Challenge 20: My wedding

The sun shone out of the clear sky onto my yellow dress.

Everyone thinks their wedding should've been perfect. I've actually been to a couple that 'ere perfect, so I know they're real.

I even told 'im he could just turn up in nice pants and a shirt. Something that matched. The problem with Johnny is, he's too laid-back, and he took this as meaning blue jeans and a denim jacket.

I'm pretty pissed off at whoever said the bride and groom shouldn't see each other before the wedding. I'm even more pissed off at Johnny. And tha's quite something, because most people say I'm a cheery sorta gal.

I chucked me bouquet at him, ya know. After I walked up the aisle and managed to get me veil outta my face, and saw what my Johnny was wearing. All those daffodils and daisies raining on his head, and him standing there not knowing what he done wrong. Then off I stormed out of the church and nearly fell in the stream, crossing the bridge. Flopped down on the pebbles on the stream bank and stared at the sky.

Me mam came after me, and then Johnny. I threw Ma's hat at 'im and all them canary feathers or whatever she had in there rained on his head too, and serve him right. Then it was his turn to storm off, and mam after him scowling like anything at me - at me, when he's the one that turns up in jeans to 'is own wedding.

Ah, but me poor Johnny's just a sailor lad, and I guess he don't know any better.

So I'm lyin' there staring at the sky, and then at the church where I can see in the stained glass, th' Virgin Mary with her halo is lookin' at me reproachfully. Aw, ok, she's lookin' at Baby Jesus in her arms, but I don't mind admitting I felt kinda bad then. Mebbe the Virgin Mary brought out all my motherly instincts, like, and I felt sorry for 'im and 'is little sister - she was there too, standing on the other side of the bridge in her little baby blue dress lookin' after me and lookin' away when she knew I was lookin' - growing up without a mam. Who's to tell Johnny he oughtn't wear jeans to 'is wedding? Poor thing. If 'nything, this shows jest why 'e needs to be married to a good sens'ble wife.

That's when I ran after him - up to his car that he'd painted royal for the occasion, and jumped in the front seat and ripped me garter off and chucked it at 'im too - well why not, after I'd chucked flowers an' feathers? An' that's how we scandalised the whole church.

I don' think the Virgin Mary gives a toss though, or she wouldn'a thought of it.

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Word count: 481

I'm not sure what the colours contribute to the story - the original idea was that blue was more laid back and calm, while yellow was cheerful and exciteable. I think I gave up on that in favour of getting something written :P

Challenge 19: IN FILM - Fifty years ago today

The following excerpt is from an early review of the film Can-can, published in this magazine exactly fifty years ago.

“Pol and his fellow Coca-Cola Canians have an accommodation problem.

Pol lives on a Coca-Cola can. A very, very large Coca-Cola can, which orbits around a star, much in the same way as our own planet Earth.

Unfortunately, a key industry in Pol's home planet involves drilling through the soft metal of the planet's crust to obtain and export the ever-popular fizzy drink. The redistribution of the Coca-Cola is resulting in a gradual loss of mass, a slowing of planetary rotation - and, eventually, the planet begins to drift away from its sun, cooling and becoming uninhabitable.

Follow Pol and his companions on their journey as they leave their solar system in a search for a new home.”

Can-can is an unusual exploration of outer space, with a hint of a late 20th- early 21st century environmental or social message hidden somewhere. The relatively understated acting and special effects, and the educational tone adopted, are particularly notable. Sadly, this film missed its own boat – released at a time when 3D movies and melodramatic science fiction were more popular than ever, Can-can was passed over by critics and moviegoers alike.

Much of the science in this film has now been disproven, and whatever environmental or social messages it hints at (far too vaguely, in this critic’s opinion) are of course far from topical now. However, Can-can’s failure is a valuable lesson – released a decade earlier, it could have been very successful, if not recognised as a classic.

While there is little use, or market, for such a film in the present day, Can-can should be included, as a counterbalance, in any study of 1990s – 2020s films, in order to better understand the mentality of filmgoers of the day.

