Cage Dunn's Blog, page 66

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Everywhere you go, please pick up

Phoenix Rainez

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When Tomorrow is Today

Or the other way around.

Wednesday is the day I do a post. It’s funny though, because my Wednesday is Tuesday for M (and a few others), so they get a message from the future when they read my posts and emails.

I live in Tomorrow, and I can — therefore — give tips on what’s going to happen. Well, I can, can’t I? Isn’t that how it works? If I live in the future, and figure out how to get a message to someone who lives in today, I can give them some indication of which path to take, which options to choose, which …

Well, we all know how rubbery that is, but it’s funny to my mind at the moment. I’ve been doing freewriting exercises to try to figure out how to get up to a decent output using one hand. I know, I know, lots of people use two fingers, or four fingers, or hand write, or … Well, you get the idea. But, and for me it’s a big but (not that sort!), I have come from a very recent time of being capable of typing 100k words per week. Then it went down to 50k. Now, I’ve gone down to using one hand. The left hand. And today, rather than typing at up to 100 wpm (my avg typing speed), I got up to — ta-dah! — 25 wpm with my left hand.

My back aches. It was already painful, now it’s horrendously agonising to try to move anything in any direction. And I keep trying to use my right hand. It’s habituated. It wants to work; it’s used to doing stuff, but as soon as I do, the pain creeps into the shoulder, cramps up, leaps into the elbow, and then stamps on the hand.

I described it to a professional as ‘It feels like a half-track rolled it – slowly.’ For a start, she didn’t know what a half-track was, or why it was important to say it was slow. A half-track is metal, with big gripply ridges that dig up everything they come in contact with.

I thought it was a good description. I thought it apt. She gave me the look that indicated I was mad, or drugged. Maybe I should just have said ‘tank’ – but being specific is important. A tank has tracks that go the whole length, and a half-track has — you guessed it — tracks for half the length of the vehicle.

And that’s 400 words. Tomorrow I might be … not here, because I was already there.

 

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I am not here; you cannot see me; I am invisible

 

Valki

This is the first scene of the story (fantasy – urban/rural, set in Australia). Enjoy!

The stink — what was it? Sylv frowned but kept her eyes closed as she dragged air in through her nose. Slow, deep. The first scents were close. Sour, old. The whiff of blood turned to vinegar, of crypts greasy with newly-dead mortals. All smells she knew well. The carrion, decomposition, gore — Sylv discarded them. Something else, something different. She widened her search, sent feelers to the boundaries. She sorted through the known and unknown scents of her lair. Ah, there. Faint, but unmistakable, the taste of sylph; specifically Denaiad. Valki? She wanted to taste the enemy, feel how close it dared to tread. Sylv deepened her senses, breathed in the disgusting freshness of it, ran the flavour over her tongue before she allowed herself a thin, mirthless smile. Not a Valki.

Her breath whooshed out in a gush. This was the worst time to have to fight. If she had to take on a Valki, a trained Warrior of the Way, it would delay her plans. But this one was untrained. Unblooded, too. The most dangerous Sylph of all to a normal gnaDenaiad. Sylv was not such a creature. She had evolved.

Sylve laughed. A baby Denaiad sylph sent out on a task to become Valki. This would be its first task, the test to force it to become a killer of the gnaDenaiad.

Unless Sylv dealt with it before the black moon.

Her eyes opened to full daylight. The middle of a summer day. The worst time for her, but she had to prepare. So many years of being aware of the filthy Valki chasing her honed those senses, kept her alive through some close calls. To ignore the potential for danger was to be old and near death. Sylv was neither. She was only a day or so away from being able to produce young again, to regenerate her bloodline for the first time since … oh, too long since her clan was almost decimated, left with only Sylv and her mentor. Now it was only Sylv, the last gnaDenaiad of clan Harridan.

No one could stop her. Not a sylph, not a ghost, not the wards. It was too late. Unless … had that old bastard got a message out? Was this his doing? Was there…?

She roared her frustration and was satisfied when the windows rattled. Robert, in the next room, swore and dropped his phone to the floor with a clatter.

