The Perfect Match by Amity
Houston, we have a problem, she whispered. Then annoyed, Whaddya mean This number is no longer in service? Listen up, this is the Chapel Lady!
No response. She hung up the phone and sighed. The time was 22.10hrs, Christmas Eve.
The Wheel of Destiny was spinning.
Ahmir was a mixed-up kid. A Scottish-Muslim mishmash. A fanatic who knew what he knew and didnt know what he didn't know. As happy as a Harry with a bushier beard. Prince of all he surveyed but that didnt say much. He lived alone in his mothers flat and wouldnt be seen dead in a tartan kilt. Because he was not a pansy, like that traitorous First Minister.
Une femme dun certain âge, that was Greta. A shiny star of silver screen with one foot in Hollywood, LA, the other in Holyrood, Edinburgh. Not the Royal Palace or the Scottish Parliament but close. As happy as a weathervane on top of Arthurs Seat. She sprayed Angels Share on bare skin. Because she was worth it. And she loved the intoxicating effect of the cognac, cinnamon and sandalwood on her beloved Sophie.
Destiny smiled as she weaved her threads. The picture taking shape.
Ahmir didnt believe in Christmas or Santa. He despised the ritual; the holy, white stuff and nonsense. But he had to admit, it was useful. People were on holiday and nobody expected anything bad to happen. He stroked his beard, contemplating the Christmas Eve job. Gazing up at the stars, he sensed movement along the chapel roof. And froze.
The black cat purred, satisfied with his work for the old lady in the attic. His strong paws had paved the way for mutual pleasure. Slipping in and out with ease, his lean, mean body blended seamlessly with the night sky. The rewards now due, it was time to eat, drink and be merry but wait, his tail stiffened and twitched high. The amber eyes, slit with narrowed black verticals, cut straight through the dark to the intruder. The mans sour sweat polluted the crisp, clean air and offended his sensitive nose. He could almost taste it.
Ahmirs eyes adjusted to the dark as he made his way up the roof, now a slippery slope of ice. He never, ever wore a safety harness. No way!! He was no limp-wristed wimp; he was a Man! Praise be to Allah!
He struggled to stay upright against the wind, the added weight of the bulging vest didnt help and threatened to unbalance him. He trembled with cold and there was something else. The sight of the black cat spooked him. Ahmir wasnt superstitious but black cats. Did they bring good or bad luck? He shook his foolish head and carried on. There was important work to be done, Allah be praised!
The black cat swung into full-attack mode and launched at the man. His long tail whipped and flicked. He hissed and twisted, paws with razor-sharp claws struck out. The man had no chance, he fell to the ground.
In the middle of the dark and stormy night.
Paralysed, Gretas eyes swivelled to read the room. They stopped, arrested by the painting on the bare wall of the windowless cell. She was drawn into the swirling vortex of Van Goghs Starry Night, hypnotized and stilled.
The surreal silence was broken by the metal clatter of alien probes, sharp needles, cutting tools.
This. Will. Not. Hurt. - intoned the automaton, Dalek-like, as it stabbed indifferently. Gretas heart was beating out of her chest. Her ears thrummed as they transported her along the corridor. She had been judged to be compatible and pronounced fit for purpose.
Three harsh spotlights illuminated Gloria, exposing all. But not quite, she was there but not there. In the shadows, her free-floating spirit surveyed the scene. They were working on her. Pushing, prodding and piercing. Blood flowed and pulsed in time to the music. Christmas carols? How apropos. Thats right, get in the mood. Tuck into the turkey, why dont you? Where was Sophie? Greta yearned for her comfort, the soft and innocent love. She became agitated and drugs were swiftly administered.
Wretched Ahmir cursed his fate. He had not signed up for this. Allah had broken the contract. Ahmir had practised and recited from the Quran, faithfully, every single day. To intone and articulate each perfect word to show due reverence and honour. Allahu Akbar Allah is the Greatest.
At the mosque, he had shared concerns that he wasnt good enough. His friends shook their heads in commiseration. Others offered reassuring quotes. It was not his fault he had been born with a cleft lip and palate and sounded like a lisping poof. Your struggle will be doubly rewarded.
Ahmir had cheered up and looked forward to death. How many virgins would line up to please him? 72 times 2 makes...144! He could cope with that.
But now his fantasy was shattered. Ahmir could not believe his eyes. The unholy bastards were digging into his body, scavenging choice portions of meat, skin and bone. Go away! Shoo! His spirit sobbed. He was no longer complete. Paradise would not be half as nice without his parts. Then, he realized that he wouldnt even be granted entrance. What now? Where were the infidels taking his bits and bobs
Greta had fallen into the deep, dark sleep of anaesthesia. She felt not a thing but circled through a kaleidoscope of pain and pleasure. From childhood play, through teenage years, tears and scars to the glittering ball of fame and fortune. Nobody would ever know the truth of the abuse. When her body had been left bleeding and torn. No longer her own, if it ever was.
She had suppressed the memories. Until the night an obsessed fan triggered her fear, lunging and pressing hard and close for her autograph and a kiss. A blinding flash captured her horrified scream and violent reaction. The ensuing hate mail, threats of rape and murder, overwhelmed and toppled her. This was the turning point. Gretas fall from grace.