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Word count: 307

'Can-can' is a story I planned to write back in my second year of high school. I even wrote two pages of it. My response to this challenge originally started off as just a synopsis, but tearing it to pieces seemed like more fun.

Challenge 18: Nursery rhymes

Piggy on a railway, picking up stones
Along came a little train and broke Piggy’s nose.
“The news is going to start,” snaps the young man, throwing his cellphone down and fumbling for the remote.
Oh! said Piggy, That’s not fair!
“Oh, let her watch!” His wife turns from the stove and sighs as the toddler on the couch began to cry.
Well, said the little train, I Don’t Care.
The man puts an arm around his daughter, who ignores him, and watches the cartoon pig bending over again.
Piggy on a railway, picking up stones
“Just this one, and then Dad has to watch the news.”
Along came a little train and broke Piggy’s nose.
“This is a cartoon for children, and it has pigs getting their noses bloodied by evil trains?” he grumbles.
Oh! said Piggy, That’s not fair! - “It’s a cartoon for children that you brought from Singapore, and she likes it. Don’t ask me!”
Well, said the little train, I Don’t Care.

Without waiting for the train to disappear from the screen, he stops the DVD player and switches channels.
show has been a particular success this year, with over seventy dogs participating.
“It’s almost six-thirty, we’ve probably missed it,” he says, standing and stretching, turning to see what his wife’s up to in the kitchen. Then he hurriedly returns to his place.
results have caused widespread rioting in the capital. All flights in and out of the country have been cancelled. Travellers are asked
“Dinner’s ready! Come on, honey, shall we get into the high chair?”
The man grabs his wife’s wrist as she goes to pick up the child. “Wait a minute. Watch this.” They’re showing some fancy looking building.
High Commission. The travel advisory risk level is extreme.
“What’s happened?” she asks, sitting next to him, pulling their daughter closer. Now there are images of smoke and screaming people.
Fighting in the west of the country has also intensified, with bomb blasts in two towns causing an estimated one hundred deaths, and unverified reports of civilians being shot at checkpoints. The UN has
The woman jumps up, hugging the toddler tightly, and snatches the cordless phone from its cradle. “What’s the card number?”
“I don’t know, don’t worry about it, just call,” says the man, dialling a number on his cellphone. “Hey, have you seen the news?”
She dials too, puts on speaker phone so she can hear over the volume of the television. A loud, empty beeping noise is followed by a woman’s voice. Sorry, this connection is not presently available. Please try again later.
Beep.
Beeeep, beeeep, beeeep, beeeep, beeeep. Sorry, this connection is not presently available. Please try again later.
“I expect everyone’s trying to get through now. Let’s have dinner, and then you can try again.” He pats her on the shoulder and goes to the kitchen, opening and closing the dishes, finding cutlery. She stares at the phone for a few more seconds, then reaches for the remote and turns off the television.

The toddler starts crying again.
“It’s time to eat,” the mother coaxes her, but she shakes her head violently and snatches the remote. She kicks when her mother tries to pick her up.
“Let her watch her DVD then,” says the man, piling up his plate. The woman frowns, and watches while the child presses several different buttons, eventually finding the one she wants. A small cartoon mouse appears next to a towering grandfather clock.
Hickory dickory dock,

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Word count: 585

Challenge 17: The midnight visitors

The soldier’s hands look like loud banging on the door, his boots the shaking of the ground when you’re lying on your mat on the floor and can smell blood on the inside of your nose, and footsteps on the outside staircase. He stands in the doorway, glaring at you as you clutch the baby and whisper aside to let him in, handing over your ID card and then your sister’s. Your voice is gravelly and bitter; his is sometimes soft like ochre, and sometimes disgusting, like faeces, sometimes it’s hard like a big block of wood, and sometimes it’s darker and far, far, scarier, like the rifle he swings forward, almost delicately, in a low glissando.

