Cage Dunn's Blog, page 69

Scene 3 – On the Cards

Unfortunately (for me), my new chair (with big circular things for legs) doesn’t fit under my desk (and I don’t have a laptop), which means no new stuff coming from my head to the screen. I am also unable to sit long enough to read/respond to your posts. What you get instead is the third scene (first draft) from On the Cards (working title). Copyright (of course) Cage Dunn 2018.

Scene 1 here, scene 2 here.

Scene 3

Old? Chiri was old? How could that be? Unless her estimation of the time-scale was so far out of whack that …? No, she couldn’t believe it. Nor could she look in a mirror to check. She shuddered. The wisest choice would be to let him go, to leave it be, wait until tomorrow.

Chiri watched his tall striding form as he pushed through the throng. A dark shape — was it a cloaked person or a cloud-shadow? — welled up behind his back; it hid him for a moment, but didn’t hide the sound. The tinkle from the rapid movement of many keys as they jangled together.

He turned, grabbed at his belt, glared at Chiri over the heads of the market crowd, glared at everyone around him. Lifted his phone and turned his head to look down at the screen.

A possum darted out from behind one of the greengrocery stalls. It grabbed the phone, spun in mid air and darted off along the wires and guy-ropes of the tents and shelters. A possum with keys held tight in his tail.

Chiri wanted to laugh. She put her hand on her head to pat down the wayward strands that lifted from her head-scarf and tugged in the breeze. She shrugged and turned back to her work.

A woman in the line smiled at Chiri.

Well, hello Mariana. Nice to see you again.

“I’ll do a reading, shall I?” Chiri said. Why did she remember this woman as someone who’d been read before? Was she important, or was the situation so far from normal — what the hell was normal in a five-dimensional time vortex anyway? — that she was re-living parts of days now rolled into one?

No. It couldn’t happen. The time-lines weren’t that flexible. The river of time had a defined flow. Everything moved to a specific directional pattern. Everyone else had their life one day at a time, one date after another, regular as clock-work, as a calendar, as night followed day. No one else had only Saturdays; no one else had their time-line scattered like a game of fifty-two pick up, but with thousands of cards. Seven thousand two hundred cards, as a minimum, and in five dimensions. Or was it six? Five. The sixth lay at the centre of it all. Only five were accessible. Or could be accessed. Different.

She sighed. The smell was still there, the hint of Him when they had their moment in that time. Chiri leaned on the door frame and turned to invite Mariana inside.

Mariana was gone.The line of querents melted away to become part of the crowd as he stormed towards her like a rampaging bull elephant.

He stopped, took another step closer. Might be a bit cranky based on the fire and brimstone Chiri saw in his aura. “Didn’t we finish our business?” she let the curtain slide closed to be sure he understood he wasn’t welcome.

He leaned in, towered over as if she were a diminutive child. He opened his mouth so close to her face Chiri could see his dental work — and a black spot that indicated more was required.

“Why did you send your thief to steal my keys?” his voice was sharply pitched, cracked, icy — not at all like his aura, so hot that Chiri felt the need to back away from the flames. She didn’t. She wouldn’t.

“Do you see any keys? Do you see a phone?”

She smiled and flounced her skirt. Nothing held it down because there wasn’t anything in her pockets.

It might be better to get him out of sight, away from the sideways glances from the passing groups of people who looked worried for her. They’d call the police. She didn’t want that.

“I’ll do your cards, shall I?” she said. Not a proper reading, because the cards didn’t like him, or wouldn’t respond, but if it wasn’t a reading, it didn’t have to be what he expected, did it? If he wouldn’t accept the truth, she wasn’t going to give him any.

“I don’t want my bloody cards read!” He leaned in closer; so close she could see the sparks in his iris. “I want you to call your friend and get my keys back.” He took a quick intake of breath. “Now,” he said. “Right bloody now.”

Chiri leaned forward, pushed him with her elbow, and lifted the curtain flap open.

“Would you rather create a scene, or do you wish to step inside so we may speak as reasonable adults; so we can talk about what the thief who stole your phone and keys looks like?”

“I want my keys.”

“I don’t have your keys.” She dropped the curtain and lifted her hands, waved them, turned them over and back up again, shook her sleeves. He wasn’t concerned about the phone, didn’t mention it, even though she’d given him two opportunities.

“Your thief stole them.”

“I saw a possum, not a thief. Nothing I can do about the wildlife.”

“What do you want from me?” He leaned in, lifted his right hand in a fist, moved it slowly closer, unclenched it until the fingers became like claws, reached for her arm.

Chiri pushed backwards through the curtain and slid  into the darkness of the tent. If she could slow her heartbeat, dry the rush of sweat on her face and back, she’d feel more capable. But there was nothing she could do about it, except what she felt was right. When it felt the right time.

