Under the high, vaulted ceiling of the cathedral, the procession of singers made their way altarward. An expectant silence from the congregation enhanced the taps and squeaks of instruments being tuned. Then the voices surged together, singing words of a liturgy in a tongue never heard before in this place: "Ek Onkar, Sat Naam"

Meaning?

Three years later, she’s cruising, top down, stereo up, the hypnotizing drumbeat sending her spirits soaring. Life with him was sparkling, flashing… nights that didn’t end before sunrise, parties, music… he may be gone now, but the music was hers to keep. Deep down, she knew that was all she wanted in the first place.

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother
What will I be
Will I be pretty
Will I be rich
Here's what she said to me

Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera, sera

[OK, it's lyrics only, not a story, but ... it feels so complete]
What will be, will be

LOL. Edited and better version of mine at trilia.net :)

My shot at 55Friday - Music

Peter,

Meaning?

"There is only one God, His name is Truth"

Three years later, he rests in peace. Beyond the wild crazy nights, the never ending parties, the drives through mountains and valleys, all to give her the life she desired. At the end of it, he had no more to offer. Except the music. The music was his to give, even when the music died.

Synaesthesia was her experience of his sensitive, musician’s hands. He loved A.R. Rahman. Her most vivid memory was making love to Dheemi Dheemi, their kisses merging their bodies slowly into a languorous, ethereal, cosmic union in the romance of the softly sung words, the fluttering breathlessness of the flute, the constant heartbeat of the rhythm.

Aranyi - wow!

He finally gathered the courage to listen to the music that he and she shared together, not so long ago. Memories overwhelmed him...

Abruptly, he turned off the stereo. The music felt like a monument to her. Monuments, he thought, were for things long gone, and this was something that he could not ever accept.

wow, MJ, you complete me... although i envisioned the ending a bit more like thekingsingh :)

70,000 disciples packed the stadium, waiting for their hero.

He finally strode onto the stage, charisma far exceeding his size. Adjusting his blue guitar, the man casually grasped the microphone stand, grinning wryly at the multitudes before him.

”Dearly Beloved.....We are gathered here today to get through this thing called Life.”

The stadium went berserk.

Not that this counts, but I actually tried writing something, and after 30 mins I still have nothing! I never realized how hard this was!

I never realized how hard this was!

you could cheat and be "inspired" by someone else's idea and put your own perspective to it. (thank's andrea :) )

I was impressed, MJ... :) that was sweet.

Hint: use MS Word and do word counts every edit ;) Once or twice I have hit 55 in one try.

Jai: nice one :)

Ovaltine: I try to write the first idea that comes to mind, in as short a way possible, and then cut it down to 55 words. Don't worry about the limit at first, get the idea down and then try to fit it in 55 words.

On the drive to the hospital, the radio echoed “I will remember you, will you remember me?”. On the third floor of palliative care, when the elevator opened I came to confront the truth that she had left without saying goodbye. A couple of years have gone by and as I still fall onto memories.

The tickets to Toronto had arrived.

"kabhi alvida na kehna" he had crooned in front of all their friends. All gathered to say their goodbyes.

Him and her- best friends forever.

A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye as she watched the oceans come in between.

She would be back.
For him.

Hi mutineers,
So I've been lurking a while, thought I'd give this a shot. My nanofiction might date me as being young(er), but I love music in all its forms so I just had to write it.
----------------------------------------------------------
You know that phase? That angry phase. The I-don’t-give-a-shit-I’m-too-cool-and-angst-ridden-to-care-phase. My phase, too long and too torturous, let me act out in a blaze of flaming glory. The clothes? Check. The attitude? Internalized. The ‘lover I don’t have to love?’ Hmm. Working on that.

My take - also available at http://srini70.blogspot.com

It was the 22nd of June and I was driving down in a brand new Pontiac convertible with the top down. The voice of Ian Anderson and the music of one Jethro Tull’s filled my ears, while my brain was searching for a different connection. Then it hit me - the raga was unmistakably Kalyani

And while we're talking about music, Asha was nominated for her second grammy.

Can't get the link button to work for some reason.

Thanks Badmash. I like yours too! Reminded me of some BBC programme I saw of schoolkids learning the Gayatri Mantra somehwere in England.
Punkerlove - been there, still vacillating!

the ‘lover I don’t have to love?’ Hmm. Working on that.

Oh, you have to love fiction written around Conor!

Aranyi - wow!

Thekingsingh: Thanks bro ;) Here's a few more from me.....

The four brothers wore matching red bandini turbans, rustic voices souring in unison over the ornate desert citadel.

The plaintive song of the sarangi filled the courtyard, evocative of lives conducted on an epic scale; of unparalleled grandeur and impossible honour, of relentless sunlight glinting off mirrored skirts, the ghosts of steel-clad horsemen thundering past.

The Spanish guitar sings its soft flamenco lament.

Passionate without restraint, the story pours out; each chord is poetry incarnate.

Drawing forth memories long-buried; glimpses of stolen moments of tenderness, the eyes which you opened your soul to, the voice which could reawaken your love with a single word.

Your heart breaks all over again.

Nusrat saab’s unmistakeable voice rose and fell in harmony with the cyclical rhythm of the qawaali; his alaap echoed by the gentle insistence of the rabab. The call-and-response tradition underscored by the clapping, beckoning you inwards as a brother.

The music was joyous, inspirational, breaking the barriers of creed; beyond Sharia, beyond kaafir and believer.

Ovaltine,

Along with Thekingsingh's excellent advice, what I can add is that you should speak from the heart, especially if you write about something that really moves or inspires you. The words will then start flowing naturally ;)

I'm late...but you know the ubiquitous they say, better late than never! :)
My sister lay limp against the hospital bed. I simply held her hand, powerless to heal her injuries.

“I can’t sleep.” Painfully.

“Sssh, close your eyes.” Helplessly.

“Sing for me.”

She was the singer, not me, of the two of us.

“Something from our paattu class*.” Wistfully.

Maybe I could do something after all.

*Singing class

check out this band i produced. they are called "The Fabric":

http://myspace.com/fabricmvp

we have been highly influenced by Depeche Mode.

http://www.sepiamutiny.com/sepia/archives/002652.html#comment37916

*The four brothers wore matching red bandini turbans, rustic voices souring in unison over the ornate desert citadel.

Aarrgh, I just noticed that should've said "soaring"......hopefully nobody else picked up on the typo, because it changes the whole meaning of the sentence......

Hey. In reference to Sharaab's comment (# 30), we have just released our album and it is free for everyone to download @ http://www.fabricelectronica.net. The first 5 people who email me @ fabricmvp@gmail.com and reference Comment # 32, I'll send them an actual CD, complete with all of your standard CD fixin's.