It was too risky to ignore it or run from it. What if the old goat told of what he’d stolen? What if he left clues? What if it was here to … Sylv sniffed again.

Unblooded. Untested. Unskilled. Alone? It could be an opportunity. Could she find a way to make an untrained sylph find what she needed, and bring it to her?

It would be fun, at the very least. And then she’d feed the remains to her offspring, give them their first taste of the enemy.

“Robert, sweetie,” she whispered, “Come to me, my love. I have a small job for you.”

He opened the door. “Sylv, you’re up,” Robert said, master of the obvious.

“Hello, darling. Yes, I’m up.” She put a hand on his arm to ensure his compliance. “There’s a stranger in town,” she focussed intently on his eyes. Sylv waited until the edges began to tremble and the dark blue iris shadowed with a haze of cloudy strands. “She needs some help, I’m sure. Maybe Rod asked you to drop in on her. Maybe you can find out what she wants. Maybe you can get her to feel comfortable for a day or so. Can you do that for me, darling?” Sylv smiled as his eyes spun anti-clockwise on the right and clockwise on the left. She smiled at the tension in his face. His head wobbled a bit as she eased off the link.

“Of course, my love. Of course.” He frowned, as if he’d forgotten something, then turned and walked back out the door.

“Thank you, darling,” Sylv whispered, as her lips snarled and her nostrils widened. One fingernail tapped at the shiny link in the air. Solid. She’d be able to see and hear everything the silly man said or heard. No, she wouldn’t exactly be able to ‘see’ as clearly as she’d like, not during the day, and not while he was in that place, but she’d get a sense of things.

Soon, she’d know all there was to know about this new little naif. Oh, maybe if she put some charm on Robert – have his big baby-blues look at her as if she were as desirable as Sylv.

Yes, that would do it – have the silly sylph fall for a man already under claim by the Harridan. The smile widened as she felt the delicious shiver of anticipation. It wasn’t the right time for a fight, but it was still worthy. And there were two potential prizes from this bout. She rubbed her palms together.

“Robby, darling. Why don’t you see if she wants to come to dinner tonight?”

 

Due for completion in April 2018 (previously titled The Valki of Three Salt Springs).

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pic from Pixabay

Where the Idea Came From …

Let’s explore where the idea for Not On the Cards came from shall we?

The reason: a person I know asked how I would know about that place, and why I would write about it. The answer is a long story (aren’t they all?), but she insisted because she didn’t know how I would know … so here you go – where the idea for the story came from:

In the not-too-distant past (well … it wasn’t long, long ago or in a land far, far away), I was a foster-carer. Most of my fosters were teenagers (two were toddlers, but all the others were teens), and teenagers cost a lot of money to feed, house and educate – especially if you want them to drive.

I’m a gardener, but when you move a lot, you move away from any garden you created – you lose the almost-free food that assisted with the budget. How to keep all these kids fed? Where’s the best place to buy in bulk and bargain for the leftovers and not-so-pretty stuff?

The markets. Of course. When I lived in Victoria (where Melbourne is the capital city, not any other Victoria), we would mount up an expedition every Saturday and into the city to go to the Vic Markets. Now, if you haven’t been there, let me tell you this: it’s amazing (except for the time the dog managed to open the side-panel window and came looking for us! We got booted out, of course).

After a couple of visits and the subsequent return home and unboxing of huge quantities of stuff, a few neighbours noticed. Elderly, mostly infirm, and most living alone. We knew this because it was part of our strategy to know everyone close – a matter of safety, or perception of safety, to the kids who came from [bad places]. When we had bits that were extra to our needs, we’d (I’d send the kids out) take some to the neighbours – and they paid us for those bits! Extra money.

Ah, a little business plan formed, and soon it was known far and wide (well, four streets or so) and orders were placed on Friday nights, the kids delivered Saturday afternoons, and we had a bit of extra dosh. Oh, and good food. And an exciting outing.

And then the other ideas flowed in. Other things happen at markets. Especially the Camberwell car park Market. There were enough vehicles to send one to Camberwell while the van did the Vic Market food run.

