Geelong Writers Ekphrastic Challenge #8 2024:
The Many Colours of a Cow – Jo Curtain
‘The Many Colours of a Cow’ – Jo Curtain
Submissions to the Geelong Writers eighth Ekphrastic Challenge for 2024 closed on 29 September.
The image The Many Colours of a Cow (by Jo Curtain) prompted several futuristic responses, as well as nostalgia. Levity was sprinkled with pathos.
We have published the submissions of the following 12 writers:
David Bridge John Heritage Glen Donaldson Dulara J. Allan Barden
Gail Griffin Ian Stewart Adam Stone Geoffrey Gaskill
Adrian Brookes Daphne Delores Winter John Margetts
Heifers for El Jefe
To John’s relief, the shuttering for the film prop looked firm enough despite long weather exposure on the Canadian lot. The heifers, three on each side, resplendent in national colours, flanked the strident figure of Workers’ Party President, El Jefe, brandishing aloft a rifle in one hand and a shovel in the other. It was John’s largest commission to date but he was still waiting on payment.
Made of resin, the structure was rigid despite being largely hollow and lightweight with a series of compartments for the charges that the effects team would place ready for the scene where El Jefe met a timely end after ninety minutes of cinematic mayhem.
John was proud of El Jefe’s likeness, drawn closely from headshots of the major actor cast for the part. Mauricio Alvarado was perfect for the role, particularly if rumours of his cartel links were true. This encouraged a popular following which buoyed Alvarado’s political aspirations. His desire to become El Presidente for real and campaign at home had disrupted the filming schedule, and the movie was on indefinite hold, along with John’s hope for reimbursement.
Maybe all was not lost. Alvarado was infamous for his dramatic promotional style, widely pictured brandishing a sword on the steps of parliament in Caraccas. A phone call from John to Alvarado’s manager, reminding him of Mauricio’s request for a copy of the prop, sparked an immediate response. Soon, the redundant original was being packed and winched onto a truck before being driven to the airport, destined to become a mobile platform for Alvarado’s electioneering.
However, a refuelling stop in Florida and a customs inspection of the cargo, uncovered drugs stowed in the pyrotechnic compartments. Legal rather than explosive charges propelled events; John escaped prosecution but Alvarado’s film and political ambitions were stymied.
- by David Bridge
right here
right now
in
the what if
land
coloured cows
reflect
freer looser
world
imagination
glowing with
colour
our future
made vibrant
the gloomy past
gone
- by John Heritage
Off to the Funny Farm
Hank was a 4th generation grazier who owned a dairy. Bill grew onions and wheat. It all started one night when they caught a group of teenagers in one of their fields carrying wooden planks. They’d been trying to create what used to go by the name of ‘crop circles.’
Irate at the time, there was something about the teenagers’ tomfoolery that had connected with the men and sparked an idea. Farmer Bill made the first move a few weeks later.
He managed to attach a long zip-tie to the underside of the driveshaft of Hank’s green tractor. It hit underneath and made a sound it took his friend several days to find. Over beers at the local watering hole the next week Bill mentioned what he’d done. Hank laughed into his froth-topped ale but immediately began planning his own get-even.
He organised for three of Hank’s favourite named cows to be spray painted in vibrant colours; ‘Bessie’ in traffic cone orange, ‘Gertrude’ in bright yellow, and feisty ‘Buttercup’ in vivid purple.
“What in the world?” Farmer Hank said upon seeing his transformed prize bovines. This was followed by some ‘colourful’ language of his own. By that afternoon, he’d delivered to his neighbour’s front porch his return serve, intended to turn the tables and ‘milk’ the joke for all it was worth.
Three crystal glasses, each filled with fruit juice, lay in wait to welcome back Farmer Bill from his hard day in the fields. The first, as bright and clear as the risen sun, was filled with orange juice; another held freshly-squeezed lemon juice and the third was a grape juice special.
There was a note as well. It simply read “Tag. You’re it.” It was signed “Your friendly neighbourhood cows Bessie, Gertrude and Buttercup”.