Greta wanted to be alone. Isolated in her splendid mansion, she sank into the quicksand of anger, depression and heavy drinking. Doctors and therapists came and went, increasingly concerned at her deterioration. The test results did not look good. But Greta didnt care. Her nausea meant she couldnt even face alcohol. She wanted to sleep.
The dream cycle ended. She blinked at the fuzzy angel who welcomed her back to Earth. The team finally gave Greta the all-clear. The transplant had been a success. So far, so good. Soon, she would be at home, with her new life. The best Christmas gift ever.
Ahmir was not a happy donor. He had not given permission. He did not want to be Gretas Santa. His angry spirit stalked her every move. He hated Christmas with a vengeance. His stocking hung lonely as his heart. His cup did not runneth over with good fortune. Not even close. He did not deserve this. He had been good.
All he had wanted was for the beautiful lady to sign his favourite magazine. All he had wanted was to fix a hole in the roof. All he had wanted was to find Paradise in the arms of
Never mind. It was all lost. Unless
He had to find a new body. To love and be loved.
It was dusk on St. Valentines Day when Greta stepped out of the Old Waverley Hotel with Sophie. All she had wanted was the good life but now she wanted more. She would pray at the ancient Chapel of St. Margaret, her namesake. A small, lovely sanctuary where her mother had lit candles and felt at peace.
Gretas dream was to be an artist, to paint. Van Gogh had made an impression. A percentage of her sales would go to the charity: Organ Donation. Live Life Give Life.
She looked up and swore to be a better person. She swore again as she saw the hard, grey slate hurtling towards her, splitting her skull right down the middle.
A terrified Sophie leapt out of her skin and handbag. Up and away, free from Gretas grasp. Straight into the arms of the black cat or BC as she would fondly call him. BC was a gift from above. Now cast as saviour, BC was spellbound by this odd-eyed, fluffy-white Persian beauty. Sophie could have called him Ahmir and she wouldnt have been wrong. His spirit lived on, joyful in this wonderland of pussy.
When his sultry amber eyes met hers, the mystical blue and copper, the chemistry blew him away. There was no denying the sexual spark and Sophie purred in perfect harmony. The black and the white walked side-by-side towards the port of Leith and a slow boat to China.
Oblivious to one and all, the pair didnt see the old lady emerge from her chapel cocoon. Transformed in a twirl of her black velvet cloak, her auburn hair flowing madly from her pointed hat, Sam mounted Old Faithful. She zoomed through the sky and stars, crossing the full moon, a perfect silhouette. Her emerald eyes sparkled as she thought of Ahmir and Greta. They had brought 20 people joy and relief from suffering with hope for a brighter future and happiness.
The gift of a new life, not just for Christmas.
Sam let out a gleeful, YEE-Hah!! as she spun around and lassoed the moon.
Houston, we have Lift-off!
No response. She hung up the phone and sighed. The time was 22.10hrs, Christmas Eve.
The Wheel of Destiny was spinning.
Ahmir was a mixed-up kid. A Scottish-Muslim mishmash. A fanatic who knew what he knew and didnt know what he didn't know. As happy as a Harry with a bushier beard. Prince of all he surveyed but that didnt say much. He lived alone in his mothers flat and wouldnt be seen dead in a tartan kilt. Because he was not a pansy, like that traitorous First Minister.
Une femme dun certain âge, that was Greta. A shiny star of silver screen with one foot in Hollywood, LA, the other in Holyrood, Edinburgh. Not the Royal Palace or the Scottish Parliament but close. As happy as a weathervane on top of Arthurs Seat. She sprayed Angels Share on bare skin. Because she was worth it. And she loved the intoxicating effect of the cognac, cinnamon and sandalwood on her beloved Sophie.
Destiny smiled as she weaved her threads. The picture taking shape.
Ahmir didnt believe in Christmas or Santa. He despised the ritual; the holy, white stuff and nonsense. But he had to admit, it was useful. People were on holiday and nobody expected anything bad to happen. He stroked his beard, contemplating the Christmas Eve job. Gazing up at the stars, he sensed movement along the chapel roof. And froze.
The black cat purred, satisfied with his work for the old lady in the attic. His strong paws had paved the way for mutual pleasure. Slipping in and out with ease, his lean, mean body blended seamlessly with the night sky. The rewards now due, it was time to eat, drink and be merry but wait, his tail stiffened and twitched high. The amber eyes, slit with narrowed black verticals, cut straight through the dark to the intruder. The mans sour sweat polluted the crisp, clean air and offended his sensitive nose. He could almost taste it.
Ahmirs eyes adjusted to the dark as he made his way up the roof, now a slippery slope of ice. He never, ever wore a safety harness. No way!! He was no limp-wristed wimp; he was a Man! Praise be to Allah!
He struggled to stay upright against the wind, the added weight of the bulging vest didnt help and threatened to unbalance him. He trembled with cold and there was something else. The sight of the black cat spooked him. Ahmir wasnt superstitious but black cats. Did they bring good or bad luck? He shook his foolish head and carried on. There was important work to be done, Allah be praised!
The black cat swung into full-attack mode and launched at the man. His long tail whipped and flicked. He hissed and twisted, paws with razor-sharp claws struck out. The man had no chance, he fell to the ground.
In the middle of the dark and stormy night.
