Headphones on everyone. Follow your tour guide and stay behind the velvet ropes at all times, as we showcase the masterpieces that we have added to our permanent collection for this month’s Furious Fiction challenge!  

Here were this month’s prompts:

• Each story had to take place in a MUSEUM or ART GALLERY.
• Each story had to include something being spilled.
• Each story had to include the following words: DREAM, PLANT and REPEAT (longer variations accepted).

EXHIBIT A+

We love a good location prompt here at Furious Fiction – and as a writer, it’s an excellent discipline to confine your characters and storytelling to one place.  With their specificity, these two locations certainly provide a creative backdrop for any kind of story! Here were some trends we noticed from the hundreds of stories we received this month:

• Talking exhibits anyone? Yes, the POV of paintings (very often it was the Mona Lisa) or even sculptures was a popular choice for this challenge. So much so, that three such stories are represented in the showcase below.
• The prompt words played a big part in what the chosen galleries and museums were for, including a number of variations on Museums of Broken Dreams! Meanwhile, strategically placed plants decorated the spaces, and the three words even became an eat-pray-love style mantra (‘dream, plant, repeat’).
• There were far fewer heists than we were expecting, however with the ‘spilling’ prompt, a lot of accidental or intentional sabotage. (Seriously, someone needs to speak to the management about so many beverages being in close proximity to the display pieces!).
• Special mention to A.L. Paradiso for not holding back in giving us a sexy-time scene between Vera and, erm, a rock-hard statue of David. The marble dust is still settling on that mental image!
• Character-wise, cleaners featured heavily, thanks to the spilling requirement, while restorers, archivists and security guards were also on the payroll. Artists at their own exhibitions was another one, while child POVs were a popular choice (including our Top Pick). 

We were truly impressed with the overall quality and creativity of SO many stories this month – and even considered opening a new wing to display them all. But as always, a few pieces stood out and at the pointy end of the list this month, congrats to our Top Pick by Philippa Statkus, for her story Do Dinosaurs Dream at Night? 

You can read it below, along with other shortlisted stories we have curated and our longlist at the end. As always, thanks to all who submitted stories – let’s do it again next month!

JULY TOP PICK:

DO DINOSAURS DREAM AT NIGHT? by Philippa Statkus, VIC

The museum sounded like the page of an old book being read out in a whisper.

Mum said not to touch anything. It felt strange because everything looked like it wanted to be held. The shiny rocks, the old coins, the dusty toys. I wondered if they were lonely or scared behind the glass.

The first room was full of enormous animals made of bones. The dinosaur was the biggest thing I’d ever seen. Its bones stretched all the way to the ceiling. I thought maybe it had once had a favourite plant to munch on, or another dinosaur it liked to walk beside, a friendasaurus. I wondered whether dinosaurs had best friends. I wanted to know if they had ever been frightened of thunderstorms, and did they dream at night?

Nobody else seemed to wonder that. They read the little signs instead.

On tiptoes I reached up to try to touch it, freezing as it seemed to lower its great head towards me.

Then Mum called my name, and the dinosaur remembered it was supposed to be bones again.

In the next room there was a bowl with a crack running through it. It was the kind of bowl that would fit well in your hands, that you would want to use every day. I imagined someone dropping it, a little girl hurrying across a stone floor carrying hot soup while her grandmother warned her to slow down. The bowl escaped her hands, bounced once, and split with a sound too loud for the silent room it was now in. The grandmother laughed at the shock, and smiled every time she used the repaired bowl with her granddaughter.

Did they know that this one mistake would be remembered?

Further on, a tiny leather shoe rested inside its glass case. It was almost exactly my size. The child who wore it had run somewhere once. They had skipped, stumbled, kicked stones, and grown tired enough to ask to be carried. Did they jump in puddles and climb trees like me? It made me feel funny knowing someone my size could become something people looked at through glass.

There were paintings of people who tried very hard to look important, only relaxing when nobody was watching. The woman in the blue dress danced in her garden before breakfast. The stern man with silver buttons collected ladybirds in his pockets. The boy with the stiff collar climbed rooftops at night because the moon looked lonely. Every night they lived, while every day they repeated the pose they had been painted in, so nobody would be suspicious.

I smiled at each serious face, just in case smiling could travel through time. Maybe they will smile back next time.

On the way home, Mum asked me which part of the museum was my favourite.

“The stories that don’t stay in the glass.”

“What do you mean?”

“The people leave and take the stories home with them. Everything has a story, even shoes and bowls.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The innocence of a child’s POV works sublimely in this story, as we see a museum through the eyes of this most curious of narrators. What could have become cutesy is elevated by some genuinely insightful observations, such as thinking about the plants and companions of the long-dead dinosaur and the events surrounding a cracked bowl. “Did they know that this one mistake would be remembered?” – such a wonderfully curious question in the context of museum artefacts. And on it goes, while the other visitors read the little signs, our narrator sees the stories behind the shoes, bowls, bones and paintings. Beautifully told and an excellent reminder that everything that sits in a museum had a life before.