You switch on the lights for him and he opens the pantry cupboards first. Then the fridge. The fan’s going in the living room, where you were sleeping, but the kitchen has the uncomfortable heat of a rotten melon. It’s almost nice to let your sweat cool, but he doesn’t look at the fridge for more than a few seconds before moving on – the bathroom, the wardrobes. You’ve given up being embarrassed about underwear when he checks the drawers, although it’d be nice if your husband were home, because you don’t speak the language of the soldier, which is just as curly as yours but in a different way, and your English is as boxy and gap-toothed as his. Your sister is still standing in a corner of the living room in her quiet cotton nightdress – she’s not brave enough to follow him around but you know you’re lucky they haven’t kicked you out, that you can make sure he doesn’t steal anything. You’re lucky that the other three are standing outside the front door and not herding you into a corner with their screaming guns and army fatigues.

Looking more closely, you can tell the soldier is sweating too – little wonder, in that outfit. He didn’t take his boots off, and he doesn’t when he gets to the room where your fragrant statues of Gods and sticks of incense live next to the computer, though that would have been a bit much to hope for.

Looking more closely, you can tell he’s old enough to be out of school, which makes an improvement on the last time. His cap’s falling off a bit, and his hair is greasy like a priest’s.

You wonder if he’ll blare into next door with his little troupe and wake up the grandma with two legs and the grandpa with one leg. (He has a walking frame, though, and that makes up for a missing leg as far as all the kids in the apartment block are concerned).

Your sister wonders if he saw her underwear, and is terrified at the thought. She takes her ID card back without meeting his eyes, and she’s cocooned in her shawl, wrapped twice around her torso and her arms crossed over her breasts just in case. You never bothered telling her that her nightdress is see-through in the light, and edge in front of her before she (or the soldier) notices.

You see him out with an acrid look, one foot holding the door open, baby in your left arm and right palm open for your ID card. He studies it again, very, very closely, and then studies your face. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick.

The soldier flings your ID card into your hand and takes his groundshaking, door-banging crocodiles next door.

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Word count: 582

Challenge 16: More than you think

You think I’m just a statue on the wall, one of hundreds, but I know things too. Not just the temple. Oh, I know the other girls, the jink of silver belled-anklets echoing the thudding of heels on the beaten earth floor. The clunk of gold and glass bangles on our arms, the oddianam shifting around my waist, glittering ornaments gliding and catching on the silk below my hips. Hands, with tracings of red, blossoming out to draw you pictures in the air, pictures of my devotion and my God and his stories.

If you lean back far enough when you’re dancing, you can see the beautiful colours on the temple ceiling. When you straighten up, you can glimpse the image of God, there behind his gates. There out of the corner of your eye, and thakka thim, and there right in front of you - as your plait swings around and a bit of jasmine falls out of your hair, and a little round bead off your heavy anklet - and thakkida and there again. There’s a whiff of camphor burning, slightly rotten fruit, cows, bananas, sweat, wet soil and flowers.

Oh no, it’s not much of a life for a girl like you, if you want to live in a house and have a bit of land and children and a husband. All I want is my God.

I heard a story once.

It was about a young priest, young like me.

He was born to a not particularly well-off farming family, the fourth child among three sons and two daughters. He worked on the farm and looked after his little sister. He loved his family, and he loved his country, but he far more loved his God.

He may have become a priest anyway, because he was the third son and there wasn’t much other use for him. Perhaps for this reason, or perhaps because he loved his God even before he was a priest, he never thought twice about his vocation.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He prayed about it once when he was unsure, when he was fifteen. This didn’t cause earthquakes or apparitions – it didn’t cause candles to light up or even to go out – so he decided to go ahead and become a priest anyway. After that he never thought twice about his vocation. He went to a seminary and, when he was twenty-three, he became a priest. By then, both of his brothers were married. The first had one child; the second had two.

He wore a black coat and a little white square in his collar. On Sundays, and quite often on other days too, he stood up and talked to people

He made an excellent priest. He stood by his God and his people, but he never condemned someone else who stood by their religion or their people. This is, perhaps, what I admire most about him.