Paralysed, Gretas eyes swivelled to read the room. They stopped, arrested by the painting on the bare wall of the windowless cell. She was drawn into the swirling vortex of Van Goghs Starry Night, hypnotized and stilled.
The surreal silence was broken by the metal clatter of alien probes, sharp needles, cutting tools.
This. Will. Not. Hurt. - intoned the automaton, Dalek-like, as it stabbed indifferently. Gretas heart was beating out of her chest. Her ears thrummed as they transported her along the corridor. She had been judged to be compatible and pronounced fit for purpose.
Three harsh spotlights illuminated Gloria, exposing all. But not quite, she was there but not there. In the shadows, her free-floating spirit surveyed the scene. They were working on her. Pushing, prodding and piercing. Blood flowed and pulsed in time to the music. Christmas carols? How apropos. Thats right, get in the mood. Tuck into the turkey, why dont you? Where was Sophie? Greta yearned for her comfort, the soft and innocent love. She became agitated and drugs were swiftly administered.
Wretched Ahmir cursed his fate. He had not signed up for this. Allah had broken the contract. Ahmir had practised and recited from the Quran, faithfully, every single day. To intone and articulate each perfect word to show due reverence and honour. Allahu Akbar Allah is the Greatest.
At the mosque, he had shared concerns that he wasnt good enough. His friends shook their heads in commiseration. Others offered reassuring quotes. It was not his fault he had been born with a cleft lip and palate and sounded like a lisping poof. Your struggle will be doubly rewarded.
Ahmir had cheered up and looked forward to death. How many virgins would line up to please him? 72 times 2 makes...144! He could cope with that.
But now his fantasy was shattered. Ahmir could not believe his eyes. The unholy bastards were digging into his body, scavenging choice portions of meat, skin and bone. Go away! Shoo! His spirit sobbed. He was no longer complete. Paradise would not be half as nice without his parts. Then, he realized that he wouldnt even be granted entrance. What now? Where were the infidels taking his bits and bobs
Greta had fallen into the deep, dark sleep of anaesthesia. She felt not a thing but circled through a kaleidoscope of pain and pleasure. From childhood play, through teenage years, tears and scars to the glittering ball of fame and fortune. Nobody would ever know the truth of the abuse. When her body had been left bleeding and torn. No longer her own, if it ever was.
She had suppressed the memories. Until the night an obsessed fan triggered her fear, lunging and pressing hard and close for her autograph and a kiss. A blinding flash captured her horrified scream and violent reaction. The ensuing hate mail, threats of rape and murder, overwhelmed and toppled her. This was the turning point. Gretas fall from grace.
Greta wanted to be alone. Isolated in her splendid mansion, she sank into the quicksand of anger, depression and heavy drinking. Doctors and therapists came and went, increasingly concerned at her deterioration. The test results did not look good. But Greta didnt care. Her nausea meant she couldnt even face alcohol. She wanted to sleep.
The dream cycle ended. She blinked at the fuzzy angel who welcomed her back to Earth. The team finally gave Greta the all-clear. The transplant had been a success. So far, so good. Soon, she would be at home, with her new life. The best Christmas gift ever.
Ahmir was not a happy donor. He had not given permission. He did not want to be Gretas Santa. His angry spirit stalked her every move. He hated Christmas with a vengeance. His stocking hung lonely as his heart. His cup did not runneth over with good fortune. Not even close. He did not deserve this. He had been good.
All he had wanted was for the beautiful lady to sign his favourite magazine. All he had wanted was to fix a hole in the roof. All he had wanted was to find Paradise in the arms of
Never mind. It was all lost. Unless
He had to find a new body. To love and be loved.
It was dusk on St. Valentines Day when Greta stepped out of the Old Waverley Hotel with Sophie. All she had wanted was the good life but now she wanted more. She would pray at the ancient Chapel of St. Margaret, her namesake. A small, lovely sanctuary where her mother had lit candles and felt at peace.
Gretas dream was to be an artist, to paint. Van Gogh had made an impression. A percentage of her sales would go to the charity: Organ Donation. Live Life Give Life.
She looked up and swore to be a better person. She swore again as she saw the hard, grey slate hurtling towards her, splitting her skull right down the middle.
A terrified Sophie leapt out of her skin and handbag. Up and away, free from Gretas grasp. Straight into the arms of the black cat or BC as she would fondly call him. BC was a gift from above. Now cast as saviour, BC was spellbound by this odd-eyed, fluffy-white Persian beauty. Sophie could have called him Ahmir and she wouldnt have been wrong. His spirit lived on, joyful in this wonderland of pussy.
When his sultry amber eyes met hers, the mystical blue and copper, the chemistry blew him away. There was no denying the sexual spark and Sophie purred in perfect harmony. The black and the white walked side-by-side towards the port of Leith and a slow boat to China.
Oblivious to one and all, the pair didnt see the old lady emerge from her chapel cocoon. Transformed in a twirl of her black velvet cloak, her auburn hair flowing madly from her pointed hat, Sam mounted Old Faithful. She zoomed through the sky and stars, crossing the full moon, a perfect silhouette. Her emerald eyes sparkled as she thought of Ahmir and Greta. They had brought 20 people joy and relief from suffering with hope for a brighter future and happiness.
The gift of a new life, not just for Christmas.
Sam let out a gleeful, YEE-Hah!! as she spun around and lassoed the moon.
Houston, we have Lift-off!