SELF-PORTRAIT BETWEEN THE SOUTH CHINA SEA AND LONG ISLAND SOUND by Benyapa Ongphiphadhanakul, Thailand

In case you don’t live in New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art is this sort of swanky art gallery sitting along the eastern edge of Central Park. I go there often, not out of free will, but because our school likes to visit its American Wing, as if fleetingly admiring a courtyard of statues or pretending to have tea in Frank Lloyd Wright’s living room might teach us something about becoming American.

In that courtyard of statues, I met a boy whose words swallowed me like a sinkhole–sudden, plunging, no guardrails, no warning signs. He gave limbs, lungs, and a voicebox to that hatred I’d tried to bury, and so began my morning routine of prying open my slanted ‘fox’ eyes.

I was ten when my hands became vessels of distortion, forcing my face into a shape it was never meant to hold.

In Frank Lloyd Wright’s living room, I read the news clipping about that oil spill that stained the coastline back home. The black tide had come, and geography had tied me to a mast. I was close enough to grieve, to mourn the smell of salt in the sea. Yet I was too distant to wrap my arms around the village and lighten its burden, too far from the fishing town where I had once eaten zongzi at dusk with salt still drying on my skin.

I was fifteen when I started lying to myself, painting this foreign place of neon-lit diners with inflated tip prices as “home” –  because the alternative was belonging nowhere at all.

In a hall of paintings and stained-glass windows, the American Dream was repeated to me like an oath – a pledge, a promise engraved among the stars of Jupiter and Venus. But I once had a different dream. In it, I was screaming underwater, somewhere in the stretch between the South China Sea and Long Island Sound. Each promise I’d broken to myself was waving from the shore.

They told me to keep holding space as if my hands were made for grasping empty air. They don’t know that my fingers have a tendency to reach for broken things. They said hunger fuels success. I’m ravenous. Still, my breath is pressed thin. My hunger is not gasoline–it’s stomach acid that pools, drowns, corrodes the one thing it was meant to propel. They plant in us the belief that success is a finish line, but really, it's an external asymptote.

I was eighteen when the American Dream became just another orgastic future.

I like art because it allows me to observe without intervening. Sometimes. I want to be beautifully arranged by someone else, framed in ornately carved wood, and mistaken for something that has always belonged in their lavish world. But the frames and pressed glass cannot alter what they contain: only teach the thing inside to hold still.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There were some brilliant character studies alongside our venues this month, and this story was one of the strongest – as our narrator struggles with their own identity as an immigrant to America. Confronted with overt racism (“fox eyes”) and a desire to belong in this country of “neon-lit diners” and star-spangled oaths, we see them grapple with the notion of “home”. With its specificity about the location as well as the two countries on either side of this watery divide, this piece does a wonderful job of holding a mirror to both the experience of migrants and the glass and timber-framed box they so often occupy in a new land.

THE LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY ARTWORKS by JL Moshman, VIC

“This meeting will come to order,” said the Mona Lisa. “Firstly, I’d like to congratulate—”

“I move that we ban mobile phones!” said the Venus de Milo, to murmurs of approval. “They always forget to turn off their flash. I’m sick of being blinded!”

The Mona Lisa sighed. “We’ve talked about this, Venus. We were able to ban selfie sticks—well done to Liberty Leading the People for heading that up—but we all agreed that a phone ban would be too difficult to enforce.”

“The flashes aren’t so bad,” said the Lacemaker.

“Easy for you to say,” grumbled the Venus de Milo. “Your eyes aren't facing the crowd.”

“As I was saying,” said the Mona Lisa, “I’d like to congratulate the French Jewel Collection on their successful heist project, which has brought much needed attention to our extended collections. We wish them well on their travels.”

“Worked for you, didn’t it sister?” said La Belle Ferronnière. “A few years on the lam and you were suddenly the most popular exhibit, oui?”

The Mona Lisa cleared her throat. “That’s besides the point. While the jewel heist caused a stir, we are still experiencing a downturn in art appreciation over recent years. Ever since the Virgin of the Rocks partnered with Dan Brown in 2003, we’ve seen an uptick in visitor numbers, but a downward trend in art education. Fewer people are choosing to study Fine Arts degrees. If we don’t do something about this, the only people visiting us will be digital content creators and American tourists.”

“God forbid,” the Seated Scribe said under his breath.

“So,” the Mona Lisa continued, “I’m asking for suggestions, not only for maintaining public prominence, but also to raise the calibre of visitors to the gallery. Ideas?”

