Not my best effort.. and it's more fantasy than fiction ;)
The product of my bitterness is at http://www.trilia.net.

"fustercluck" - g@ddamn, I love new words!

As he clutched at the wall to support himself, his head was filled with braying white faces poking out of tuxedo collars, laughing incessantly at the antics of the drunken mob. He tried to gather himself, but before he could staighten himself out, she was back at his side, warm, pressing at his hip, inviting him to place his hand around her waist. Her Blonde hair tickled his chin, he brushed it aside, "Do you want to get out of here?" "Yes." She says, and she looks up and directly in his eyes, and he knows.

The Cereal Killer of the people waiting in shadows and watching girl on bridge all alone. She take out cord from package; one end on her neck another tied to bridge. She preparing for the jumping. Cereal killer rush to kill her before she kill herself; alas, he late. Next day headline: Kaavya commits suicide.

Me, Me, Me.

At Bhatia ka dhaba outside IIT Roorkee, 6 AM January.

Hari: “Hey Dablo, double bun omelet. Satish, you’re GRE?”
Satish: “750, 790, 790”
Hari: “Man, Harvard and Kaavya. Isn’t she your gotra?”

Dablo is quietly wiping my table clean.
Me: “Do you even go to school?”
Dablo smiles: “Kismet”
Bhatia: “Hey Dablo. Jaldi. Hazaar customers.”

One of the writes from the blog was in an Indian newspaper "Mumbai Mirror"
http://www.mumbaimirror.com/nmirror/mmpaper.asp?sectid=14§name=Views&sess=555256526 It was wonderful to see how far this blog reaches :D I had an odd sense of pride when I read the bloggers' section had a write from here since I read this blog, keep up the good work :)

the girl sits listening, tense and pensive in her chair. Her hands grip the manuscript as if it were an inextricable part of her. they shake slightly, reuluctant to wrench themselves away. its too dark, its too edgy, there's no other way... with a deep breath (and a wavering heart), she slowly lets it go.

*'it's' not 'its'. Twice.

*'They' not 'they'. Once.

oopsies. i was a 55-virgin before this, but now i am fully hooked ;-) what an awesome way to practise writing! reading other people's shows what clever cookies you all are too :-) yay for 55!

Hmm, why 55 words? I write a blog, well try to write two blogs actually :) and I wonder when will blogs start getting packaged!

kaavya planned: anna, her new sister, would shoo away her detractors, tell them they are racist scum, insensitive jerks or jealous hacks depending on how colored their indignation was. she would need twelve more to help erase from everyone's memory the copied thirteen. one sixty nine stores later, she found them. at a book packagers'.

I wonder if many blogs have been reacting to Vaanya V's book at Harvard and the reaction of the media in INDIA, far far away? She left India when she was three, and she is now a USA national. Is her skin color important? To whom and why? Is she an Indian or an American or an Indian-American? I saw this term in a Mumbai paper, ABCD. Is she an ABCD? or an ABI, American Born Indian? Or what is she?

Does the Israeli press react when a Jewish person in the USA does something, good or bad?

What is this all about?

She feels the anger of the world upon her shoulders…she shudders at the thought of going back to the school where she was caught…her breaths are deep…and shallow…and the angst in her belly is too much for even her parents to help her soothe. Nobody it seems can get her out of this tortuous bind…nobody.

Why is the INDIAN media commenting so much on all this?

db

Will Harvard axe Kaavya to save face?

MUMBAI: The nightmare keeps getting worse for Kaavya Viswanathan. Close on the heels of her debut novel being pulled from book stores across the US after plagiarisation charges stuck, the Indian-origin author’s deal with Hollywood movie studio DreamWorks is in danger of being stillborn.

According to movie newsmagazine Variety, DreamWorks had just received the final version of the screenplay based on Viswanathan’s book, How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life, when the plagiarisation scandal broke. The studio, according to unnamed sources, soon decided to junk the screenplay.