If only the cards would respond to him, tell her if he was the one, or if she’d made a terrible mistake. They didn’t. She got no sensation from the cards at all. Nothing. For the first time she could remember, the cards were cold and distant and closed tighter than a fearful clam.

He followed her in and sat down with his arms folded across his chest.

“What do you want from me?” he repeated.

“I want nothing.”

“You said I have a daughter.”

“You do.”

“And you’re her mother.” He sneered.

“Yes.”

He rolled his eyes. Stopped. Stared behind Chiri. His face went white, eyes widened. He lifted his left arm and pointed.

“What is that?” his hoarse voice whispered.

Chiri wasn’t going to turn around. He’d seen a ghost, that was all. Just a ghost. She couldn’t tell him that, he’d have to figure it out for himself. If she told him, he’d think it another trick. Probably even if she did nothing.

“What is that?” he repeated.

“Are you in the habit of needing to say the same thing more than once?” Chiri leaned forward, lifted the hand which held the cards.

“That’s … that’s … not possible.” He shuddered. “What did you do?” He lifted the runner cloth. Leaned down to look under the table.

“There’s nothing there,” Chiri said, “unless you’re just looking for an excuse to look under my skirts — or is there something else you need to see?”

A card fell onto the table. The black card. Flat black. No sheen or shine or glimmer.

“I think you should leave,” Chiri lifted the card and put it back in the deck.

“I want to know what you meant. A daughter? I can’t have a daughter, I’m …”

“You’re …?”

“I’m not a father,” he finished. “It’s not possible, that’s all. I’d remember, wouldn’t I?” The look he gave her brought chills to the back of her legs. “I’d remember you.”

Chiri felt the words he’d meant to say. I’d remember if I slept with someone so old.

She looked at her hands. They didn’t look old. No liver spots, no sun spots. Very white in places, very brown in places. The heritage of her kind. In this world, they’d say she had the skin of a zebra. She didn’t. It was the skin of a changer. In this case, a lost changer, and one who’d also lost her daughter. And changers only ever had one egg for reproduction.

He stood up, still staring at the space behind Chiri.

“Whatever you want, I’m not the one to give it to you. If you want money — here, take this!” He tossed a wad of notes held together with a paper wrap onto the table, spun on his spiffy black patent-leather loafers, and blew out of the doorway.

Gone. Again. But his words drifted back. “And don’t bother me again. I’ll set the cops on you for fakery.”

That went well. She wanted to leave it there, but he was the one, it was his smell. It was Him. And only he could lead her to the door that held Saffo.

Chiri would have to go after him, try again, convince him somehow. She couldn’t lose the chance now, not when she was so close.

Hopefully, by Wednesday I’ll be able to fit back at my desk. Until then, adieu!

 

The Second Scene

I’m in the wars today, so all you get is the second scene of ‘Not on the Cards’ (title subject to change without notice). Copyright (of course) Cage Dunn 2018.

If you need Scene 1: here.

Scene 2.

When the fifth querent left and the upturned box remained bare of the thick tome of The Age, Chiri closed the diaphanous curtains on her stall. If it was there, she’d see it. Too big to miss. The Saturday Classifieds, property pull-outs, sports and arts and lifestyle magazines. If it fell to the ground, if it rolled under the stools, if the wind blew the sections apart — no, she’d still see it. No newspaper. No timeline.

The smells of the lunch-wagons, the cafes and restaurants and chipperies and spices and … her stomach rumbled. It was nearly lunch-time. She’d get something to eat, look around the other stalls, see if she could beg, borrow or steal a paper. The fish and chip shop always had the freebie, even if it got torn to pieces and redistributed in small bits — always with the sports section missing. Was Bruno still the proprietor? Wouldn’t matter which bit of the paper she got; they all had a date on them. That’s all she needed. Just to know which when she was in, and what it might mean, how close she might be to the right pattern, the right door to the revolving time structure that held Saffo.

She needed to know the date and year.

If something was going to happen, it better be soon, or … Chiri clamped her teeth together. She made the threat regularly, although there were none to hear it. Who knew of her plight, her entrapment; who was she threatening? Herself? Bah! No good ever came from that.

And where could she go? The boundaries of her now-world were clearly defined. The wavering lines up that hill, down that road, to her left and right and centre became mist and mirage if she looked too hard. Only this small space, the carpark, the art-deco apartments on the opposite side, were places she could exist in any form of reality. On the miniscule edges of the icosahedron that jutted up at this point, that hid the quaternions below, the elements of the polytopical dimension. The truly magnificent structure of the 600 tetrahedral faces of the dimensions of her true home. The perfection of the geometric image that shielded the divisions and barriers between each structure and shape and time.