“We could spill paint on someone’s canvas,” suggested Winged Victory. “That would draw media attention, and might increase interest in art conservation.”

“Don’t ask me to volunteer,” said the Dream of Endymion.

“Not bad Victory,” said the Mona Lisa. “Any suggestions that don’t involve vandalism?”

There was a silence.

“I know, we could plant a fake!” said the Borghese Gladiator.

“A fake?” repeated the Mona Lisa. “Wouldn’t that damage our credibility?”

“No, listen! We tell the public that there’s a fake in the Louve, but we don’t say which piece it is. They have to figure out which artworks are genuine and which aren’t.”

“Hmm…I like it,” said the Mona Lisa. “The mystery might draw people to study art history.”

“I second the motion,” said the Pierrot.

“Very well. All in favour?”

A chorus of ‘Ayes’ resounded throughout the galleries.

“The motion is passed. The only question is, who will be swapped out for a fake?”

She waited. The silence lengthened. No one wanted to be hidden from view, to give their place to an imposter, even if it meant notoriety later. At last, a voice piped up from the end of a long corridor.

“I’ll do it,” the voice said.

The Mona Lisa smiled.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

As mentioned in our intro, this month there were a lot of stories told from the point of view of an artwork. However, this one stood out for its ambitious take on that idea – a meeting of many of the Louvre’s finest. And wait, there’s even a plot, as they get busy trying to figure out how to draw more tourists to their hallowed halls and corridors. Along the way, there are some fun digs including banning flash photography, the original reason for the Mona Lisa’s notoriety, and last year’s brazen jewel heist. (Also some fun in-jokes relating to the artworks mentioned.) A smile-worthy final line too!

AIN’T THAT SOMETHIN’ by Amanda Todisco, USA

Everyone is here to see the Mummy of Marirtyef.

The placard tells me she’s a woman. 50s. Intermediate period, 2100-2040 BC. Excavated in 1912 by Harvard University-Boston Museum of Fine Arts Expedition.

‘The same year the Titanic sank,' I think. Because Hollywood did that one. Because Leonardo DiCaprio stole my nine-year-old heart and Rose DeWitt Bukater inspired my prom hairstyle.

A little boy grips his father’s hand and demands he look at her blue faience beads.

“Ain’t that somethin’?” the dad says, with tentative disinterest. Unsure of how much weight he wants to channel into her existence in the 20 seconds or so that he examines the silhouette of her body, plastered in linen and four-thousand-year-old grime.

They move along with the flow of the crowd. One person, then the next, as I remain planted in front of the glass casing.

It must be odd to be made a spectacle of by strangers. To be stared at by little boys and parents with things like 401ks because what’s that to a mummy anyway? Wouldn’t she want them to know how she lived her life?

Do they know anything of her beyond this placard? Whether she bathed her children in the Nile, or believed dreams were portals to the supernatural, or felt most herself spinning flax into thread before weaving it into linen for her family’s clothing?

And did they know you listened to “Hips Don’t Lie” on repeat after dad left us for another woman, your best Shakira voice seeping through the creases in my door on a Sunday morning? Your voice and sunshine: two mortal enemies to my teenage sleep schedule.

Did they see it when you’d pull my whole body into your lap and coo there, there, patting my back with your open palm? Raking your unpolished fingernails against my scalp until I fell asleep and all was well. Three or twenty-three—my age didn’t matter.

And when they shook my hand and said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” did they understand the weight of it? That I was forever changed and my walking encyclopedia, my temple of knowledge, was swallowed by the thickness of time.

A college student bumps into me, spilling cold coffee down my brand-new white blouse. It slicks my mother’s blue beads, the ones she chose not to take with her.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, not sure what to do with her hands. Wanting to fix it, but too modest to touch my breasts.

I point to the sign above the entryway: NO FOOD OR BEVERAGE.

She looks at it, then at me, her mouth opening and closing around another apology.

Then she is gone too, absorbed into the soft, shuffling procession of the living.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The hits just keep coming, and once more we have a child’s perspective – although here in the context of her own mother. This piece is beautifully observed, from the Titanic details allowing us a glimpse of her childhood (and age), along with the brilliant cameo from a disinterested dad that lends this story its title. At this point, we once more get some empathy for the exhibits themselves and the life that the mummy led. Of course, that’s not the only mummy on her mind – as thoughts jump to her own mother and now it’s as though she is viewing that life through glass. The blue beads add a nice parallel too. A well structured piece that works on a few layers.

OBJECTS OF TRUE BEAUTY by Julie Souter, NSW

Oh God, they’ve put up decorations; streamers hung from the rubber plant and four green balloons bounced on the wall above a creased sign announcing HAPPY RETIREMENT!! in silver letters. Judith Greenberg cringed and wanted to flee and die of embarrassment at the same time. Fussing of any sort made her very uncomfortable. She forced a big smile as corks popped and warm champagne frothed and spilt from paper cups.