Comments (70)
I was confused by the mention of Gloria, but Im guessing this was just Gretas original name and the author missed it in the revision process.
Nice to see a story set in Edinburgh :smile:
As @Jamal pointed out. It is very nice when a place someone knowsEdinburgh in this caseis settled in the story. The author is, somehow, lucky for posting on an English-speaking forum because nobody would quickly notice that the story is yours. I remember I used Madrid last year, and all the readers easily recognised it as mine!
On the other hand, I believe this was written by a British mate. My guess is based on specific vocabulary words such as 'clatter,' 'purred,' 'gazing up,' 'shattered,' etc.
What I like the most about this story -- everything went chaotically well. I wasn't sure what was going on in a moment of the story, but I kept reading because it grasped all my attention.
Wonderful. Congratulations to the author! :up:
but what about the rowdy chapel lady? what is her role in this story? is she the fate spinning her yarn, or a matchmaking christmas angel from texas?
definitely worth thinking about.
Even so, there were names introduced that just came out of no where, maybe they were changed in revisions as Jamal pointed out, so something already confusing became a bit too confusing.
I enjoyed it somewhat, but felt it could have been a bit more nuanced and polished.
I don't see how Ahmir could've lost from a street cat to the point where he's found (with bombs strapped to him?) and subsequently unvoluntarily donated organs to Greta. That "huh?" and the stereotype made it difficult to go with the suspension of disbelief. On a positive note, I also agree with @Jamal on the ebullience and playfulness of the writing.
he isn't. he's just an ordinary handyman; all his islamism is in his head. a wannabe. Quoting Benkei
if he'd blown himself up, the organs wouldn't be much use. he's just climbing the roof with tools and shingles, to mend a hole. he's startled by the cat, slips and falls to his death.
it's a little confusing in places, especially the supernatural element. there is nothing so cliche here as bomb strapped to chest. the whole story is a kind of overlap between pathetic mundane human lives and a realm of magic. you have to close your eyes alternately to keep one or the other in focus. can be disorienting, but also intriguing.
It's still the stereotypical muslim fundamentalist. All these are point by point the kind of attributes that gets ticked off. Doesn't matter if he's an actual terrorist or not, it's the descriptions only revolving around these points in Islamic religion that makes it stereotypical.
Quoting Vera Mont
The fundamentalism was there but I never said his death had to do with it. He specifically addresses his predicament.
So, as I interpret his fundamentalist rants, he, in his fundamentalism was aspiring to die in some other manner, but instead he fell off the roof. Meaning he looked forward to a certain type of death that would give him his virgins, but as it sounds he believes he would not by this form of falling to death (which in itself is a narrative that terrorist leaders teach followers in order to follow through with terrorist attacks, tricking them into believing that they can only get the virgins through the act of sacrifice, and not by merely keeping good faith, which is the actual interpretation by non-fundamentalist muslims, even though it's more about non-material pleasure as a concept rather than some boyish fantasies of virgins).
I have no problems with having a character like this in this kind of narrative, but I just feel like this type of stereotypical psychology for this type of character have grown a bit overused and overdone over the last 20 years. Felt like this dragged the story quality down a notch as it didn't need to and it could have been about a self-radicalized loner who despised society, seen as that's more close to what's going on today.
I just felt that part was a bit undercooked.
that's what i assumed; the extremism is all in his head. he wouldn't know what to do with a stick of dynamite if he stumbled over it in the street. however, that's just impression i got.
Quoting Christoffer
noted. you must be true to your perceptions, as i must be to mine.
Quoting Noble Dust
It is a nice twist that he is the one who ultimately led to Greta's downfall. Was he indeed fixing a hole in the roof? My initial interpretation was that he was making guilty, posthumous excuses for his true intent, which was blowing up the building or something. @Vera Mont might be right, and he was just a wannabee. But then, this revelation is buried right after another revelation, weakening it. And it is just one sentence. I would have put more emphasis on it, if I were the author (and I actually cared that the reader drew that conclusion.).
Quoting Noble Dust
I interpreted this to mean that the cat's soul left her body, to a life of feline sexual bliss with BC. Vera again has the more satisfying interpretation, though the wording pushes the reader towards mine. I would reword this, and give Greta's transmigration as much weight as Ahmir's got, to weight the dice towards the preferred interpretation (if indeed it is).
Quoting Noble Dust
Hrm, suggesting we are in a sci-fi future?
One of the more intriguing entries, I liked it quite a bit.
It is very well written, enticing the reader to to enter the narrative worldview. The character of Greta I find intriguing. There is a good balance between telling and showing, with careful attention to detail. I found that this made it an enjoyable read.
I fully endorse this comment. I found it hard to follow, but because it's so well-written, I have no problem going back to read it again and may comment again. Shades of Salman Rushdie there. It also reminds me of another story from a past competition I can't remember the author of but that had a similar showbizzy theme and literary style. I'm not in love with the stereotypical muslim fanatic stuff, but as I said I'll likely come back and read this again to try to piece everything together. So far, well done. :up:
Now comes something I have trouble with: Valentine's day. Greta meets her doom in the chapel, because a slate falls on her. Probably because Ahmir did not have the time to repair the roof. It killed her outright and we are only left with Sophie, her 'familiar' just like the black cat is Ahmir's and they are joined together. However, it may also be that the slate did not kill her outright and she needs transplants from Ahmir. It does not make sense though because the slate went through her skull.