What to do with a stall? Well, we went through quite a lot of ideas. The ones that stuck were the stall to sell the quilts we made from rags (it’s amazing how easy it is to get a kid’s background, the whole story, while their hands are busy!), and the other was (ta-dah!) a tarot-reading stall (because I’d been doing that for ‘visitors’ for a while anyway). In fact, the tarot stall was busier, made more money and got return callers for years. There wasn’t even a set price. A ‘donation’ box sat on the table just inside the opening. People donated what they thought it was worth (of course, I could always see what went in through the little window on my side).

I still have one of the sets of cards from that time. A bit battered, and not used anymore (I’m afraid they might fall apart) and not the deck of cards you could buy. Four of the fosters made those cards; cut and drew and painted and polished each one. A piece of the hearts and souls of all the fosters went in – comments, suggestions, a new colour specifically for one card; the shape of a face for this card, a hand for that one, a characteristic or scar on another.

And there you have it, the exploration of where the story came from. A bit of experience, a lot of love, some hard work, and some of the time I lived in Victoria. And although the positioning of some things is slightly unmappable, they are there (at least in my memories of the place).

Cheers – and I’m onto the final stages of the second round of editing for the Valki story. Send me some inspiration – this is the hard part, the nitty-gritty, the pain and angst part. But it will soon be finished, and like the one above, there is a place it comes from, and the place may be real, but the story is an embellishment of what I know of the place.

 

 

 

Is This A Rant About Australian Cricket?

If you know me, you know I like sports. I like a lot of sports. Used to play a lot of sports. It was part of my life. Being active and competitive was useful, fun, and highlighted the social and physical effort each combatant put into it.

And then – this is where the warning comes in – I got to see the underside of organised sports. Sounds a lot like … (just swap out the last word, and you’ll see it too.)

Do people remember the times of serfs and landed gentry? We should. We see it every day in how our sports are run. (You could put politics in place of sports to get the picture.)

You disagree – really?

Australian Cricket is in the news at the moment, front page and first story in the news for several days. Why? They cheated, broke the rules to ensure they got a result. Someone didn’t play fair. But that’s only the surface, isn’t it? Let’s look a little deeper into this.

We see the surface – a level playing field. Is it? Consider this (Australia): If a good cricketer plays in any state but NSW, will he (I haven’t yet looked into the women’s game, so forgive the bias here) ever play for Australia?

The answer is simple and fast and every player (and fan of cricket) knows the answer. Do you? I do. The answer is ‘No’ – hard and direct and a given. The ones who rule cricket ensure everyone knows it and has to obey the commands or they will slide into oblivion.

Should I go further into the muck? I’m not a journalist, but I see them (all forms of journalistic reporting) eviscerating a few players who are doing exactly what the overlords request of them. But the overlords? Who is going to bust their butt? Who is going to question the way they rule the serfs (who only get a chance if they do this, and that, if they follow the ‘format’ as laid out by the overlords of cricket)? Every player in Australia knows if you don’t play for NSW, you don’t get picked for the Australian side. If you don’t play by the rules of the overlords, you won’t get a look-in. Your nose better be [you know what] or you’ll always be an amateur. Good, but that’s not enough. It’s blatant.

Cricket is supposedly a sport based on a level playing field, defined rules and the assumption of fair play.

Can we now get off that bandwagon and see what really goes on?

And consider this: Is cricket the only sport where the overlords dictate how these talented and exceptional contenders for one place in a thousand (perhaps worse odds than that) get to strut their stuff, make it big, shine in the big time?

As an aside: Is the AFL better off for the oversight (and interference) of the commission? Do the fans or players get a better deal? Or is it all about what produces income streams? Who sees the benefits of this (apart from the salaries of the top overlords)? Be careful how you answer that – don’t let it be a state by state answer because you’ll end up with an answer you may not like, and maybe even too closely aligned to the cricket scenario (or worse).

Do they really put back into the grass-roots of the sports they run (and supposedly accountable to/for)?