Leonie McCall, CEO of the Frick Art Museum, arrives to give a farewell speech for the gallery’s longest-serving employee. She’s wearing a luscious red velvet cape which Judith immediately falls in love with, and thanks her for 40 years of devotion to keeping the masterpieces safe.

Hip, hip hooray and cheers! Judith drinks a bottle of bubbles, then Alice from HR hands over her retirement check and Pottery Barn gift voucher. Hugs and ‘let’s catch-up’ and her colleagues eventually return to work. Judith stuffs the stolen velvet cape into her shopping bag and piles plates of left over cake and assorted sandwiches on it. She’d gotten away with crime for so long it's hard not to smirk, then hurries up the circular stairs to say one last goodbye to the gilded New York mansion and her famous art collection.

First, the Long Hall, where her copy of The Four Seasons: Summer hangs proudly. She leans close, still proud how she’d captured the dreamy feel of those big-bottomed girls. She’d sat on a chair opposite the painting, studying it for four years, before she decided to copy the original, just for fun, for practise. Judith was also in charge of dusting the ornate frames, and later, monitoring CCTV. She did a few knock-offs over the years, and swapping them had been a breeze, her timing impeccable, five time winner of Employee of the Year. The originals were lovingly displayed in her rent-controlled, once grand apartment on W 86th St. It had never been about money, just aesthetics, just for her.

Judith’s heels click-clacked on the tiles of the colonnaded garden court, past the Rembrandt’s and Goya’s, to her copy of Lady Hamilton as Nature. The way she’d captured the Cavalier Spaniel, and the crimson of the dress. Perfect!

Judith walked faster now, keeping an eye out for staff in search of the cape, and gave her third forgery, Mother and Children, a cute Renoir hidden in an alcove, a brief glance, then she rushed through the ornate front doors and disappeared down E 70TH St.

Judith knew that now she’d retired, her days would be on repeat. That’s why her sunset ritual was so important. Wrapped in the stunning red cape, Judith sat in front of each of her paintings and drank neat vodka, speechless at their glory. She knew how very important it was to be surrounded by objects of true beauty.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

It’s impossible not to chuckle at Judith’s reaction to the surprise retirement party given to her by her coworkers at this particular museum. (Anyone who has ever endured a ‘cake in the break room’ coworker situation will empathise!) Of course, this is no ordinary five-time Employee of the Year winner, as we learn on Judith’s final tour of the artworks that she has been a very busy woman over the years (and a very naughty girl!). The tone of this mischief and its ultimate purpose – to be surrounded by objects of true beauty – is a delightful revelation. And Judith’s chutzpah so pure that you almost don’t mind that she leaves a pile of forgeries in her red-caped wake.

RAISING THE BROWS by Jenny Lynch, WA

Okay, that’s it! Enough already. After hanging here for centuries, I’ve had a gutful of insults and snide remarks being hurled in my direction.

My smile usually cops the most abuse… ‘Supercilious smirk.’ ‘Half-baked grin.’ ‘Hiding a grim, dark secret.’ ‘Guilty about something.’ ‘Sharing a private ‘IN’ joke with Leonardo. Weren’t they a thing?’

Recently though, most verbal abuse has been about my eyebrows. Or should I say the lack thereof?

And although I normally speak fluent silence, today, as I’m sick and tired of keeping my mouth shut, I’m about to spill the tea and set the record straight.

So, put those hideous selfie stick things away, plant your bums on the floor, and listen up, because I’m not going to be repeating this. Ever.

Firstly, let’s talk about my smile. Leo painted my portrait using the dreamy Sfumato technique. And no, I don’t have the time, the energy, or the inclination to discuss the technicalities of the method used. You can look it up later on your little magic boxes. Suffice to say, it enabled my face to display an ethereal, enigmatic smile, which changes depending on where you focus your gaze.

‘It’ll keep ‘em guessing, Lisa,’ Leo said during my sitting. And yes, for the record, my real name is Lisa, not Mona. ‘It’s an unreadable smile, an ambiguous one, with emotions kept hidden, and a timeless elegance that will one day make yours the most photographed smile in history!’

So, you see, there’s nothing sinister or evil hiding behind my smile.

Secondly, raising the non-existent eyebrows debate. There are so many ridiculous conspiracy theories… ‘Leo painted them, but after so many centuries of cleaning, they’ve been rubbed off.’ ‘The Mona Lisa has been restored several times, but the eyebrows were never repainted.’ ‘Da Vinci simply forgot to paint them in the first place.’