Chiri wanted to go there now, to find Saffo now. She needed to do it; needed to see if Saffo lived, if … A sob rose to her throat. She tamped it, held it down. Being miserable or emotional wouldn’t help. Only the key, and the location of the lock it opened, and the right door …

What did it matter? She’d smelled that aroma, that scent, and her body quivered at the memory of it, at the memory of the loss and pain and heartbreak. It wasn’t just Saffo, though that was the biggest fear and need. It was also Him.

She frowned as she did a double-take and looked across the intersection again. The Art Deco apartments weren’t there. Was she in the time before it was built? Did The Age even exist then? She shook her head. Not possible. Look at these people. The clothes. The cars. The fact she was in a car-park. The food smells. So many different voices, colours, sounds and smells. Not, definitely not the era before the apartments.

So, when?

A woman walked past, head down, studiously avoiding looking at Chiri or the gaudy tent of the fortune teller. The perfume was the heady Chanel. Was that the sharp 9 or the fruitier 5? Undertones of tang, neroli and musk? Sniff. Not Chanel. One of the twenty-first century perfumes. So many new ones, it was impossible to recognise them by aroma alone. And the undertones of plastic, or coal-oil, or the stink of created scents. The woman’s coat — if she had a coat on, then it must be Autumn, right? — wasn’t a natural fibre. The brilliant blue wasn’t a natural colour. It hung slightly off-drape, as if one side was heavier, or the stitching had failed in the main seam. A loose button, iridescent in a swirl of blues. And the woman huddled in tight, as if the synthetic coat didn’t warm her.

Definitely beyond 2010.

Everyone who hurried by carried bags or parcels or satchels. Everyone had electronics. Ears and hands occupied. Eyes traced the dancing lights on screens. Mobile technology. Did newspapers still exist? Had she slipped beyond her realm again?

The panic sent her scuttling, running along each row of stalls, ignoring the abuse from the heavy human traffic as they wandered the market like herd animals. Her eyes searched surfaces, hands, bags, the screens were too tiny! — there must be a paper somewhere, otherwise … otherwise … was she already too late?

Her nose quivered. A new aroma, distinctive, alluring. Familiar. The combination of wood-smoke, horses, salty sea-breezes. His smell. His unique combination. Her nose flared, her head lifted. She slowed to a walk, closed her eyes, and followed the smell.

The tall man she saw didn’t look like Him. He sat on the upturned wooden crate where the newspaper should be, and looked up when she moved closer, his head tilted. He frowned.

Chiri raised her eyebrows. His eyes didn’t light up. He didn’t smile. His back remained stiff and straight. He showed no sense of recognition.

“Do you want a reading?” she asked as she flipped up the curtained doorway and held it. She stared at him. The smell was right; was it Him? Why did he look so different, yet feel so familiar?

He stood up and held out his hand. Chiri put one hand behind her back and held the door open with the other.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he said, head down, hands clasped together.

Not calm, not anxious. Too hard for her to read without the cards.

“I’ll do a reading, shall I,” Chiri said.

He stood up and followed her inside and sat down, crossed his legs and placed his hands, one on top of the other in his lap.

She pointed to the box. He nodded, pulled something from a pocket and slid it into the slot. After his donation — she couldn’t tell what he’d put in, but it wasn’t much — she held the cards forward. Nothing happened. The cards felt as if they clung to each other, refusing to be separated from the pack. The cold penetrated to her bones with a sensation of reticence and fear. A childish fear.

“You have a child,” Chiri said. Why did I say that?

“No,” he frowned. “Not that I know of.”

“You have a child. Her name is Saffo.”

“How do you know?”

“I am her mother—”

He thrust up from the chair and tossed a handful of coins onto the table, shook his head and scowled. The coins rattled, clattered and fell to the rug with a litter of thumps.

“Listen to me, old woman. I’m a young man and you’re an old witch. How old are you? Eighty? Ninety? Look at me. Thirty.” He held out his arms, did a slow turn. “What makes you think I’d fall for that scam?” His arm lifted the curtain.

“Wait,” Chiri said. “I can prove it.”

He stepped out and pushed through the line of querents. He was gone.

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Pic from pixabay.

Reaching the Beyond

Some things are hard to admit. Even to ourselves. But in order to adjust our vision to the horizon, we need to look back and acknowledge the journey of learning that led to here.

Fact: It took me about six finished books to get to a story I was reasonably happy with. Six. All now unpublished, though I still think the basic story idea might be sound and all I’d have to do is restructure, tweak a bit here and there, and …

Can’t be done. Not by me. Not yet. They were my apprentice pieces. My learning projects. And because I wasn’t picked up by a publisher (yes, I did send them that way initially – because I was scared to face the reality of what was required to self-publish, but also, the biggest thing, I was afraid of what people would say/think about it), I waited a certain amount of time, did the proofreading a few extra times, and learned how to ‘put it out there’.