Now what needs to be figured out is the role of the chapel lady. Probably she is Ananke the Greek goddess of fate to whom all others will eventually bow.
This is Amity's work... thank you dear author.
This is not fair. If you have outed me, then I should be able to respond!
@Baden and @Noble Dust - I think once authors have been identified, even before the designated time, we have a right to reply. Yes/No?
What matters is the story. To be discussed...
That's already happened. Getting a second chance at life made her resolve to be a better person, but it's too late. The same bad roof that killed her unwilling benefactor - who also happened to be the unwitting instrument of her decline - kills her too.
Either there is something very wrong with this house of God or the resident spirit/fate/witch in its attic has been pulling the strings all along, pursuing an agenda of her own.
The feedback has been interesting. Listen to Vera! She is right where it matters.
I'll return later with some pointers or clues. I've still to read Rabbity.
Just to say, I was thrilled when some thought @ucarr or @Vera Mont wrote this. They are way above me - in terms of quality writing and experience! I hope they were not offended.
I thought that I would be easily recognised because of my trademark: Crazy Chaos and Confusion! :nerd:
Keep the comments a-comin' and do re-read. I still miss pieces of the puzzle in other stories.
That's why more time is required for reading and discussion. Authors included.
Thanks to @Baden for listening. :sparkle: :flower:
It was a typo. And I don't know how I missed it. I read and re-read umpteen times. Perhaps I was dazzled by the lights shining down.
Quoting Jamal
Ah, you need to reach up, grab the confusion, shake it about and let it settle. Like a snow globe.
Or something. You can always post questions. But perhaps it's not worth the effort. Understandable. Thanks for commenting :up:
Succinct as ever! Thanks, Vera. It is a bit mixed-up. Just like poor Ahmir...
I'm not quite sure what you are trying to say here :chin:
You can't mean British as opposed to Scottish?
Quoting javi2541997
Yes, sorry about the confusion. I guess it's difficult for me to put myself in the shoes of a reader.
It's all perfectly clear to me :smile: but, yeah, there are some awkward transition points. Flashbacks I tried to signal but failed.
Thanks for feedback :sparkle:
Hah! Best she remain an enigma. Wouldn't want to spoil the magic of imagination. :flower:
Thanks. You are not alone. I have the answers but you have to torture me with questions!
And then, I might have to kill ya' :wink:
OK. Here's the thing about Ahmir. He isn't a stereotype.
Quoting Noble Dust
I shouldn't have tried to be clever or tricky.
I did intend to lead the reader astray by the ambiguous word 'fanatic' and having him wear a contraption on the roof.
He is an obsessive 'fan' of Greta.
He is ignorant in so many ways. Not least that of the change in donor law. In Scotland we have an opt-out system.
It could be argued that Greta is more of a stereotype. But nobody seems to take that on board.
I think of them both as complex humans who happen to be who they are, with all the confusion that involves.
Quoting Christoffer
Already explained Gloria. I gave the old chapel lady a name at the end. I thought she deserved a bit of fun with her new look, and called her Sam, short for Samantha, Bewitched.
Did not realise that it would cause so much confusion. Oooops!
Hope that my explanation along with Vera's has helped! Thanks :smile:
That made me laugh! Imagining you sitting cross-legged. A cross-eyed squinty cat :monkey:
Nope. What fundamentalist rants? Ahmir was no fundamentalist but he did rant in frustration.
He is ignorant and mixed-up. Brought up in a mixed race family.
Quoting Christoffer
Not at all. Your responses are a bit over-egged.
Yes. I didn't mean it to be a psychological evaluation. But look what came out!
Quoting hypericin
Yes.
Quoting hypericin
Sophie was the only one that didn't change. Other than finding BC to be lovey-dovey with.
Sometimes a cat is just a cat. 'leapt out of her skin' - an idiom for being extremely scared.
Quoting hypericin
What dark subject matter?
Quoting hypericin
Thanks for your intriguing feedback! :cool:
Thank you. I think you are the first to mention Greta. Everyone else has been concerned with Ahmir.
If you don't mind me asking - what did you find intriguing?
It seems you have been spared my mad confusion? Are we in synch, or what? :chin: :flower:
When I read that I sighed with relief. Thanks for your encouragement. :sparkle:
Believe it or not, I've never read Salman Rushdie. I'm beginning to understand and appreciate the danger and difficulties of writing about a Muslim character.
Quoting Baden
I've explained above why Ahmir is not a stereotype.
I hope I haven't spoiled anyone's fun at working out the puzzle. I think there are a few pieces left.
Unfortunately I felt like that because all the things he specifically thinks about, refers to and mentions usually is the composition of an Islamic fundamentalist. In a similar manner to if I was portrayed like a Swede living in New York and I just have IKEA, meatballs, minimalist interior design on my mind and want to buy a Volvo after Ive met my herring cravings. It becomes the kind of stereotype that is then attempted to be mitigated by adding attributes like if I was a black Swede, that somehow then makes me not a stereotype anymore, but the stereotypical cornerstones of my character still remains.