Yep, I’ve heard them all, and they’re all bullshit. Here’s the lowdown:

Leo decided not to paint eyebrows on my portrait on purpose. He didn’t ‘forget’ to paint them. He never forgot anything! Come on! The guy was a genius. Hell, he designed sketches of flying machines, submarines, and humanoid robotics centuries before their time!

He was also a visionary. He saw things! He said to me, ‘Lisa, I’m going to forego painting your eyebrows. Trust me, 500 years from now, women will be looking for a role model for a new eyebrow trend. By then, they’ll be sick of embracing their inner Frida Kahlo, sick of eyebrows that look like two overfed caterpillars or furry woodland creatures. And you, my dear, will be the one to show them how to let their caterpillars morph into butterflies and fly away. You, my dear, will become the one true, original ‘influencer’, and teach the women of the world that less is more.’

Now, run along, everyone. I need to get back to work… smiling for your selfies, silently laughing at how hideous your smiles are, and of course, judging your fashion choices.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Yes, we are back with Mona – by far the most popular artwork POV this month. And in choosing to showcase this particular story, we love the honesty with which Lisa dispels all the falsehoods surrounding her painting. From the smile to the brows, our framed narrator (as opposed to narrative framing) takes great delight in telling us where we went wrong, with never-heard-before insights from Leo himself and predictions on her becoming a fashion inspiration for generations to come. A cheeky voice that somehow suits that Sfumato smile!

THINGS AS THEY ARE by Pam Makin, SA

The Old Guitarist is a portrait of a street musician painted circa 1903 by Pablo Picasso. The canvas…

The headphones are too tight. Feeling giddy, a headache begins at the back of my skull. I want to go home. Visiting the exhibition had not been my idea; Jacqueline had insisted. “It will be good for you, Mum. You haven’t been out for a long time.”

She was right. I hadn’t been out since the accident. Where would I go? And how? I lost my sight, my husband, and my will to live in a single catastrophic moment. My life was turned into a bad dream I can’t wake up from.

Jacqueline is all I have now. She is fiddling with the headphones, doing her best to adjust them for me. She has done her best these past two years though it can’t be easy for her. She pats my hand and the audio plays on.

The background is painted in shades of grey and blue, typical of the artist’s so-called Blue Period…

Picasso’s Blue Period lasted around four years. By my calculations, I was still owed two years. But I am not permitted to wallow. Life goes on, as they say. On and on and on with nothing in it. Life was once filled with art and music. Carlos and I were regular visitors to galleries and concert halls. We could talk for hours and dance for even longer with one of Carlos’ Latin playlists on repeat. I wouldn’t mind this blindness so much if only I could hear his voice, feel his touch.

Grief plants itself in my throat like a desert cactus. I reach for my water bottle. The gallery voice in my headphones drones on.

…cradles the guitar in his lap. The long, bony fingers of his left hand curl around the neck, his little finger extended…

We loved this painting, Picasso’s Old Guitarist. The best of his Blues in my opinion. The image was reforming in my mind as the audio continued. I could see the old man’s twisted posture, how he bends to fit within the frame, his torn shirt and elegant fingers, grey hair, the perfect curve of his ear.

A touch on my arm startles me and I drop my open bottle of water. I feel Jacqueline leap to her feet. She says something reassuring, but I have no attention for anything other than the voice painting Picasso’s picture in my head.

It is said that the guitarist is blind. His eyes appear to be closed. His mouth is open as if he might be singing.

I reach up and take the headphones off, moisture settling in my useless eyes.

I can see him.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Another beautifully rendered portrait here – of Jacqueline’s mother as she stands in front of a Picasso painting and we learn of the tragic events that have come before. Blind from an accident that also took her former gallery companion, our narrator must rely on audio (nicely woven throughout) to recall a painting she can still see in her mind’s eye. The reflection on still being owed two years her own ‘blue period’ hits particularly hard, but ultimately we see the power of art transcending her own limitations. The final line is beautifully ambiguous and sums up the sensory storytelling on display.

WOMEN IN THE GARDEN by Lisa Verdekal, Ireland

You stare at the building. The tingling starts in your feet and moves upwards. So much potential. So much beauty. At least you hope so. The brochure is certainly promising. Contemporary impressionist paintings of the countryside. Your favourite. You emit a tiny squeal, then look around to see if anyone has noticed. People pass by; a few enter the gallery. No one looks at you. For a moment, you’re relieved, but then the all-too-familiar loneliness takes precedence. They never notice you. Cold-hearted cities. Concrete and cars. There and there and there, as if trying to drown you in gloom. Yet, despite it all, today you feel buoyant, hopeful.

Heart pounding, you enter the gallery. The little book hidden inside your handbag bumps against your side. You pat it.