He only had one shot to stop the man, or dozens of passengers would die. No one would believe how he learned of the gangster's plan, so Salim had to deal with it himself, and fast. When he saw him emerge, Salim did the unthinkable: he approached the gangster, introduced himself, and desperately started to distract him.

One of the writes from the blog was in an Indian newspaper "Mumbai Mirror"

Prerna,

I have to do clips every day-- while technorati makes my job as an intern very easy, sometimes there's an item about this blog which doesn't get to me via RSS. I read the Mumbai Mirror article but didn't see any mention of SM? :)

First attempt at 55:

They sneaked onto the beach, quietly.
Music from a shack nearby. Lights on boats far away.
Far away galaxies shimmering upon the sea.
She took his hand and they walked for a bit.
Listening to the waves and their breathing.
Loud crashes.
Then he pulled her down beside him on the sand.
They made love and prayer.

He only had one chance to stop the man, or dozens of passengers would die. No one would believe how he learned of the terrorist's plan, so Muktar had to deal with it himself, and fast. When he saw him emerge, Muktar did the unthinkable: he approached the president, introduced himself, and desperately started to unmask him.

They had been together 17 years, married for 9. Two kids, the daily hassles of life, the familiarity which comes from growing up together – this was their life together. And she sometimes wondered if she still loved him. A phone cal...his weary voice...her concern for him, him asking about her...their love still defined their lives.

He drinks more "water."

Soon, he's blazing drunk. He totters across the living room, tips over a vase. The vase falls with a thump. A piece breaks off its lip. He collapses onto the rug. He falls asleep and begins to snore loudly.

I'm seven. How am I supposed to babysit a three year old?

She looked around. Kids, running and screaming, energetic dancers in colourful regalia, people eating, laughing, buying and selling crops – your usual spring festival. Hell, there were even people reciting poetry to protest against some political measure. But where was he? Maybe behind those men coming in...why are they kneeling...what are they doing...

‘Fire!’ yelled Dyer.

the idea that words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm

Crimes committed in the name of the Book.
The Book is infallible, the Word of God.
The Book itself proclaims this, therefore it must be true.
To question this, a grave sin.
I think what I think because the Book demands it.
It’s not my fault, it’s God’s will.

The circle of logic is complete.

Word Count: 55

"Only an occasional cold gust interrupted the grey monotony of drizzle and skies. Eyes on his ragged blck sneakers, he walked dissatifised through the unfamiliar neighborhood. "Maybe Ma is right...maybe I'm not doing enough with my life."

A crack in the sidwalk caught his eye, reminding him of lightning, and he forgot all about that."

#

SM intern, of course it did, in the paper also. How else would I know? I don't know techy details but the link's on the Mumbai Mirror site and it was in the paper too.

It has no proper mention that SM is this or that. Just a part of the write under the Blogger's Park column in the paper.

He sulked, cycling down aching, sweaty shanks; away from a world, where nobody had need of him, into the shimmering daze of the asphalt. The city blocks faded, cold but tame under the scorching sky. He looked across, and further for a sign. Thence came a flash so glorious it rendered the sun blind. A mushroom of molten gold and a colour of wood and earth grew like a storm cloud. Thunder. A rumble. A smile.

Why 55? I have always wondered.......

My latest attempt:

Study hair: for women, the inventive use of Bic pens and hair elastics, swirls and plaits of nervous energy incidentally highlighting the furrowed brow. Anxiety radiating through the joggling knee, the tapping finger, the constant lip balm application. Returning to caveman-like territoriality, complete with glowering looks, over a particular chair or table in the library.

P.S. - More on the 55 Fiction thing here.

*splash*
Ripples creased by sunlight.
Yellowed leaves embraced the wetness,
sailing to a solemn end.
I watched the pebbles fly graceful arcs
and hit the surface.
*splash*
Periodic like moods.
He sat a few dozen feet away.Sulking.Quiet.
*splash*
The arguments of last night hung heavy in the air.
It was a beautiful day.