Quoting Amity
And its those frustration rants that didnt work for me. Ive met kids being in a similar situation and the confusion usually revolves around the foundational confusion of not fitting in either camp. Being treated like an alien by society and never understanding how the concepts within Islamic belief fits with the society and culture theyre living in. Theyre less into the fundamentalist ideas that exist and more ending up feeling everything is bullshit rather than adhering to either side.
Quoting Amity
Why I find the rest of the story good and poetic, it was Ahmir that I felt was a bit undercooked. To be less revolving around internal thought tropes that fits better in an episode of 24 and more focused on the complex confusion that people like him experiences.
It became a distraction for me, because I really loved everything else of the story. Magical realism (a form of genre or storytelling thats starting to grow today and which I like). Elements that need no grounding flow into realism and elevate what would have been a portrayal of grey reality.
Just to put the cards on the table that while I may have focused my feedback on Ahmir, outside of that it was really good. :up:
It's likely that I drew upon Greta as opposed to Ahmir due to associations which I have with those names from people I know. My landlord is actually called Ahmir! Both Greta and Ahmir seemed to have equal weighting so could have been paid attention to. Also, I suspected you had written the story, or Vera, so that may be why I looked at the female character as the main one.
What I found interesting was the cultural Scottish/Muslim crossover. I am interested in cultural identities in general. Also, in London I have seen so much of this aspect of life. I live in a house of men from Romania and Iran at present, and they are mainly Muslim.I am the only one who is English and I grew up as a Catholic. In the last house, there were people from 5 different countries. Apart from different languages, it also involves differing values.
No. It's not in the chapel. Although that would have been a nice touch.
The slate fell from the hotel roof as she was coming out of it with Sophie.
Sophie is still just a cat. Greta died, her organs were donated.
I hope that clarifies? Thanks for all the questions showing your careful engagement
Quoting Vera Mont
I really wish I had thought of that! Very nice touch, thanks again for all your feedback!
OK. Understood. He is a complex character and I didn't spell it out as much as you would have liked.
I simply left things hanging around like his lonely, empty Christmas stocking:
Quoting Noble Dust
And light sprinklings of his need to be a Man. Not to be seen as a pansy, a limp-wristed wimp or:
Quoting Noble Dust
***
Some rants were post-mortem. He is a lost, frustrated soul. His 3 wishes had been thwarted:
Quoting Noble Dust
Doesn't this show psychological depth? He is in a dark place and is looking for way out.
I have no idea what you mean by an 'episode of 24'. Is that not good in your book?
Anyway, I'm done explaining. Again, useful to share different perspectives. Cheers! :up:
I had never heard of the name Ahmir before! I chose the name from a list and kinda smiled at how a Scot might say, "A'm 'ere!" to indicate his presence. Translation: "I'm here!"
Yes, I tried to give equal space to balance things out. You are most perceptive!
Quoting Jack Cummins
Aye. Now, if I wanted to go mad with stereo-typing, I could have added "Och aye, the noo!" to his "Allah be praised!" :wink:
You have a feast of characters. The stories you could tell each other.
Thanks again, Jack. :cool:
So, this story is yours! Congratulations, Amity. It is one of my favourites. :smile:
You showed a great level of creativity here. I loved how you wrote everything chaotically and harmoniously. I don't even know if the latter adjectives can be together. Sorry, I often express myself badly and superfluously.
OK, OK; coming back to what I meant -- English is a vast and beautiful language, and I am very aware that each English-speaking country has its own slang or specialities. I think this is beautiful, and I enjoy reading books and novels in English and sampling the use of different words depending on where the author is. When I read your story the first time, I thought: The author has to be from the UKEngland, Scotland, or Wales. I didn't want to say Scottish because I might have sounded like a braggart. When I read beautiful words such as 'purred' or 'shattered,' I thoughtBritish! (Well, I know now. It could be from England or Scotland. I meant the Islands, not the USA!
That's what I like the most about your story. It is delightful when a reader reads words that are unique from the identity of a writer or territory. It reminds me of James Joyce, for instance. This fabulous author used exclusive 'Irish English' words like 'ropey' or 'moocows,' etc. Well, you may consider this trifling, but I enjoyed it a lot.
Very well done, Amity. You are both a great author and reader. This is very important! Keep up! :sparkle:
Ahmir was the over enthusiastic fan who caused Greta to publicly recoil. This is fodder for cultural war insanity, as the actress maybe accused of ethnic prejudice. But was he trying to kill her then too or just sign his magazine?
Ahmir seeks to blow up Greta because he is A) religious nutcase, B) a reactionary incel spurned by a beloved celebrity icon (never meet your (h)eros, Madonna, Jesus, Allah, Joseph Smith, Bob Dylan). A Muslim of his ilk would never worship female celebrity, unless we're to enjoy the perennial absurdity of such contradictions which can be very real. A male needs an outlet and incels are born of the rage over unobtainable desires and standards. At least Allah has a contingency plan, and according to the religious code all it is not lost.
The cat sort of triggered the bomb, by Sam's fate weaving, but wasn't destroyed in the process, perhaps because it has 9 lives and is working a magic plan. If it is the same cat, it becomes Ahmir's new soul vehicle, who will be serendipitously adopted by Greta. Didn't realize Sophie was a cat...
Ahmir was a default organ donator. This situation is truly bizarre, borrowing a life saving organ from the person who dies trying to end your life. Is this kind of thing ever happened in the history of human life on earth? Wonder if drunk driver's parts were used to save the victims of their drunk driving?