You didn’t need to bring the book; the words are emblazoned in your mind. Maybe you’re worried it will disappear if you leave it behind? Or is it just reassuring to have it nearby? Its solidity making the fantastical believable.

Colour erupts from frames as you enter the main room. Flowers, trees and fields. Dappled sunlight on a shaded garden. Will today be the day? Almost a year has passed since you discovered the book at the flea market. You’ve been to so many galleries. Seen so many paintings. Please let this be the day!

You begin to chant.

Tone and texture, media and style. Form and colour, how you beguile. Canvas, paper call to me, invite me in and set me free.

You know you must repeat the incantation over and over until a painting actually calls to you.

You know, when you find that painting, you then must say,

Mood and lighting, how exciting,

over and over until…

Your eyes are drawn to a painting across the room. So large and bright and full. A woman potting plants on a garden table surrounded by lush flowers and foliage. You rush over. It’s called “Woman in a Garden”. The dream, you think.

You gasp as she turns, smiles at you and then goes back to her task, her hands lifting dark, rich loam. You watch how it falls from her fingers into a clay pot. An earthy scent fills your nose.

“Mood and lighting, how exciting,” you whisper. Then again and again. A slight, fragrant breeze brushes your cheeks. Vibrant white, pink and blue petals spill from the frame and land on your shoes. You look around. No one seems to notice. You take a deep breath. This is the one. This is it. Finally! Your legs feel weak, your mouth dry. The book seems to pulsate in rhythm with your heart. Your handbag is hot against your side.

You cast one more look around the room, then close your eyes and reach out your hand.

Two people walk up and stand before the painting. “That’s lovely,” says the woman.

“Quite vivid,” says the man. He leans over and reads the sign on the wall.

“It’s called “Women in a Garden”.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A 2nd-person POV can be jarring for some readers. But here it allows for immediate access into the story and this character, seemingly lost in a concrete world of “there and there and there”, drowning in the gloom. The magical element kicks in as we realise they seek more than just an escape – an actual portal. And in finding it, the subtle shift from “a” to “e” in the title of her chosen painting is complete. What we enjoyed about this one was that it captured that feeling you sometimes get when staring at a lifelike painting – that sense that you could step into it, such is the way the scene speaks to you. By using this magical element, it took this idea from the figurative to literal and we’re totally fine with that!

WE’VE GONE BANANAS by James Maley, WA

Day 4. I’m being held hostage in Paris. The bastards strapped me to the wall. I can’t break free. They taped me, I can’t cry out for help. There are people everywhere, but they just… stare at me. Crowds of people give me a deep searching look like that Rodin statue around the corner, or just laugh at me in my suffering. They take selfies with me. Post them on social media. It’s humiliating, and no-one seems to care. This is torture.

My life started out with such promise, growing on a bunch in the hot sun of Cote D’Ivoire. I felt sorry for the poor farmers who picked us. Young kids some of them, and bone thin; every day they worked with more food than they might see in a whole year, and some had nasty marks on their backs for failing to meet the daily targets. Blood, sweat and tears spilt onto the ground in there, not always in that order. I was glad when my fruitlings and I got out of the plantation and were shipped off to “gay Paree” (hon hon hon). I dreamt that I’d end up in a Michelin star dessert that would revolutionise haute cuisine.

My hopes were dashed somewhat after seeing that the first place we arrived was not a marketplace, but a factory. They coated us all in chemical residue to increase shelf life. I can’t imagine it’s any good for people’s health, but maybe the less they know about what they eat, the better. They certainly wouldn’t want to know how long we sat in storage before arriving on a supermarket shelf in Bastille. Oh, what I would have given to be organic.

But still, someone bought two of us. He was silver-haired and in good shape, wearing a Hugo Boss suit that oozed wealth. He scoffed the other one on the drive here. I thought I’d end up as morning tea for some bigshot businessman, in hindsight that would’ve been preferable to this. Turns out he’s some avant-garde artist, and I was to be his muse. He measured the exact height and angle, stuck me on the wall with silver duct tape, and that was it.

Nothing makes sense in modern art. I’m in The Louvre with the most priceless pieces in all of human history, and they’re walking straight past Van Gogh and Monet to stare at a banana. It’s ridiculous! I was supposed to be eaten, it’s my reason for being. And I’ve heard rumours that this torture is to be repeated on another bright yellow banana, when my body has turned black and unfit even for banana bread. Wait, someone’s climbing over the velvet rope, don’t tell me… Yes, he’s taking me down. He’s unpeeling me. Finally, someone with common sense! The security guards look livid, but I don’t care. At last I can be at peace.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The third of our ‘artwork POV’ stories in this showcase pays tribute to the often-absurd world of concept installation art pieces (the title is apt in this regard). The peak of this may just be the famous ‘banana duct tape art’ by Italian artist Maurizio Cattelen in 2019 – with one edition of the ‘artwork’ selling at auction for more than $6million! This story tells it from the perspective of said banana, reflecting on its life and how it was plucked from obscurity in Africa to this confused scenario. The fruit laments that a banana was born to be eaten, not looked at, and this story – like the longlisted banana piece by Cate Furey – exploits that to great effect. (And yes, the buyer DID eat the banana in real life!)