Some of the writing here is good, while others are atrocious.
I understand now why Kaavya plagiarized. Beats writing something that makes the eye bleed.

"If you don't beat it hard enough, it's never going to get done," he screamed at me, “and I’ll kill you!”

"I don't want to," I yelled back, barely stifling my sobs. "It hurts too much!"

“That’s too bad,” came the cold response. “I will NOT have you fucking up my egg whites!”

Fucking chefs.

But I'm lying as I speak. Even if I did keep one in the house, I have no courage. I'll pick it up, think about it, move to put it down – it drops and fires, I fall. Last thought: “Just my luck.” They'd file my death under misadventure; I'd manage to get even that wrong.

Some of the writing here is good, while others are atrocious. I understand now why Kaavya plagiarized. Beats writing something that makes the eye bleed.

"not imp" -

here is some clear and concise writing: you are a fool.

She missed the Halcyon days of the Mutiny. When the comments were from Punjabi Boy and articles were written by Apul. Things were simpler back then: only one page to check, instead of three. There were no T-shirts, multi-city meetups, or Fofatlal. Those innocent days, when she was just a lurker, afraid to hit post.

I keed, I keed! I love the new format and adore all the guest bloggers. Though I do miss Punjabi boy and Apul.

MESSAGE FOR 'NOT IMPORTANT'

hmm lovin' your name because it describes your comments, your attitude and your mindset!... what's up with the self-righteous behaviour? no one writing on here is claiming to be the next william faulkner or toni morrisson, they're just doin' it for fun.

i just sat through an english lit tutorial where the tutor 'went over mistakes made in some of our essays' and decimated 'stupid writing' and 'boring points' made by some students by reading them out to the whole class for an entire hour. instead of helping the students who most need her assistance, she has now alienated, embarrassed and discouraged them from becoming better writers and getting better grades.

i logged on here to see what some other people had written after i wrote and none of the other 55's made my eyes bleed. your comment however, did. :-P you need to either go give someone a hug, get a big tub of ice-cream or just go get laid. maybe then you'll stop being a hater!

The soldiers in solidarity cry out with indignation and resentment, “this blog is too conservative”. Sometimes, people will point to two of their own on the masthead and hiss, “It’s not Christian enough.” Meanwhile, jingo-lovin’ Indians want to box ABCD ears for being “South Asian”. Everyone’s dissatisfied.

I start to hum…”it’s never enough, never enough.”

Bond moved silently among the imposing ministerial buildings. He knew the missiles were already fuelling, like their counterparts in Israel. The fanatical President was determined to unleash a nuclear conflagration in preparation for the 12th Imam’s arrival.

One man’s death to prevent the Apocalypse, thought Bond grimly. Sounds like just another day at the office.

Vader knelt before Palpatine.

Outwardly motionless, his eyes flicked to Yoda’s lightsaber, mounted on the wall like a trophy. For the thousandth time, he wondered if he could ignite his own weapon and behead the Emperor before the tyrant could react.

Palpatine began laughing -- taunting, guttural. Vader’s mask hid little from him these days.

Jai, stock up on smelling salts. If I ever met you, I think I would swoooooon.

Aw, that's a nice thing to say, Anna. Hopefully any swooning that goes on will be due to my understated charm and quietly debonair manner, and not because I overdid it with the aftershave again ;)

Sorry, this is a bit late... :)

To great musical crescendo, the movie reached its climactic scene, as the protagonist was hoisted upright by soldiers, crucified.

“Daddy?”

Her father, fixated to the TV, snapped himself out of his gaze, realizing that his daughter was also watching.

“Yes?” he replied, with trepidation.

“Daddy”, she said pointing to the TV, “that man, he’th thtuck!”

Jai, I totally think you should keep the new handle. Suits you. ;)

this is slightly more than 55, but i'm too lazy to shorten it.

Dedicated to the Kaavya in Us All

She wanted to rip the stage with appropriate “Fuck Whitey” and “I Ain’t No Curry Mango Girl” sprinkled into her delivery. She knew that type of roaring Spoken Word would awaken the crowd. She gripped the mic, ready to throw down.