Somehow Sam's magic protected the transplant organ from being blown to smithereens.
All is well...? I'd like to hear from Ahmir now and how he is reconciled to this new life. Is he neutered? Will he be neutered?
I think you know this but just to clarify:
- ly endings are adverbs. Adjectives: chaotic and harmonious.
Nouns: chaos and harmony.
I think anyone can do what they like with words. Together most creatively. Any order in. Just for the hell of it! It depends on whooz liznin...
We can all express ourselves badly in ways that might sound superfluous.
We are imperfect humans. So, shoot us!
I found chaotic harmony here, but haven't listened to it:
Arrangement for flute and cello by Massimo Mercelli.
https://philipglass.com/compositions/chaotic_harmony/
You show a wonderful fascination with words. From different areas and genres.
Quite the inspiration. Thanks for the encouragement. Enjoy being you! :sparkle:
Hilarious. Love it :lol: :up: :love:
Fine! Thanks for today's lesson.
Time to practice writing a draft using both adjectives and adverbs. It sounds interesting. :up:
Apparently *coughs* by somely dastardous accounting, it is frownly upon to use too many of eitherly.
I know an Amir. A big friendly man from Iran, about 10 years younger than me. He is a regular at the bar I frequent. He enjoys metal concerts, we promised to go together some day.... He enjoys his beer, he enjoys seeing the other regulars which he greets with a smile. He has big brown eyes which always seem to lighten up with joyful surprise. We call him 'big man'. A far cry from the brooding angry man on top of a roof he is. I will give him one extra hug when I see him.
I suggest everyone give this one another go, it is very repeat-readable.
Quoting hypericin
I think a quick first scan is OK to get the feel of a short story. But to leave it at that, especially when confused, is not fine. When intelligent people say it is 'over their heads' and haven't the time or motivation to question...well, that is a bit unfair. But yeah, I get that there are a lot of stories to read.
Quoting hypericin
Some people find that slowing down, in any activity, is 'boring' or inconvenient. It reminds me of drivers who overtake at speed and without care. They are usually held up at the next set of traffic lights. They don't reach their destination any quicker and they miss a lot of the scenery. So be it.
I've just written this:
Quoting Amity
Quoting hypericin
I intend to do that with other stories, even if I've re-read them before. To catch the damned glitches!
[quote=]He stroked his beard, contemplating the Christmas Eve job. Gazing up at the stars, he sensed movement along the chapel roof. And froze.[/quote]
I think we're purposefully lead astray, to think a criminal activity is going on. Why is he on the roof, at night, on Christmas Eve. What is there to contemplate about fixing a hole in the roof? Put a tarp on it and wait until normal working hours. He is a Muslim fixing a chapel roof on Christmas Eve? The ridiculousness level is high.
Quoting Noble Dust
Quoting Amity
It is not just these things. The virgins did this as well. To my understanding, this belief in a literal reward of virgins is not characteristic of mainstream Muslim belief, but rather is popularized by jihadist groups, as an inducement to commit violent acts. With this potently loaded foundation, other details (in Christmas, people don't expect bad things to happen, his need to prove his manliness, etc.) conspire to reinforce a stereotypical impression in the readers mind of a violent extremist.
It is as if you set out to trap the reader, but the trap was too strong. The release from the trap needed to be as strong as the trap itself, but it was not. The release was therefore perceived by a lot of readers as a 'glitch', and skipped over, or rationalized away...
There is nothing wrong with being clever, and I love the idea of creating expectations in the reader, then confounding them. But cleverness is not just a clever idea, the writer has to very cleverly chaperone the reader through this clever idea. This is tricky, tricky, tricky, and I would not feel bad at all that it didn't land for most readers. Pros flub this too, badly!
Quoting Amity
I think so too, no reason not to add it! I'm sure Vera won't mind. There is no reason stories here should be seen as set in stone, just because they are "published" here. They are really still first drafts, now with a lot of valuable feedback.
And yet you know about it. So does every teenaged boy in the western world. Less popular with other cultures is the promise of fountains and limpid pools - features every Islamic garden showcases as a foretaste of Jannah, yet Ahmir doesn't demand of his god. The virgins are in popular culture; water features, tulips and orange groves are not. Ahmir doesn't seem to be that well versed in his own religion.
Quoting hypericin
He said, flat out: all he wanted to do was mend a hole in the roof. There had already been an easy out in his disdain of safety gear. Since when do terrorists consider safety gear?
Sorry to butt in. I was in the neighbourhood and couldn't resist contributing $0.2 CND.
Yes, well. It was supposed to be a surprise. A nice one. Not a trick.
Quoting hypericin
I'm sorry that you see it this way. It was only meant to show Ahmir's ignorance. His expectations were not met, hence the post-mortem ranting.
Quoting hypericin
Oh dear, that is a bit too much. The need to be seen as a man and not a homosexual is part of his general confusion. He is searching for who he is. His identity. Same thing with religion. We can speculate that his parents were of mixed faith. The Christmas stocking hanging empty.
I could go on. But I've had enough explaining, for now. Thanks for your interest :sparkle:
As always, your 2 pennies are most welcome. :sparkle: :flower:
Oh, yeah? I can feel the heat from your head. How is it strange?
Quoting Nils Loc
Interesting. Where does it say that the transplanted organ is a heart?