DREAM’S HASTY JOURNEY, 1911, OIL ON CANVAS by Maddison Scott, VIC

They say that if you’ve been ruminating on a decision, one look at Dream’s Hasty Journey, 1911, Oil on Canvas, will reveal a decision you’ve not been compelled to make yet. A lofty claim, perhaps, but certainly true for any visitor to the Cubist wing at The Ormrod Gallery.

Leah Massengill was not aware she’d suffered a transient ischemic attack the day before she visited Dream’s Hasty Journey. The 22-year old felt perturbed by the artist’s choice of muted colours for tonal gradations and as she stared into the feminine face of the painting’s subject, she knew with an alarming clarity that she needed to go to the hospital. Later, her doctors credited her intuition with preventing an imminent stroke.

David Onyango only went to The Ormrod on Tuesday the 23rd of September because he got off the bus at the wrong stop and didn’t want to wait in the rain for an hour. The moment he beheld the interlocking flat planes of a faceless woman wearing a chain of beads in *Dream’s Hasty Journey,* he felt a pull towards his mother, whom he hadn’t visited in months. He was able to say one final “I love you” before she passed just hours later.

Gael Delgardo saw a woman shrouded in darkness with the hint of a red dress disappearing into a labyrinth of stairs when he planted his feet in awe at Dream’s Hasty Journey. He bent his neck as if inspecting an illusion because his brother beside him saw a dancing horse. That night, Gael wrote a long overdue letter to his woman in red and the following week she wrote him back. On their honeymoon, they visited The Ormrod.

Jenny Aker spilled her regrets to Dream’s Hasty Journey when she visited the gallery on her forty-fourth birthday. The subject of the painting’s face–a geometric maze of perspective–felt like a portent of herself. The moment she looked away, her heart knew that being fired from an accounting job she hated was a blessing. She went home, enrolled in a culinary course and bought a fancy new apron.

The curator of The Ormrod–Jacques Barreau–did not know the precise history of Dream’s Hasty Journey. Over the years, historians repeatedly examined the artwork and though they confirmed it was indeed painted in 1911 with oil on canvas, the artist remained a mystery. Some thought it was a clever ruse concocted by one of the modern masters or perhaps a more classical artist dipping their toes into Cubism. Jacques reprimanded his tour guides when they suggested to visitors that the painting held some kind of magic for he himself had never once felt compelled to do anything. Except perhaps once, in 1999, when he thought he saw a flicker of flames in the subject’s grey eyes. It was just a coincidence that a week later, after installing fire alarms throughout his house, a faulty wire sparked a blazing fire.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This month’s challenge inspired writers to create fictional artworks (shout out to the disturbing longlisted ‘Planted Dreams of Od’yggdisz’) and here the 1911 oil painting, ‘Dream’s Hasty Journey’ is one such piece – although we did do a sneaky google just to double check! Rather than follow a particular character, this piece presents us with a series of vignettes, gallery style, as the effect of the painting on its viewers is brought to light. From avoiding death to enabling final goodbyes, love matches and new callings, this mysterious painting has a lot to answer for. Or does it? After all, the world is full of coincidences. Right? Still, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look…

THE WAY WE SEE IT by Annie B. Fulton, USA

You started spilling your guts about the state of our marriage just as the bus pulled up to the museum doors, and I assumed you’d at least put a temporary lid on it as a courtesy to the other tourists once we went in, but no, the rant took on a whole new air as we entered the Picasso exhibit. You said living with me was like living in a cube, that our relationship had become flat and fragmented, lacking in color and perspective. When I asked you what you meant by this, you just shrugged and said I was as skewed as a polygon.

Moving along into the Modigliani exhibit, you started in on my looks. You said my nose was too long, my lips so pursed you never knew if you were kissing me or an alpaca, my stare so blank that you wondered if I was ever capable of an emotion other than melancholy. When I asked you what then could have possibly drawn you to me in the first place, you muttered something about me in the nude.

Once inside the Rousseau wing, you took it up a notch by telling me I was a terrible house manager, that our home looked like a jungle, a tangled mess of overgrown plants and pets gone wild.

Finally, I’d had it with your lather rinse repeat diatribe. Traipsing through the Salvador Dali exhibit, I turned to you and said I felt like I’d been living in an alternate, surreal universe for the last forty years. That being married to you for that long was like a bizarre fever dream come true. That I must have been delirious when I said, “I do.” That not even the most highly trained psychoanalyst could explain my motivation for sticking with you this long.