- by Glen Donaldson
The Three Primary Emotions
“The many colours of a cow,”
she reads, an eyebrow quirked with intrigue
her finger zips upward abruptly
as if of its own volition
skirting dangerously close to the canvas, getting a major death glare
from the security guard,
who she shoots an exaggerated smile,
finger retracting a few inches, hovering just in front of it but not touching
pointing at the pale, buttery yellow cow
the colour of sunshine
and thinking of the three primary emotions,
or so she liked to call them,
this sallow yellow, what could it be but happiness?
it is the obvious one, after all,
only softened to a muted pastel like the others,
a faded replica of jubilation at best
next;
the muddy red, clearly represents anger
a dull pinkish tint to it,
subdued rage
after that, a watery blue sadness
like tears of misery, clouding the vision with a hazy gloom
but not quite as deep as the depths of despair
add some grey melancholy to the mix, like blanched sky and storm clouds
it reminds her of herself lately,
her happiness taut, pinched, strained
her anger weary, tired, dulled
her sorrow merely
a drop in the ocean of other people’s woe
and she stares at the three cows, looking as exhausted as her reflection
are those the same shadows she sees ringing her eyes
after a long night?
she stares into the eyes,
painted over
and wonders where she went wrong.
“You were wrong from the beginning…”
she startles, eyes flashing wide for a moment, and turns to meet the owner of the voice
composes herself quickly, painting a smile of her own,
one concealing her weariness of the world
and says, “Excuse me?”
but no one is there.
she frowns
and doesn’t notice
until too late
the dagger in her back.
- By Dulara J.
Daisy – All For The Love Of You
Daisy, my grandparent’s beloved black and white spotted cow, was more than just a source of milk – she was the heart of their daily life. My grandparents relied on Daisy for more than just sustenance; she provided the milk that became the butter on their bread, and the cream on their scones and home made desserts.
Milking Daisy was a ritual, nearly sacred in its regularity. Watching my grandfather sitting on his wooden stool milking Daisy and listening to the steady rhythm of milk hitting the pail was almost mesmerizing to a young boy. Daisy’s milk nourished not just my grandparents but most of their extended family, including my own. For all of us, Daisy was more than just a cow; she was a companion, almost like a family pet. I would often find myself sitting by her side, running my small hands along her hide, feeling a connection that needed no words.
My grandfather had a special bond with Daisy. He spoke to her as if she understood every word. Maybe she did. Her gentle nature mirrored the patience and care my grandfather showed in every aspect of a life that evolved around self-sufficiency.
In a world that moves fast, thinking of Daisy reminds me of simpler times – a symbol of the love and labour that sustained a family through the good and the hard times.
I remember Daisy’s death of old age and sickness. I can imagine the sad and lost look on my grandfather’s face as he helped her to end her pain and suffering. After Daisy my grandparents never owned another cow.
- by Allan Barden
COWS
The local council erected its display, ‘Many Colours of a Cow’ to greet newcomers to its town as Year Six students at the primary school launched their latest project, COWS, to link with the rural theme. COWS was their acronym for their ‘Class Outlawing Woeful Spelling’, after a discussion where lots of questions were posed, including:
‘How are we expected to spell 100% when we’re reading misspelt words all the time?’
‘Yeah. Why do the fruit and grocery shops have the worst spelling?’
‘We’re only kids. What can we do about it?’
The class agreed that they needed their teacher’s help in gathering proof of just how bad the problem was in the community. In response, Ms Douglas designed a Spelling Scavenger Hunt that required every student to collect evidence while on a walking tour of their town.
Back in class, after the Hunt, students were excited to share their findings.
‘I saw “Muscles for sale” at the fish ‘n’ chip shop,’ laughed one student.
‘What about “Customer’s car parks”?’ said another. ‘I mean, how many car parks does one customer need?’’.
‘Don’t they know the plural of “avocado” is “avocados”?’ asked another.
‘Haven’t they learned that “separate” has to have “a rat” in the middle of it?’
‘Don’t signwriters know “i before e, except after c”?’
The lengthy, collated list of misspelt words elicited a ‘Wow!’ from the students.
‘Well done, everyone. You’ve identified the problem. Now we need to devise solutions. What can be done?’
‘Encourage everyone, to buy and use, a Macquarie Dictionary, for a start,’ suggested one student, to the applause of everyone in the class.
‘Improve our spelling accuracy.’
‘Keep reading, writing and practising spelling.’
‘Be good models. If in doubt, check.’
’Teach our community by correcting misspelt words.’
Undaunted, the COWS mooooved to improooove.