Quoting Nils Loc
Yes. That was done on purpose. What is wrong with that?
He is a roofer. He is there to fix a hole in the roof. He is on call. The only one available. Everyone else is out celebrating. He gets double pay...blah, blah, blah...de...blah.
Quoting Nils Loc
Yup. Time to give it a rest.
I get that. But not only do I know the stereotype, I know that other people know it, I know how prevalent and charged it is. And so gives a strong impression of where the author was coming from with the character, even if in reality they weren't. Writing is not about what the author really meant, its about how it is received. Charged stereotypes like this are tricky, and the author has to be careful deploying them, otherwise the intended effect can easily miss.
I mean, I'm glad you were keen and receptive enough to figure out what was going on here, but that is a cold comfort to the author when most of us didn't.
Quoting Amity
Sorry, didn't mean to pile on here. I agree, enough has been said, let poor Amir rest.
Greta got a second chance, a gift from Ahmir, but then she just dies in the space of a few lines. We need answers from Sam if she is somehow complicit in shaping what happened. It's all strange.
It would make sense that if Ahmir was about to do something terrible, Sam would release him and help Greta at the same time, if Sam is to be seen as a helper. But maybe Sam is the real terrorist...
Best run away now, before I either have a giggle fit or go mad.
FWIW, my first impression of the lad came from "lived alone in his mother's flat" and he's mixed race, rejecting one half of his heritage - I assume the mother's, who went and died on him. Maybe I read too much into that, but I saw him as lost and ineffectual, telling himself stories of derring-do.
It is about both. The stimulus and the response. I agree it is difficult to write about a Muslim character.
Ahmir is a Scottish-Muslim. We could go to town using stereotypes. And readers bring their own set of assumptions to the story. Some are on the look-out for offense. The very word 'Muslim' is a trigger.
For the last time, I will say that there is more to the character of Ahmir than being Muslim.
He is fleshed out in ways that should be clear. If time is taken.
Quoting Vera Mont
Thank you for being a careful, imaginative and empathic reader. Throughout the whole activity. Providing succinct observations. Bringing clarity and, hopefully, understanding. :sparkle: :flower:
Feel free to do both, or more! :wink: :rofl: :naughty: :groan: :heart:
Quoting Tobias
:heart: Love is what it is all about. Having it, or not. Give him a hug from me too :up: :sparkle:
Not me! He's got plenty already. It's the other Ahmirs of this world that could benefit from hugs instead of kicks.
Yes. Greta received her transplant on Dec 25th and died on Feb 14th. Recipients can die at any time, for whatever reason.
C'est la vie, malheureusement :sad:
Carpe diem. Seize the day! :hearts:
Hrm. Imaginative scenario. In a future world, there may be no need for such risky transplants! And robots will replace health professionals...almost there...
No. We are very much in the present. In the head of Greta. Unfortunately, most of the comments dwell heavily on Ahmir. Poor Greta has been pretty much ignored. Interesting to consider why.
Her feelings of fear, paranoid imaginings as she is systematically processed. From admission - the tests for compatibility. The anxious waiting with little distraction, other than the painting. To the successful outcome. Destiny, divinity, science or Sam?
Her vulnerability. Being alone. Unhappy. Her only love, Sophie. A cat who doesn't really care for her. Only the lavish lifestyle and exotic dishes. Cupboard love.
Greta's realisation that her life can be different. Better. Excited. Making plans.
Too late...
So I'm curious then, what was the idea of the Dalek-like automaton? A dreamy delusion of Greta's?
Quoting Amity
I think people just got fixated on the fanatic thing. But generally I don't see characterization as the strength of this story. Everything just rushes by so quickly, so much is going on, it's hard for the mind to settle on character. The reader never has time to develop any kind of empathy for the characters. To me, the strengths are the poetry, the dreaminess of it, the wildness, the creativity, the clever plotting and resolution. Your trademark crazy chaos and confusion. In retrospect I'm surprised I didn't recognize it as yours immediately.
I think it was Amity's dozy daftness. Association: an alien, sterile environment with the scary, mechanical voice from Dr. Who. And the smiling, "Trust me, I'm a doctor, it's just a little prick!" - white coat 'reassurance'.
Quoting hypericin
Yes. I now have a complete aversion to the damned word. It will never pass my lips again. Jamais!
Quoting hypericin
Oh, that's such a pity. I felt sorry for them straight away. I thought I did quite well with the perfect pair. In a short, short story.
I think not every reader feels the same way. Some don't have to dig too deep for an empathy vibe.
Quoting hypericin
Wow! That is quite the loveliest thing I've heard. Thank you!
I will now carry my 3Cs with pride. :sparkle: :nerd:
That was actually very clear to me.
Perhaps you have experienced similar?
Or, at least, you could imagine the scene. Thank you :up:
No, it was deduction since it discussed organ donation at some point. It wasn't surreal to me but magical realism; so it still had to be grounded in reality and aliens were out of the question.
Pleased to meet you, Sherlock Holmes! :nerd:
I don't think anyone's written a murder mystery, yet, have they? Detective fiction. Hmm...
Quoting Benkei
I really don't know much about the genre of magical realism. It was used last time to describe 'Red, White and Blue'. But I don't follow any rules. And aliens could well have entered the picture. Interesting.