But that wasn’t her. Her dice had landed on the good girl shit.

She pulled out the poems, and settled for reading what she had written.

Very new to this blog.I understand ANNA is a star blogger here. Really? I read somewhere she took writing classes. Isn't the first thing taught there is to avoid redundancy?

ignorant racism
pristine, sacred creation
shocked us in to a deep dismay
concentrated, concise story

teach me, oh great and wise shit-talking master, so that i may know your superior ways.

do you have a blog or something published which i can read, so that i can absorb (nay, internalize!) the work of a writer so confident, they feel they have the right to diss and dismiss? do you have a name i can respond to when i reply like this? no? then here is my response.

hehehe, right on anna :)

"How prescient of you! '', my friends exclaimed upon reading your juvenile response. Friends, in whose presence, I had posted comments on your poor writing ( I had read a couple of earlier posts by you as well ) and whom I had forewarned about the overtly emotional but abysmally illogical rebuttals the post would beget. But I am no psychic. I had chanced upon a similar response by you and your ' brown ' minions to yet another person's criticism of your writing. If I am not wrong, not only did you guys ban that person but were bloodthirsty enough to ' out ' him. What's up with wanting to know your critics' identity? Why not just either disagree or concur with what they say? For God's sake this is a blog. It seems your idea of one-upping the debate is to start calling opponents names ( shit-talking master ) and giving them the finger (literally). Why does the critic have to be a better writer than you to justify the criticism? Even a high schooler could point out the four redundancies in the very small piece written by you, ironically, to solicit pieces of good writing! For the hundredth time why not just respond to the specific charge and defend yourself?

The bigger point is the low literary/performance expectations that your ' brown peeps ' have of one of their own kind. Didn't I read somewhere you are part of some South Asian Creative Collective? Someone in an earlier post on this blog even nominated you for the accolade of being one of the most accomplished young South Asian women! Your most visible talent - writing, I hope was not the reason. I am guessing your inexplicable defense of that unapologetic cheat, Ms Vishwanathan, is in fact an unconscious admission of your own lousy writing. Just like those ambitious Indians ( one example - singer Shaheen Sheik discussed on this blog ) who figured early on they won't amount to much in mainstream West ( even though born and raised in the West ) and so relaunched their careers in the old country, you too as a budding writer ( I would assume you are ) should set your sights on the Indian market instead. Your incessant self segregating rants of brown this and brown that have already put you upto speed for the transformation.

I have to run before your lackeys verbally lynch me.

For the hundredth time why not just respond to the specific charge and defend yourself?

I'm in a generous mood, especially for someone with nothing better to do than cravenly insult someone on a BLOG while their friends watch.

Here, enjoy three answers to your loaded question:

1) I haven't done anything which I need to defend-- none of the phrases you gleefully cite are THAT redundant. Try Google define:, I did, b/c I take constructive criticism seriously. Once the definitions I read confirmed that you were being obnoxious, I saw no need to reply to you in a manner more mature than your own.

2) You obviously don't want to discuss or debate anything with me, you just like to judge and heckle from an anonymous place-- no accountability is great, but the flip-side is no credibility. Why is it relevant to know you? Because if you aren't willing to put yourself behind your words, you don't really mean them and it's likely you're a troll.

3) Your mind can't be changed, so why waste my time disabusing you of all the things which you've assumed, which aren't even accurate?

There was no need to change your IP address. One of the many things you were inaccurate about was a proclivity to ban anyone who dislikes my writing; we ban based on clear violations of our comment policy. I'm not the Maharani of the Mutiny. The other bloggers I am lucky enough to write with aren't blinded by love and baseless devotion to me-- they do me no favors. If they ban you, it's because you really deserved it.

Go ahead, continue in this unnecessary vein. If it makes you that happy you have far more serious problems than I ever will with my sucky writing.

I'm going to the gym. I'll smell you later.