Or are all sports-related overlords more interested in the business side of it? The build-ins that connote gambling, underhanded deals, wealth-building? The things that need a winning team to get the best from.

Maybe a lesson or two in how it can go from being overlords at the table to being on the wrong side and scrabbling for a feed: Australian Basketball, perhaps? Or American baseball (okay, it’s another country, but the same issues)?

See what I mean? Now, back to cricket (where I lost my interest a long time ago when I saw how bent it was): how can three players, the serfs of the overlords, get lambasted so roundly while the upper echelons take no blame whatsoever for building that culture of ‘win at all costs’ or you’re out?

The biggest issue is this: I’m a nobody in this field, and I can see the bends and twists and warps – so why aren’t these issues/problems dealt with at the top first, rather than trying to push all the blame onto the serfs? Sure, they did wrong, but what were they supposed to do? How many times have I read/seen/heard how badly they’ve been doing, how they need to ‘up their game’ if they want to keep playing, etc.? How many news stories cut the players to shreds for not producing the expected goods?

And a decent bunch of journalists would be looking to where the problems begin, not where they end.

That’s my rant, nothing to do with writing, but at the moment, I’m doing some serious procrastinating (which has lasted several days), and I have to rush to get back to it. In a minute or two, anyway. Or maybe tomorrow.

Ciao! for Now!

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pic from:  https://pixabay.com/en/users/Clker-Free-Vector-Images-3736/

 

 

And if I get yelled at too hard, I’ll pull this post lickety-split, faster than greased lightning (or is that vaseline on the seam as opposed to sandpaper in the pants?).

IndieAthon | Q&A with Cage Dunn

Thanks to Lia and her readers – enjoy the stories!

Lost In A Story

Throughout the month of March, me and my fellow hosts from IndieAthon are be interviewing some awesome indie authors and self-published authors. This will be the last interview on my blog and this time, we have a Q&A with the Cage Dunn!

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Better than Nothing

Today is Wednesday. It is. In Australia, today is Wednesday. On Wednesday, I write a post and publish it. That’s today.

Sometimes, I don’t need The Daily Post word, sometimes I do. Today, that word is micro, but it doesn’t help me find something to spin off into a post of approximately 400 words. I’m pretty sure a 400-word post isn’t micro.

Why 400 words?

Well, whether this is true or not (and I have no reason to disbelieve it), the bots that run around and grab stuff focus on the larger items first. You guessed it: greater than 400-word clumps.

So, if you write something with less than 400 words, the work gets relegated to something similar to the sludge on the bottom of the grease-trap.

Why is there no story, no quips, no nothing coming at me to get itself writ large down here on the white background? Why? I never have a problem doing this – in fact, it just blurts out.

Today is different. Today is Wednesday. Today I have to talk to someone about how to fix my skeletal structure. Bones. Joints, and the things that help them work. And there’s another of those things I choose to believe because I have no reason to disbelieve:

A human body is always undergoing repair, and every cell is eventually replaced/updated/upgraded. Well, at least replaced. Some do it fast, some slow, some very slow. Bones might be very slow, but I’ve still got time. I have no intention of dying anytime soon, and there are way too many stories to finish (and a few more to start), and then there’s life.

I’m alive, relatively healthy (and don’t tell anyone, but I beat something considered untreatable except by drugs! Yes, I even have the two-decade records to prove it), and not that old (don’t even think it!).

There’s hope for the old fart yet. It’s not that bad. For me, there’s hope and evidence and everything in between. I’ll even step up and make this statement:

In five years time, I’ll be walking every day. Not just little toddles down the street; good walks, up to the dam and back.

In ten years time, I’ll be getting back an x-ray that shows no degradation (or at least, no visible degradation) to my spine (I even said that with a straight face).

Somewhere in the next ten years, the things that work with joints and muscles and bones will improve, be less painful and more effective in their everyday duties, and I will be free to be … better than expected — which is better than nothing, don’t you think?

Ta-dah! >400 words done, now I can go back to procrastinating about whether to send the new mss to a publisher. Or not. And get ready to visit the bone-lady.