- by Gail Griffin
Cowes Week
Look at the picture
They’re not real
Those bovine beasts
Let’s find something else
Something that happens
Between the Isle of Wight and England’s coast
Is the Solent
A stretch of sailable water
And, each year, they hold there
Cowes Week
The Brits love sailing
Messing around in boats
So, Cowes it is, at each summer’s end
A thousand boats, all with sails
Like Joseph’s coat, gloriously arrayed
In blues, reds, yellows, whites
And even blacks
Watch them
Mains’ls blue on blue
Rainbow spinnakers
Red, yellow
The occasional violet
All filled like hot air balloons
Or a flotilla of red
Or black, grey
Mains taut
Charging across the azure sea
Competing, challenging
In formation
Like squadrons of butterflies
Or dragonflies
The week, over
Sails furled, boats
Bobbing on the evening tide
Moon rises
On a successful
Multi-coloured
Cowes Week
- by Ian Stewart
Bully
I wonder what became of him.
On reflection, I may have bullied him.
Not just me, but on occasion, I possibly led the charge of the bully brigade.
What does it say about eleven-year-old me?
He wasn’t offensive at all, just different to most of us. And we pounced on those differences like a giant cat toying with its prey.
He didn’t seem to have any real friends or boys he’d see on the weekend. I don’t recall him at any of the birthday parties.
His ancestors previously owned much of the surrounding land and the main road was named after them (perhaps in some strange way I felt threatened).
His family carried on dairy farming and in our juvenile way, we charged him with siphoning a pound of butter for his hair before it was trucked over to the butter factories of inner Melbourne. That greasy hair gave him a little look of neglect, along with hunched shoulders and a perennial look of resignation on his face.
He showed a vulnerability, which was a lollipop in a candy store to a bully.
Often dressed in a check shirt, a farmer in new suburbia, he was the antithesis of a sports person (another ‘weakness’).
Skin was pale to the point of translucence and scuff marks of bumfluff on his face before we had reached high school.
He was smart as a whip (probably another reason I felt threatened) and was most expressive when he waxed lyrical about jerseys, guernseys, shorthorns and fresians.
A glint in the eye when talking of crops of oats, millet and maize.
Gobbledygook to me and everyone else who lived on a simple quarter-acre block.
I wonder what became of him.
If I’m honest, I bullied him.
– by Adam Stone
Bos Taurus Coloratus
Angus didn’t believe the job his editor gave him.
‘Not something for a journo of my standing,’ he said, indignant.
The editor ignored him. ‘When you write the story,’ he told Angus, ‘don’t use the company’s name. It’s all hush-hush just now.’
‘Can I take pictures?’ Angus asked. He hated all this secrecy bullshit.
The editor winked and pointed to the little statue of the three wise monkeys on his desk. ‘Get it?’
Angus got it.
Bos taurus is what his old science teacher, the unlikely-named Mr Bull, called cattle. ‘It’s more accurate,’ he told his students. ‘Besides, it’s a cooler name.’
But what Angus saw weren’t garden-variety Bos taurus. Sure, they were fat and placid, but they were also coloured! What Mr Bull might have called Bos taurus coloratus.
Angus eased out his phone. What a scoop! ‘Smile,’ he whispered to the hush-hush coloured cows as he clicked their photo. They stared all doe-eyed and hippopotamus-y.
The whole coloured-cows-in-a-paddock thing might have been science fiction but with a click of his camera they became science fact. It could have been an unfunny April Fool’s joke–except it wasn’t April.
Above the cowstalls were a series of hand-written scrawly signs. The first read, Brown cows = chocolate-flavoured milk. Other signs suggested colour-flavour nexuses.
Angus gagged–and not in a good way. Maybe, he thought, someone should remind the company-he-couldn’t-name about previous attempts to dabble in what people ate or drank. Most sank faster than the Titanic on its maiden voyage. Bos taurus coloratus would surely go the same way. More like Bos taurus bullshit.
Then he remembered another of Mr Bull’s truisms–never underestimate the stupidity of people in large groups.
If that were true, the coloured-cow-company was going to make a fortune.
- by Geoffrey Gaskill
Any Colour Green
‘Dad! I want a green cow.’
‘There’s purple, red or yellow, Lily.’
‘Dad! I don’t care what colour it is. I want a green one. You know—doesn’t fart methane.’
‘Oh, that green. But all cows do that.’
‘No, Dad! Not if you feed them on seaweed. It’s new research. Didn’t you know that?’
‘I’d heard it reduces methane. But why do you want a cow and not a pony?’
‘Dad! Ponies are so last millennium. Nobody’s wanted a pony since Grandma was a kid.’
‘But—a cow?’
