Woman must be smart, sexy, kind, and look great from all angles in low-rise skinny-fit jeans. No gold-diggers, social-climbers, or neurotics. [link]
Finally, Desi Dude in Austin got a wee bit of snark in at the end of his 55; I sincerely hope he ends up with someone like me, just to make things interesting. 😉
Well educated Indian Boy, likes to read and cook, needs a bad Indian Girl with a taste for bad movies and good wine. Must be willing to put up with disorder and the occasional wild partying. Also, must be able to act coy before in-laws and ridiculously large extended family. Must like MIA only in moderation. [link]
This week? Since I’m an established quirkyalone, I propose a black take on cupid, a scathing flash of fiction about the needless fetishization of couple hood, a snide dissection of the pink holiday which rapidly approaches. Of course you are welcome to write about anything your precious, candy-filled dil desires; kindly leave it or a link to it in the comments below. We’ll heart the results, promise. :+:
The Lupercalia was an annual Roman festival held on February 15 to honour Faunus, god of fertility and forests. Justin Martyr identified Faunus as Lupercus, ‘the one who wards off the wolf’, but his identification is not supported by any earlier classical sources. The festival was celebrated near the cave of Lupercal on the Palatine (one of the seven Roman hills), to expiate and purify new life in the Spring. This festival’s origins are older than the founding of Rome.
The religious ceremonies were directed by the Luperci, the “brothers of the wolf”, priests of Faunus, dressed only in a goatskin. During Lupercalia, a dog and two male goats were sacrificed. Two patrician youths were anointed with the blood, which was wiped off with wool soaked in milk, after which they were expected to smile and laugh. The Luperci afterwards dressed themselves in the skins of the sacrificed goats, in imitation of Lupercus, and ran round the Palatine Hill with thongs cut from the skins in their hands. These were called Februa. Girls would line up on their route to receive lashes from these whips. This was supposed to ensure fertility. The name of the month of February is derived from the Latin februare, “to purify” (meant as one of the effects of fever, which has the same linguistic root).
The William Shakespeare play Julius Caesar begins during Lupercalia.
See also: St. Valentine’s Day
Woman must be smart, sexy, kind, and look great from all angles in low-rise skinny-fit jeans. No gold-diggers, social-climbers, or neurotics.
wow, and i thought i was picky with ‘prefers dharis, muzzies turbans, big sweet brown and a cute accent! Oye!
I propose a black take on cupid, a scathing flash of fiction about the needless fetishization of couple hood, a snide dissection of the pink holiday which rapidly approaches.
wooooohhooo! sounds fun! man, i’m sorry, but from what valentine’s day has become, we NEED snark! bring it on!
Nah, I’m here to annoy you.
ValentineÂ’s Day gets an unfair press, Schmaltz, sugar and undue stress. Angry singles make it an object of hate, Would they say the same if they had a date? Away from the tripe and overpriced deals, A romantic living room and a home-cooked meal. A chance to forget workÂ’s daily conflicts, As we enjoy ValentineÂ’s number six.
Surely the person most like you is you. I’m sure DDiA wouldn’t object 😉
Bunch of Red Roses: $40
Couple’s dinner at fancy restaurant: $80
Spending that money on a good massage for yourself: Priceless
Definitely not one of my best, but what the hey? 🙂
“No!” the lawyer yelled into the phone. “I don’t care if it WAS Valentine’s Day, “life partner” was not meant to apply to a cellmate. This isnÂ’t the path to true love, no matter how slim your options may seem.”
Pause.
Beat.
Sigh.
“Fine, I’ll bring you candy on the 14th for…”Big Mick” is it?”
One day to symbolise a single soul in two separate bodies One day to symbolise eternal adoration and mutual reverence One day to symbolise pure, idealistic, heartbreaking love transcending centuries and lifetimes One day to symbolise breathless passion and unrestrained emotion One day to symbolise how it could be, would be, should be every day.
After a year of celibacy, she felt sorry for coupled friends. Men – as romantic objects, she still had male friends – increasingly resembled soul-sucking vampires. How they undermined real love, love of life, of art. Her last man opined the love she felt for her cat was “delusional.” Guess who she’s still with?
Sorry to double-post – “art” should be “creation.”