I understand, you said simply, when we reached the main lobby where the walls were bare except for a sign over a bar that said Concessions. I’m sorry too, I said, not quite understanding what just happened.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This deftly-created tour of a relationship seemed like the ideal way to end this month’s showcase. In matching the rant with the surroundings, this piece pays clever homage to the artworks while giving us insights into this rocky relationship. From cubist metaphors to the long-faced portraits of Modigliani, we are inadvertently given an art lesson through the torrent of insults. Henri Rousseau’s jungles follow, along with claims of poor housekeeping, while Dali’s surrealism sticks the landing. Perhaps the funniest though is the ‘concessions’ at the end, and we have to concede, while the plot is simple enough, this more than any other story taught us some new things. Perhaps we just needed a gift shop to exit through, as you must all do now. Thanks for coming!

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx top 10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds and were considered for the showcase and deserve an ‘honourable mention’. Remember, all creativity is subjective, ‘beauty in the eye of the beholder’ and all that  – but if your story made the list this month, take a moment to celebrate!

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• THE EXECUTION OF LADY JANE GREY by Madeleine Armstrong, UK
• THE VERDANT HORIZON by The Alchemist, SA
• THE BENCH-WARMER OF GALLERY THREE by Defne Oykum Ozcimen, Germany
• THE UNVOICED SCREAM by SPANKSY, Vic
• THE 237th TIME IS THE CHARM by Celine Perczynsk Northen, NSW
• LOOKING AND SEEING by Terry Bledsoe, USA
• SKETCHY AS… by Kate Larkindale, NZ
• GOLDEN YEARS by Carl Newby, QLD
• IRIS WOKE by Kimber C, USA
• YOU KNOW THAT GALLERY ON SMITH STREET? by Lou Harper, VIC
• THE MUSEUM OF CRINGE THINGS LIA THOMAS HAS DONE by Dead Carcosa, USA
• THE GHOST WHO WAS HAUNTED by Jiya Sharma, WA
• LA LIBERTÉ? By Laura Hallam, NSW
• VENUS by Verdon Massy, USA
• WHAT YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH by Jordan Bova, VIC
• THE ITALIAN PAINTING by Daniel Poole, NSW
• INVISIBLE by Natalie J E Potts, SA
• RED CENTRE DREAMING by Siobhan Dermody, NT
• LOOK by Penelope H.K. Lucienne-Star, USA
• RELEVANCE by Brandon Khenkitisak, VIC
• THE NIGHT GARDENER by Ada, Dominican Republic
• THE STRENGTH OF BUTTERFLIES by Katie Ess, USA
• THE WOMAN IN THE BLUE AND WHITE CHECKERED DRESS by Robert Hanover, USA
• I WONDER by Allan Barden, VIC
• PLANTED DREAMS OF OD’YGGDISZ by Rev, USA
• ARTISTIC IMPROVEMENTS by Roger Leigh, NSW
• BUT IS IT ART? by Cate Furey, ACT
• SAD PREMONITION by Michael Yates, WA
• THE SILENT GAVEL by Beverley Kirkby, NSW
• ARTIFICIAL ARTISTRY by Meryl Broughton, WA
• EXHIBIT B by Jonah, Austria
• TOUCHÉ by Linda Vanduynhoven, VIC
• BEST LAID PLANS by Jenna Spiller, VIC
• JUDAS’ SMILE by Nasrin Rahim, Iran
• INSPIRING YOUNG ARTISTS by Erin Cayzer, NSW
• MUSEUM OF MOMENTS GONE by Mileva Anastasiadou, Greece
• SAD GIRL IN A GALLERY by Kate Mayne, QLD
• ZERO REFLECTION by Ronnie Erdos, NSW
• A DISPLAY OF HUMANITY by Melanie Hawkes, WA
• A NEW PERSPECTIVE by Isabella Farrah, QLD
• AN ENIGMA by VP, NSW
• THE MUSEUM OF BROKEN DREAMS by Nica, NSW
• OPENING NIGHT AT THE WOLLONGONG ART GALLERY by MJ West, NSW
• MoRT by Anne Author, UK
• DOCUMENT ARCHIVES ROOM #4 by Deryn E. Davies, SA
• IL MIO ARTISTA by Rachel Millar, QLD
• MARGUERITE by Susan Prause, US
• MARTYRDOM OF SAINT RAPHAËL by Bob Merckel, Spain
• MY NAME IS LISA by James Inglis, VIC
• NOSTALGIA by Sarah Edmunds, WA
• STILL LIFE by Emma Tinning, VIC
• ARTISTIC DREAMS by Cheryl Anderson, NSW