End-User of Ordinance
A couple of years ago I was asked to write a piece for an exhibition of covers of Ambit magazine. The exhibition featured a selection of blown-up covers from the late 1950s to the present, and the idea was that Ambit writers would write something inspired by the pictures on the covers. Most of the writers contacted were poets, and I was the only prose writer asked. I chose two to work on, and this is one of them, a drawing by Carol Annand. I have no idea what its relation was to anything in that issue of the magazine, if it had one - Ambit publishes art as well as writing.
End-User of Ordinance - for the Cover of Ambit 51, by Carol Annand
She told me she would escape from the second world war. I looked at her uniform. “Which regiment?” I asked her.
“The Andrews Sisters,” she claimed. “I was just not sweet enough to be a songstress. My high notes were raw euphoria and my low notes just a sign of come-down.”
“Bi-polar?” I wondered.
“I was disadvantaged by not being an actual sister by the name of Andrews. Just polar, by the way. Cold, they said I was. I watched this war start. I watched it peak. It hasn’t touched me.”
I took her hand, and sure enough felt a freeze in her veins.
“You ever been hot under the collar of a battledress tunic? Not a time to be getting excited. Sartorially, anyway. You got a light?” she asked, so I lit her up. “Symbol of my intentions,” she explained. “A sign that I have visited. Hey, this is me.” She whipped out crinkled photos. One showed a cross-legged child on a gymnasium floor. “I realised then that uniforms stop you having to think about what you’re going to wear.” The other showed an older woman. “Forty years from now,” she said. “I’ll be a brigadess, I imagine.”
“You’ll keep surviving, then.” I was relieved.
“Of course. But before the shoulder pips and the cigars, there are jungles to burn. I have a map of them here. Look.”
“Korea,” I read out loud. “Vietnam – where the hell is that?”
“You’re not a geographer?”
“Accountant,” I confessed.
“A counter.” She leaned over, her chin on her hand, looked as if she was about to extract from me the confession that I didn’t really want to account for the wars – I wanted to fight them, with her. We would see the world, Korea, Vietnam, wherever that was. And set it alight.
Our conversation got lost in shouts to clear the café, and people moving, including frantic waiters clutching bills. Outside, voices and the sound of boots, searchlights building towers in the sky. I lost her. I studied her map, wondered if she’d be lost without it. The war would find her, after all, her smoking gun and her bad vocal harmonies, and I would, too. I resolved to give up numbers in columns, and become an end-user of ordinance, and set off for the jungles.
“The Andrews Sisters,” she claimed. “I was just not sweet enough to be a songstress. My high notes were raw euphoria and my low notes just a sign of come-down.”
“Bi-polar?” I wondered.
“I was disadvantaged by not being an actual sister by the name of Andrews. Just polar, by the way. Cold, they said I was. I watched this war start. I watched it peak. It hasn’t touched me.”
I took her hand, and sure enough felt a freeze in her veins.
“You ever been hot under the collar of a battledress tunic? Not a time to be getting excited. Sartorially, anyway. You got a light?” she asked, so I lit her up. “Symbol of my intentions,” she explained. “A sign that I have visited. Hey, this is me.” She whipped out crinkled photos. One showed a cross-legged child on a gymnasium floor. “I realised then that uniforms stop you having to think about what you’re going to wear.” The other showed an older woman. “Forty years from now,” she said. “I’ll be a brigadess, I imagine.”
“You’ll keep surviving, then.” I was relieved.
“Of course. But before the shoulder pips and the cigars, there are jungles to burn. I have a map of them here. Look.”
“Korea,” I read out loud. “Vietnam – where the hell is that?”
“You’re not a geographer?”
“Accountant,” I confessed.
“A counter.” She leaned over, her chin on her hand, looked as if she was about to extract from me the confession that I didn’t really want to account for the wars – I wanted to fight them, with her. We would see the world, Korea, Vietnam, wherever that was. And set it alight.
Our conversation got lost in shouts to clear the café, and people moving, including frantic waiters clutching bills. Outside, voices and the sound of boots, searchlights building towers in the sky. I lost her. I studied her map, wondered if she’d be lost without it. The war would find her, after all, her smoking gun and her bad vocal harmonies, and I would, too. I resolved to give up numbers in columns, and become an end-user of ordinance, and set off for the jungles.
Comment and discussion on End-User of Ordinance
Is this a 'proper' short story? One question that often comes up among writers is: what exactly is a short story? How long? How short? Should be simple enough... End-User of Ordinance definitely has a middle, but does it have a beginning and an end? Although it was printed on a pamphlet given out at the exhibition, I wrote it primarily to be read out loud, and I thought on that level it worked. I made a very literal interpretation of the pictures, as I had to write the piece* relatively quickly. I'd been reading a lot about war, for some reason - the world being full of it, perhaps - so perhaps this picture carried on themes that were turning over in my mind. See also my story The Boy at the Bus Stop on this site.
*I've noticed that, if they're not sure what kind of thing a piece of writing is, or are uncomfortable about describing it as a story, or a poem, some writers call it a 'piece'.
*I've noticed that, if they're not sure what kind of thing a piece of writing is, or are uncomfortable about describing it as a story, or a poem, some writers call it a 'piece'.
Ambit magazine
I was first published by Ambit in 1998, and since then, led by its editor-in-chief Martin Bax and its prose editors, including novelist Geoff Nicholson, the magazine has been a great and very valued supporter of my work. It has been going since the late 1950s - very unusual for a small-press magazine - presenting stories, poetry and art by up-and-coming people, and also by some well-established ones. Have a look at its website and support it if you can by buying a copy or taking out a subscription.