After a year of celibacy, she felt sorry for coupled friends. Men – as romantic objects, she still had male friends – increasingly resembled soul-sucking vampires. How they undermined real love, love of life, of creation. Her last man opined the love she felt for her cat was “delusional.” Guess who she’s still with?
Screw it. She wore wicked boots, decked her cubicle in orchids. After work she observed couples from the sushi bar, imagining trite dialogue, spotting adulterers. She found a guy at the club, gave a false name, and left his place while he slept.
She stopped at Walgreens for Advil. The cards were already half off.
The ceremonies invoked Hallmarkus – The God of Trite, to whom men would offer sacrifices of monies to ward of Blackmailifer – God of Sexual Starvation. Later the high priests – TheMANers would split the spoils and make merry.
“I hate this holiday”, she groaned as she primped herself for the evening. Though contently single, a mutual friend had insisted – it all seemed somewhat contrived. Still, the flowers and the chocolate induced her to at least make the effort. He sat across from her, smile masking the nagging thought, “I hate this holiday.”
The painting was titled “Agape,” and depicted the God of Trite having intercourse with the God of Sexual Starvation, nude. The Valentines Fundamentalists rioted, but the Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jews and Atheists finally united in common cause, cancelling out this most cancerous religion. The work sold for $2 billion, and everyone lived happily ever after.
One day to symbolise a single soul in two separate bodies One day to symbolise eternal adoration and mutual reverence One day to symbolise pure, idealistic, heartbreaking love transcending centuries and lifetimes One day to symbolise breathless passion and unrestrained emotion One day to symbolise how it could be, would be, should be every day.
wait till st. patrick’s day for this one….
Here’s what I wrote this week – sorry it’s a bit off topic but I wrote this before I knew what it would be this week. Maybe I’ll have it in me to write a more relevant one. 🙂
Misery
He slammed the phone on the table, infuriated and confused, yet strangely satisfied. He didnÂ’t know why he had to ruin her good news, but this way, he didnÂ’t feel alone.
Whatever it took, his misery needed company. It was a cancer, spreading out of control. Deep down, he knew: it had to be stopped.
Stuck in the morning rush, he pressed scan on the radio, a Latin station, then someone on about the wrath of God.
He was shaking his head at the car cutting in ahead, when he heard, “..this valentine’s day buy…,”.
“Oh shit,” he muttered, as tried to remember what he had given her last year.
Not my 55 but definitely plenty of inspiration for those who need it to bash the holiday…
http://www.fuckvday.com
Oh..it’s safe for work. 🙂
Good mourning babe :), she texts. Still swimming or Barely stayin afloat in a sea of cheapnfree champagne reveries, He writes back, What’s so Good about Mourning? She writes back that, Every day is the First day of your life 😉 Why are Bad Spellers so drawn to unfounded optimism like lice to immigrant public school kids?
Cycling to college in the morning, he remembers. What a relief to be half a world away from the hearts, lace, and pinkness!
To his horror, he spots a sign: “Happy Lovers Day!” Veering out of the way of the oncoming bus which bears it, he pauses, vowing to one year escape this goddamn holiday.
Feb 14 2001. Rupa and her roommate find a teddy bear guarding their dorm room.
“Were you expecting a bear?”
“Not unless it’s from my mom. Were you?”
“Oh yeah. Several. Ooh, here’s a card.”
“Open it already!!”
“You open it!” Giggling.
“Ok, ok. ‘Dear Vanessa.’ Who’s Vanessa?”
“I don’t know. Let’s keep him anyway.”
He slid up behind Cupid with the focus of a starved panther. Using a dull Ginzu, he sliced the diaper-wearing freakÂ’s throat from ear to ear. With stolen bow and quiver of arrows in hand, and jimmy-hats in his back pocket, he set upon the city looking for dirty love in all the wrong places.
“It’s perfect for Valentine’s Day; your girlfriend will love it!” He was in the jewelry store, holding a heart shaped diamond pendant. His eyes sparkled. “Yeah, she will. I’ll take it.” As he walks out, he stops. “Shit…” he mumbles to himself, and goes back in. He forgot to buy something for his wife.
The Valentine’s Day massacre (thanks, Msichana).