 

What Would You Like To See?

The faceless pic of me, or the real me, or the best pic I’ve got – which is also a few years old?

The question comes from the new icon I have in my Books page. See that little thing? The green spot in the middle of the screen which mentions coffee? That’s my Ko-fi link. What is it? A place where you can offer support even if you don’t want to buy my books – although I would definitely prefer people buy my books!

Why? Why do that? What about the other places, Patreon and stuff?

I don’t like to push this, truly I don’t, but I need to get some professional help with some aspects of my books. Cover art, for one – ever noticed just how much they could be improved? Well, I have. Mucho. And to do that, I need to get an income. And the books won’t do that if they have crappy covers.

And (I really hate to say this, but …) a developmental editor when I think I’ve finished – just to clarify, of course. I mean, I was an editor (technical, so not the same), and I’ve learned a TON of stuff since I started writing full-time (not like I had a choice in that). And finally, the whole point of this post – I might need an author photo that looks like me.

Which me, though?

I like the lighthouse; I like the one where my arms are wide to the world, absorbing the wind that almost blew us off the high cliffs. It was a moment I remember through the picture. Probably not the best photo to use for an author head-shot, maybe, but what else do I have?

Hmmm. Nothing recent. Nothing good enough for a head and shoulder shot – unless it’s from behind … maybe not appropriate.

To get a good author image, I may have to consult one of those professionals – a photographer (one who can ‘adjust’ images until … you get the picture).

On the Coffee page I’ve put a picture in the gallery. It’s me (the one that isn’t the furry critters – please don’t be confused!), but modified to be more like a painting (you know that type of software).

This one:

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You’ve seen it before – did you know it was me?

No, I wouldn’t either. It’s not how I see the me who is the writer/author me. It’s not the picture I want to use to represent myself to the readers of my stories. But is it truly about what I want?

So, tell me – which would you prefer? The wild, free moment at the lighthouse? The younger, pensive (okay, threatening the fosters) me, or a new one, a more honest representation of how I am now?

So, in looking at all these things and what they cost, I needed to find a way to get some of that stuff these services provide. I don’t like the ‘in your face’ huge banner things, or pop-up things, or begging things, so I went for the minimalist thing. For the cost of a coffee, you get to help me do all of the above while I write six novels this year. And in return for that, I will no longer be faceless.

The final stage of the journey with the coffee – if there’s money in September, and I’ve done all the other things, I’m doing some serious advertising (costs a whack apparently, but I’ll see what’s in the kitty) – and if all of the above is enough to generate a cash-flow, then I won’t need to beg with the coffee-cup anymore, and it will fade into the background.

Because one thing is for sure – it won’t be my stories fading into the background – there are too many of them to get done and out there (40, just waiting in the wings, yelling for me to get a wriggle on, to write faster, do more each day).

But I won’t be faceless no more.

Yeah, I know – you thought I was a bloke; you can still think that if you like, I don’t mind. I’ve certainly been called worse than a poor, old, ordinary bloke (who happens to be my researcher – unpaid, of course).

The Biggest Thank You of All Goes to:

The readers of:
Not On The Cards

Amazon (KU)

Urban Fantasy/Arcane/soft sci-fi

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A simple mistake, to fall in love.

Worse, to bear the child in secret.

Worst of all is when her baby is stolen at the birth.

A mother will do anything, travel all worlds, through times and planes and dimensions, even beyond hell, for her child.

Chiri’s first concern should be the safety of her daughter, but as the Gate-Keeper responsible for the lives of millions, those now in grave peril due to her error, she must choose.

Will she sacrifice the search for her child, or abandon her world to the fate decreed in the Cards?

Reviews:

M said: I enjoyed the book. It read like a short story — very fast paced, very focused on plot.  I got caught up in Chiri’s desires.  …  I liked the way it was a growing mystery enfolded in a sci-fi thriller.