‘We’ve got to save them. They’ll soon be extinct.’
‘There’s millions of cows.’
‘Not much longer. Haven’t you heard of plant-based meat substitutes? They’re the big sick! Nobody’ll have any use for cows.’
‘For milk?’
‘Dad! We’ll have soy milk and oat milk.’
‘All right. But cows take up a lot of space. Make a mess. And stink. You couldn’t keep it in your room. Or cuddle it in your lap. Or let it sleep on your pillow. We couldn’t even keep it in the back yard. It’d poo on everything—that is, if we could feed it. Where would we get seaweed?’
‘Dad! Always seeing problems. Why can’t you be positive about it?’
‘All right: how about a virtual cow? They’re really green. No wrecking the bush for paddocks. Keep it on a screen. Just like seeing it through the window. Easy to look after and feed. No poo. No stink. No methane. Take it anywhere—to school, on holiday. You could have more than one—run your own cattle station. No extinction—save as many as you like on a fingerprint.’
‘Dad…’
‘Is that green?’
‘Yeah, that’s green.’
‘Good! So what colour would you like?’
- by Adrian Brookes
The 2055 Royal Melbourne Show
‘But why are we going there? I can just use my Eye!’ Neo bargained with his mother.
‘Oh, no you don’t! You spend too much time on that blessed Eye! You have to move your body and feel the air sometime, and we are going to do this today, right now.’ Alice was putting her foot down.
‘I can do all that in our gym on my simulator – and BubbleAir is all the same everywhere!’ Neo whined.
‘Well. You’re coming and that’s that. The UberDrone will be here soon and I’ve paid for four rides and eight showbags. Grab your tablets and OutGear and get cracking!’ Alice commanded.
Arriving at the entrance fifteen minutes later, Neo was baffled to see three odd shapes in an outsized rusting crate.
‘What’s that?’ he asked Alice.
‘It’s a sculpture about the origins of milk,’ Alice told him.
‘What do you mean? Everyone knows milk is in boxes that comes from the Poor Countries – nothing like this!’ Neo protested.
‘Yes; but before they send it to us, they take it from machines called cows. These are what the machines look like – the yellow is banana-flavoured, the brown one is for chocolate and the purple one makes blueberry,’ Alice explained.
‘So how do the machines work?’ Neo asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Stuff goes in and gets swirled around inside with water somehow and comes out underneath,’ Alice said.
‘That’s stupid! Why don’t they just put a tap in the side?’ Neo asked.
‘Well, I don’t know! Do I look like someone from the Poor Countries?’ Alice snapped, rolling her eyes. ‘Come on. Let’s go ride the Air Jet. We can get show bags and fairy floss on the way.’
Passing the cow installation, they stepped onto the travelator.
– by Daphne Delores Winter
“Hey baby G.M. don’t mean General Motors no more”
Twitter broke the story, the rest followed.
“DAIRY INDUSTRY IN CRISIS!”
Ho hum. Flip.
Wait, go back.
‘Gen Alpha abandons white milk.’
W.T.F.?
Collapsing sales. Flavoured coloured milk turned the tide against tradition. Couldn’t give that white stuff away, Chinese Gen Alphas rejected white imports (there’s a headline), even demanding coloured powdered milk. Plus coloured formula for their kids!
Canberra began preparing for another tractor blockade of Federal Parliament. Hand wringing on all sides, especially out in the Marginals.
What to do?
Secret industry trials of food dyes produced spectacular coloured cow poo but not much else. Nation-wide media campaign by the industry pushed the virtue of white milk, but quickly ran afoul of white supremacists who claimed ultimate proof of their views. Neo Nazis joined in citing white purity.
A total shit fight.
What to do?
Breakthrough came. Genetics. Colour the beast, solve the problem. Choice of any colour you liked if it was blue, sort-of-brown or vague purple. Even genetics has its limits. But coloured milk it was, no doubt at all. Sales of cappuccino plummeted, funny side effect that. The ‘Bring Back White Milk’ mob took to the streets but somehow all the fun had gone. Gen Alpha won again. The national symbol of mourning became a white arm band.
And ‘Moo Cow Boogie’ topped the charts once again.
– by John Margetts
https://www.vecteezy.com/free-vector/line-break
Join in the Ekphrastic Experience!
We are inviting everyone – members and non-members alike – to participate in our next Challenge, and encourage you to submit. You may view the October Ekphrastic Challenge here.
Leave a Reply