She surfed the website, looking for the perfect anti love picture. The bear asking to be blowed with dynamite fit her mood. It became her messenger picture and slowly, all her dreamy friends blocked her. She didn’t care. ‘Valentines day is for mindless, dimwitted and unsuspecting losers anyway’, she announced to herself and noone in particular.
“Quirky is such a stupid word,” she muttered, as she filled out the quiz.
“Also? quizzes are lame.”
Popup score: 111
“Now I am stupid and lame…But not technically alone, therefore am a ‘QuirkyTogether.'”
Flash of “aww” followed by deep embarrassment
You donÂ’t have to be single to hate this most saccharine of days.
silly bloggers!
penning sad lines
alone, together.
I’m quirkyalone, she said. Huh? Why speed date then? Hope springs eternal
In honor of one of the best short stories ever written:
If it was a matter of joy that kills, for what was she joyous? That remained the question, decades later. Was it the promise of freedom or the return of her steady companion that surged through her veins with such force? Her troubled heart gave out, perhaps from confusion: which had she really wanted more?
Ooh..Brimful, me likey! I love that story, and my interpretation of the end changes every time I read it. “…of joy that kills.” Ha! (Have you ever seen the short film made from that movie (circa early 80s, probably)? It’s bad, but awesomely so.)
Wha?!? Rupa, tell me more- I’m equal parts revolted and fascinated!
SMers, this is way off topic. Lo siento!
Brimful, I watched it in a writing class I took in high school, so it’s been a while. I do recall a 10-minute montage in the middle where the widow um, rubs herself and odd fast-beat pornographic music plays. Footage of the rubbing and facial expressions of ecstasy are interposed with footage of flowers, birds flying, butterflies, etc. You’re sort of expecting a pizza guy or dishwasher repairman (or both) to show up. Then her husband shows up and she just sort of looks really high for a moment then passes out and falls down the stairs. The end!
EvEr SiNcE wE stalked each other on Xanga You gave me anon. eprops; filled my Dreams with kaleidoscopic manga, I’ve wanted to buy you dil-shaped balloons. Now you will call me yo babydaddy, yayy! And me you snookums. Hug, kiss, And stop traffic with aww-inspiring PDA. Common bayyybee shake that kundi I’ll be your munda, you my mundi.
hahahha man, that http://www.fuckvday.com site is just too cool! hheh….puts me in the holiday mood! i already have my shamrocks out! 😉
Her bosom swelled and fell with that of the mezzo soprano. Forlornly, she caressed the wetness of her tears on the sheath of autumnal green encasing her torso. Stealing a sideways glance at his angular profile, she resolved to tell him during intermission. Dammit. Why couldnÂ’t she look like Julia Roberts crying in her exclusive perch?
My second 55 Fiction Friday attempt ever fits the theme:
The dreaded box of personal items, and the resulting exchange. Does the size of the box indicate how much you care(d)? If so, apparently this last relationship could be valued at a box holding a ream of paper. He would have said it was more and she, of course, would have said it was less.
…as does this one in January:
She stared at the telephone – her tormenter – practically willing it to talk. She looked at the number scrawled on a matchbook again, as if the digits weren’t burned into her brain. Finally, hands thrumming with nerves, she dialed. One ring. Heart racing. Two rings. Palms sweating. Three rings. “Hi, I’m not in right nowÂ…
…and maybe this one in September:
She stared at the telephone – her tormenter – practically willing it to talk. She looked at the number scrawled on a matchbook again, as if the digits weren’t burned into her brain. Finally, hands thrumming with nerves, she dialed. One ring. Heart racing. Two rings. Palms sweating. Three rings. “Hi, I’m not in right nowÂ…”
I think this one fits:
“Breathe in…and exhale slowly”, she said, elbow poised over the knot in his trapezius. He breathed in noisly, and let it out sharply. “No, exhale SLOWLY, so I can work into the knot and apply pressure.” He drew his second breath in tantalizingly slowly, and exhaled quickly. As usual, he just couldn’t let her in.
But most especially, my 3rd FFF:
He tried to be nonchalant as he opened up the shoebox. It wouldnÂ’t do for people to think he was overly nervous, or anxious. The key was to not draw attention to yourself at all, blend into the crowd. But there was no hiding the disappointment: 30 kids in his class, and only 9 valentines.
