Muezzin's Call: Adventure
Jun. 2nd, 2009 08:59 amThe muezzin cried from the minaret on the day, the hour, the very minute that my mother died. And I was born, but that seemed incidental. I was, after all, only a girl child, perhaps of some use once I reached marriageable age, but not until then. My mother was the prized first wife of my father, and her loss left him inconsolable. The attentions of his second wife could not sway him from his grief; she'd been married for her family connections and wide childbearing hips, not from love. My mother had been his true love, though she'd been a gracious woman who made the second wife welcome and had not been the tyrant some first wives are. Or so Fatima told me, as she rocked me in her arms and fed me goat's milk from a bottle.
Inspiration: The opening of "Spitfire" by Prodigy.
Potential: High.
Notes: I say high potential because I like the setting. It would require more research into Islam to get the details right, though I've absorbed a fair amount from growing up in a Muslim country. Suffice it to say she'll be, ah, a "spitfire."
Inspiration: The opening of "Spitfire" by Prodigy.
Potential: High.
Notes: I say high potential because I like the setting. It would require more research into Islam to get the details right, though I've absorbed a fair amount from growing up in a Muslim country. Suffice it to say she'll be, ah, a "spitfire."