One day he was killed by some people who didn’t believe in people (and they probably didn’t believe in God either).

I forget what his name was, so that’s not much of a story, is it?

When I was fifteen, I went to live in the temple. I married my God. We girls didn’t stand up and talk to people on Sundays or on other days, at least not very often, but we danced.

You see a lot of things when you’re a statue on the wall. I know things beyond the temple, and dancing. I know things beyond the images behind the gates being thrown into the wells, and beyond the temple dancers being called prostitutes and thrown out into the streets. I know my God, and I know the priest with the little white square in his collar, who also knew his God.

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Word count: 632

This piece of writing is meant with the utmost respect to the photos, their subjects, and the photographers.

The first photograph is from www.kamat.com/kalranga/art/sculptures/19071.htm. I am not sure whether the woman in the sculpture is a devadasi, as I have described her.

I'd also like to refer you to this article about Father Jerzy, the subject of the second photograph (who 'the priest' is loosely based on): http://stjeromeparish.ca/fr_jerzy.asp.

Challenge 21: The Jacket with Wings

Just got my very first 'yes' from a publisher ever!! The Jacket with Wings will be appearing in the Summer edition of Black Lantern (http://blacklanternpublishing3.blogspot.com/2009/12/jacket-with-wings.html). For that reason, it is no longer available here.

*hugs and grins all round*

- Love Ani

Challenge 15: The carving

The dark patches of shadow have retreated and the dusty street is lit up. The carver shifts on her green plastic chair and moves closer to the dirty plaster wall, out of the sun. In one hand is a damp grey rag; in the other, a square piece of wood. The shopfront across the street is dangling wood and coconut-shell cutlery, wooden statues, and little wooden pencil holders or key holders or sets of hooks meant for holding something (no one knows what) or sets of holes meant for holding something (no one knows what), with images of palm trees and boats, and thick, gleaming varnish. It is nearly identical to the shopfronts on either side of it. In fact, if one were to wander down the street (the only street that is apparent in this village) it would be clear that all of the shopfronts are nearly identical - apart from one which sells everything else; that is, packages of biscuits and fizzy drink, jandals, bulbs - even though no one has electric lights, batteries, matchboxes, plastic toy cars, metal boxes, figurines of gods (and that's just the front of the shop). Fruit and vegetable stalls have sprung up this morning just outside of the village.

The carver has made a knot across the front of her skirt, so it hangs just above her knees. The soles of her bare feet rub indulgently against the soft, pale grey dirt on the ground. Tiny dark wood chips are scattered where her chair was before. The wood in her hand is a proud but warm brown, the brown in a cuckoo's feathers. Out of the wood comes a bird with tiny carved feathers- not a cuckoo - a bird with alluring, womanly eyes; elegantly curved tail; a beak like parted lips from which emerge swirls (water, or flame, or ribbon).

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Sunrise has revealed a strong blue sky and a warm day. It's still early - there's no one else about on the wooden walkway as a girl in boots, tartan blanket under arm, strolls beside the wide river, gazing into water that doesn't seem to be flowing, but must be because the ducks are moving fast and they aren't paddling. Trees droop into the leaden water, and around the boardwalk is a little forest of ferns and vines.

She stops at an embayment where the walkway juts out close to the river. Angular letters are scratched into the weathered handrail, forming names or initials or swearwords. There are trees next to her: one tree with small white flowers and small green leaves. Another tree with bigger purple flowers and no leaves. A third tree with no flowers and shiny, dark green leaves the size of her hand. The spiralled head of a fern is growing through a gap between the boards. There are fantails and sparrows flitting amongst the trees. Across the river is a paddock on a hill, with horses and grass and a faint smell of manure. There is a vague rumble of a jetboat which doesn't appear. The girl runs her foot between two nails, back and forth, switches the blanket to her other arm.

A flowing brown bird with swirls in its mouth swims through the air in the distance.

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Word count: 543