…and this one:
“I’d rather be lonely than happy with somebody new” Nina Simone wails on repeat. I know how much you didn’t like her (“too strident”) I’ve cut my hair, and picked up smoking again. I’ve done all this, and you’re still gone, gone, gone. If you’re spiteful, and no one sees it – does it still count?
Lol – this one is my favorite.
Yay!!!! Thank you Anna! Here’s mine. Sorry I can’t be cutting!!!
At home, fundamentalists burn cards, and force couples caught in parks on ValentineÂ’s Day to marry. Sitting alone in her room, she remembers a primeval ritual on a twilight hillside, when once a bubble burst from her insides and splashed the sky with stars. The best love memory on a day no one could desecrate.
I turned in my running shoes that day. Wanting to smell the flowers, walk the distance, live the cliche with you. Unlocked, unfettered, unarmed, surprisingly, especially for me, I willingly stepped into the cocoon that was us. Amazingly you met me halfway. Only to tell me after you wanted out. I should have expected it.
They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over, while expecting a different result each time. Two years had passed. She noted his flat eyes, his thin, frowning lips. His serrated words left her raw. If this was two, wouldnÂ’t she be better off as one?
Do the insane know who they are?
“hi mom”
“did you get my email? With the proposal?”
“mom, stop. Please. It’s bad enough tomorrow’s valentine’s—“
“it is! And you didn’t need to spend it alone.”
“mom, I have to go.”
“of course you do. I expect a call once you are done with whatever is more important than your mother.”
“bye mom.”
Alone, again. YouÂ’d think IÂ’d be used to it by now. Maybe I should get an arranged marriage and accept a certain amount of distance between myself and my spouse. Maybe thatÂ’s what all love marriages end up resembling. Maybe Â… [SPLAT!] I should have looked both ways before crossing. Corpses canÂ’t get married.
She had cut off her nose to spite his face. Chopped off the long black hair that he had loved. Poisoned her lungs with cancer sticks and her spleen with bitterness. However, Cupid disdained burnt offerings and refused to intervene. He remained oblivious, and was happy thinking that she was happier without him.
oh anna: i chuckled away.. more and more my conversations with my parents are getting shorter and shorter..and more ehem.. trite after they start giving me phonenumbers/emails and all that hoopla… gotta love being a brown bubbly blogger who is single 🙂
You could write a pretty pink desi chick lit poetry compilation book with covers of mangoes and spicy excotic script – with a compilation of all the 55s on SM. best seller for sure.
“who was that?”
“my mom.”
“let me guess—-a guilt trip about getting married?”
“pretty much.”
“I told you I’d marry you.”
“I don’t want to do this right now.”
“if I were Indian, you would.”
“it’s not that simple-“
“it is.”
“I told you when we started, we could never-“
“no, we CAN…you just won’t.”
Wow. Ouch. Cutting. And how … much like real life.
“My Darling,” It began. My heart skipped a beat. Knowing how forgetful he was, his remembering this holiday every year was extra special. “I’ll love you always. No matter what” Words said often, but more poignant now, at a time when our conversations were more frustrating fights than anything else. He ended with, “love, dad.”
Girl Crush Her top slithered down, revealing a body both amazing to look at and luxurious to touch. At first, he debated whether it was love or lust, but at this point it was purely the latter. He imagined himself driving her hard and fast.
Lights changed. She sped away, an equally foxy lady at her wheel.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Not a 55, but dedicated to the most independent, vivacious, amazing, woman I’ve had the pleasure of meeting post college. She’s glittery, glamorous, and golden:
In less enlightened times, the best way to impress women was to own a hot car. But women wised up and realized it was better to buy their own hot cars so they wouldn’t have to ride around with jerks. –Scott Adams
Being sexual has little to do with whatÂ’s between your legs.
That was the first lesson she taught me. She taught me how to walk, touch, flirt and kiss like a woman. And then, what it was like to be fucked by a woman.
So now I tell men, sex has little to do with vaginas.
A trip to The Coast, hence the delay. My first shot, more to come.
“you’re being unfair about this. I never mislead you about what was possible with us.”
“unfair? let me explain the concept of ‘unfair’ to you: unfair is loving you so much, yet being told I’m not good enough to have a permanent, meaningful relationship with you—
“I never said those words.”
“you didn’t have to.”