Mock Hemingway-this was my story, hope it bears some similitude to Hemingway's unique style.

Nod
The unwanted morning rays shone into my room. The blinds were not crafted right. I had always known this for a fact. One day I told that man with the broom to come fix them but he only nodded and emptied the little bin in the corner and left. He was Armenian. I knew this for a fact. For incompetence, you need not search farther than Armenia.

Regardless, I got out of bed. I tried to forget the fool whose incompetence meant my blinding by sunlight every morning. I went through my daily routine. Like any sensible person would, I picked out some clothes that best fit the very hot weather outside. I left my apartment.

Unsurprisingly, the first person I met (an Englishman no less) was dressed completely the opposite. The fool wore the highest turtleneck I had ever seen. His trousers went all the way down to his feet. He nodded his English head at me, like a mock curtsy.

“Whatsup!”

I walked away.

I caught my bus as usual. Today the driver was Australian. Yesterday it was an African and it had nodded at me. He nodded today also. I paid and retreated to the back.

The recesses of the bus stank. They reeked. Boys sat there. They were Spanish ones of course. Their noses gave them away. The little hoodlums kept nodding to their incessant music. They were constantly shaking hands and nodding at one another. The music was so loud it could have burst their little ears. But their ears remained. They stayed put on the constant bobble-heads.
One of them stood to alight from the bus.
Bypassing me, clearly out of the way as I was, the little bobble-head whispered an emphatic “excuse me sir”. I regarded him from top to bottom. He regarded me the almost similarly, nodding me from top to bottom. This time I took offence.

The Spanish boy was on the floor of the bus soon. Writhing in pain, clutching his stomach. My blow had been too quick. I was not slow to act like those frostbitten Alaskans. They take forever to act.

“What did you do that for, sir?” the bobble-head.

“O-mi-god, he hit im!”

“Why?”

“Dunno.”

“Why’d ya do it?”

“Get im off, sir.”

Then they were on me. All of them. A few Asians. A couple of Caucasians, I know one was a Gaul (very chicken-like indeed)-two blacks. Another English one-and I could have sworn a German stomped on my foot in the brouhaha. They all knew how to nod.

The Australian driver led the mob. He read me my rights right there from a little brochure. He carried it in his Kangaroo pouch. He sent me off the bus while nodding. His mob threw me off the bus.

I landed on the hard cobblestone. A piece of pizza lay next to me. It too had been chucked. But it was Italian. It deserved to be chucked.

I lay for a while on the street. I remained still and attracted some attention. Soon, another mob gathered. They stood around me. Some prodded me. More nodded.

I got up and brushed off the dirt. I surveyed the faces. More Gauls, more Germans, more blacks. Too many Caucasians. They all knew how to nod.

I tried to nod back.

My neck was stiff.

I walked away.

Adrian Ntwatwa