L said: Congratulations! It’s so beautifully written, so polished. …writing is so engaging and therefore held my interest. I wanted to keep reading throughout, it’s a page turner! I love the sense of place with Camberwell, too, the markets and the junction. It’s real and grounded. The later scene where the junction itself becomes the portal is really good. I can visualise it all so perfectly. The pace of the scenes … is great. It’s edgy and I felt all the emotions that Chiri was going through.

I loved it, Cage – not a genre I normally read, so thank you for the introduction to it, and for the privilege of being an early reader. Best wishes for a best seller!

C said: Fast paced from the start; I was completely enthralled with her fears and journey. I would recommend this to the person who wants something interesting and different. Not witches, not warlocks, but enough arcane mixed with soft sci-fi, and in places we can see, smell, and hear. Loved it. GoodReads 

***
For all the Readers: Thank you from the bottom of the writer’s well. You are the stars of my work, and you shine the light on me.

 

And I hope you enjoy the story, too, and if you do, please let me know.

How Many?

It was a rude question, in my opinion. Not the words said, but the way she said them.

“How many?” she squeaked. “Don’t you have enough to do? Isn’t one book at a time enough? What about the presentations you do?”

“Did – the kid’s taking that over now.”

“Still, three courses, and while you’re writing another novel?” It was definitely said with a question mark, as in ‘are you an idiot!’ type question mark.

“Online courses,” I say.

“It’s still three courses. Yes, one’s on Monday only, but you spend hours on it. And what about the other two? You spend at least an hour on each of those. Every day.”

“So what?”

“We all break, you know. There’s a limit. And why do you need to do three courses?”

“The kid’s taken over the presentations. How else am I going to keep in touch with what’s happening? Who’s reading what? How stories are being put out? How can I keep up with that if I’m not doing the presentations and pretending I’m teaching kids – when, really, I’m learning way more from them than I  can ever hope to give.”

It’s true. I could say I did the presentations to help people. I give a little chuckle at that. It implies I know enough to show people what I know. And I do know a bit, and I’ve been a tutor in a few areas. I know some things; not a lot, not all there is to know. No one could say that. Things change, styles change, the world changes. Nothing ever stays the same.

I have to keep up with how the new readers like to get their stories. And how can I do that if I’m not on the continual learning path?

Would I know that kids listen to audio-books at double-speed to get through it as fast as they’d read it? Would I hear how their parents won’t read this stuff, or that stuff, or how they’re moving into this field, or asking questions about those stories? Or, even more importantly, what they’re sick of now and won’t be reading in the future?

No. I might get the odd glimpse of a web-site or blog that mentions one or two of the things that are interesting, but would I hear it straight from the mouth of the reader (representative of)? No.

A writer may need time alone to get the work done, but in order to know where to aim, who’s going to read it, how they’re going to read it, what’s the point? A story is nothing but words unless someone reads it.

Story only comes alive as it is read. And it’s different for each reader, because we’re all different.

You saw the conflict there, didn’t you? I want to know what they’re reading, but I know they’re all going to read it from their own perspective.

That’s why the courses. To see what new writers are doing, and how they’re doing it. Hopefully, the young writers are there, too, and I can [I don’t plagiarise] learn from them.

Online courses get students from all over the globe. Everywhere. I’ve got an idea now for how a particular character will speak because she comes from [this] background, and I can see from examples of several pieces of writing how the syntax and grammar works for her speech patterns. (It’s only the speech patterns, nothing else.)

The other two courses are defined craft skills. Yes, I think I’m happy with my skills, but … what if I find something that makes it so much more … this or that or the other? How will I know if I stop looking at what people are learning?

So, three online courses, one WIP in the final stages, 37 (39 now, no 40!) story ideas waiting in the story-wheel for their turn.

Oh, if I didn’t have a failing spine (L1-L5&S1=kaput), how happy I’d be, how much dancing I’d do – oh, wait! I’m a writer, I can dance on the pages. As much as I like!

YeeHaa!

yes, this was supposed to happen tomorrow morning, and it’s now early evening the day before I usually post, but – you might have guessed this – there’s a few hours to put in with the online course in the morning.

C’est la vie!

 

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