ANDY LOWE X
MARIE KOBLER
PEARL MOON RISING
The good folk of Windmere won’t risk an eternity in purgatory, nor will they chance gaol in this mortal life, so their reaction to William Roy and Jeremy Barlowe’s anti-clerical flyer, published in 1528, is largely muted. However, with its talk of untold powers of the Pearl Moon, the pamphlet excites the less noble folk who whisper its teachings in the safety of the stables and meadows.
These villagers believe they can cleanse their sins and commune directly with God, away from the prying and puritanical local priest. The celestial event foretold by Roy and Barlowe is their salvation. When it comes, they seek deliverance on the banks of the murky pond, “Ghost Lake”.
They’ve learned that the Pearl Moon graces the night sky but once every 985 days. If the cloud cover is light, the villagers will see a lustrous yet bruised thumbprint of the moon high above the fir trees. Tonight, they see the sign. They tiptoe to the water’s edge as midnight shadows smudge and blur their features, providing much needed camouflage. Nervous chatter stills to a hush. No whispers. Not a murmur.
The villagers shiver. It’s not just cold. It’s apprehension. They know not whether the apparition will appear this night, nor whether it will anoint them, redeem them with the Pearl Moon’s enchanted beams that they hear so much about in the teachings.
Slowly, slowly, a misty specter emerges before them. They inch towards it, wading cautiously through frigid water. As it takes shape, its fluid yet faceless form floats above the cragged rocks. They stifle gasps. Its elongated arm stretches out. Out and up. Rawboned fingers flicker and flex, silhouetted against soft halos of moonlight. The villagers wait, motionless. Fearful but faithful hearts beseech the ghost to bring the moon’s soft light towards them. O purify our souls!
It's done. The ghoul takes its leave scratching at fragments of damp sky and inky trees. Has it been worth it? Prayers abound: please protect us, disciples of the pamphlet, of the Pearl Moon Rising. Each villager makes the sign of the cross and begins a long, sodden trudge home. Strides lengthen at the thought of warm hearths, bowls of broth and goblets of mead. It remains unspoken, but each one secretly knows that this pilgrimage is well worth the risks. For despite the treachery, each now has another 984 days to blaspheme, frolic, and make merry.
SEEING PINK
The cinema houselights dim. Her heart begins to race as the Dolby surround sound pumps out the iconic opening line. “Since the beginning of time…..” The movie’s narration is as crystal clear as her mind: this will be the best film of all time. She shares a pre-mixed pink-gin cocktail with her friend. A smile, a silent toast, “cheers!” This is a joyful, unabashed celebration of life.
Now however, sitting alone in LA’s faceless, gender-neutral county jail, she wonders how it led to this. Harsh grey, concrete walls bear down on the men and women in the other cells. Iron bars snarl from their doors and windows. But her surroundings are less stark. The Sherriff, a believer in her cause, turns a blind eye as hordes of supporters drop off various gifts. She’s cocooned in cloud-soft cashmere. Fluffy mules keep her toes toasty warm and a flock of unflappable, inflatable pink flamingos bounce happily near her sink. Blushing neon feather-boas splay out like spokes from the central light-bulb and heart-shaped balloons drift on the damp draft above a carpet of over-sized peonies. These symbols bolster her resolve to continue the fight. She strokes the faux-mink throw which is tossed on her bed, and continues to reflect. The sit-in she and a few other die-hard fans organized after nominations were announced caused an almighty gridlock, but the action took on a life of its own when Pink Warriors got involved. Millions marched through Hollywood with pink placards displaying dazzling wit. A delegation of Nobel-laureates joined the doctors, fire-fighters and fashionistas who flounced on the front lines in rosy overalls. NASA instructed astronauts to plant protest messages on the moon. Even the President herself denounced the monstrous miscarriage of justice. Later though, when there was a risk that protestors would weaponize the Oscar statues, riot police were called. As the public face of it all, she was first to be incarcerated. Several A-listers who fought alongside her were also dragged to jail but, in the absence of their personal stylists, they were unrecognizable.
No matter, she intends to keep leading them, inspiring them. With the Sheriff’s help she visits them one-by-one, starting with the guy they just banged up next door. This strangely familiar man has been on hunger strike for several days and looks weak. Does she know him? She drinks in his blond hair, his blue eyes. There’s a powerful vulnerability about him which makes her chest thump and her knees buckle. He’s mumbling what sounds like: “Get a wig! Robbed!” She pulls him close and whispers, “You’re here for Greta and Margot? Who are you?” His whole body drops forwards as he falls into her arms, nods gently and breathes: “I’m just Ken.”