Was it a mistake? Well, yes, of course. And No, of course not. How much more contradictory can it get?

It was a mistake because my skills weren’t as good as they should’ve been. If a publisher took on the story, they’d assign an editor to work on the issues of structure and passivity – but I didn’t know what a publishing editor would do, and I didn’t have the zillions of dollars to try to find an editor who’d be a good fit for me.

No, really. Dollars. What it costs to get an editor to do a developmental edit was too high for me. Several hundred dollars, which is a lot. I know everyone is going to say it would be worth it. It’s not worth it if you can’t eat! If you get kicked out of your house for not paying bills. Our limited income is half what would be considered ‘the poverty line’ in Australia (we manage, but it’s way too tight for high outputs like that editor – who may or may not be the best fit, after all, and therefore, no ROI), so don’t say it would all work out in the end. It wouldn’t have.

I know that now.

The ‘No’ was because of what I learned – the hard way – about what it takes to get a reader (even one!) to read your story. And the lesson about putting something out there for free in pdf – pirates sail these waters!

It wasn’t a mistake because I kept learning new skills, honing the craft. I got better. Would that have happened if I’d got reasonable sales from the first (few)? No, I’d think it was okay. Maybe I’d think I was good at this. A writer with confidence in my skills? Pfffffffttttt! Right. Hmmmmm, let’s move on, shall we?

And more on the ‘No’ side: the new skills, the satisfaction of being able to be self-sufficient in this arena, the chosen arena for my new craft (not really new, but still a newby in this day and age). And I met fellow travellers on this path, who helped me learn, even as I shared my knowledge of the journey with them. It gave a focus to my horizon, a map, and a plan of action. And because I can’t help but ‘see what lies over there’ I went on with my journey.

I now know how to structure and write a full first draft mss in four weeks. I’ve even done a ‘go to whoa’ story – draft to finished product in four weeks. And it was readable, interesting (still not sure about the blurb – we never stop learning; so many things to learn).

The point of all this? I almost thought about going back to fix up the unpublished titles. Almost. The danger is that I’d slip back into the way I wrote them and it would be a craft skill backslide. I’m not that confident yet. One day. Maybe. A few more years. Ten or so might do it.

In the meantime, I was supposed to be finalising the first draft of the ‘On the Cards’ story, but it’s been a bit hot here, and even with air-con, it’s too hard to maintain a steady focus.

Oh, and the TDU is on. Today is the last day for that, but not for the heat. I felt for them the other day, riding in the hot, hot, hot weather. For those who don’t know, we had days of 45 degrees Celcius (about 117-120 F). That’s ‘days’ plural. And we’re expecting more this week, and in the meantime it doesn’t seem to want to get below 38 or so.

There’s only two times a year when I move away from the storytelling work for hours at a time. One is TDF. One is TDU. If it wasn’t so hot, I’d even go out there and cheer them on at a few of the stages, but … I’ll just toast them with a cold beer from the couch.

that’s it from me today. On Wednesday, you get Scene 2 of ‘On the Cards’ – after that, you have to wait for the finished product, due out sometime in Feb.

A Daily Post with Thoughts of Escape

Running away, finding the way out, keeping the back to the wall with an eye on every point of egress. The loopholes of sanity for those struck with paranoia, fear, or ….

That’s not me (don’t look at me like that!). It might be a character though, so I study these things. It’s fun, terrifying, enlightening to see how different people respond to situations that may be dangerous, life-threatening, or it might be no more than the perception of something to fear (the boogeyman is real, you know).

Because that’s what it is. Perception. How the world is viewed by a person. We don’t see it the same. Four people at the same accident equals four varying stories. As it should be. And if you’re a writer, like me, you know that putting something too close to the version of another character means —- they’ve collaborated on the answer they want to present to the world!

Yeah – I see it now, but when I was a reader, and young, and naive, these were the subtle movements in stories I missed until — kaboom — the denouement (or sometimes a little earlier if there was a bigger bang waiting somewhere).

Learning how to unravel these puzzles, these tests of skill and intrigue, were the mainstays of an overactive mind, an under-stimulating environment, and — a dream. The dream is coming true.

Which one? Learning, writing, publishing, reading, sharing knowledge … it goes on and on, that list.

I write stories. I have never not told or written stories (my mother called me a liar, but really, I was only slightly manipulating the facts). When I had foster kids, we made them up as we went along (I’ve even used some of those now, but the longer versions – they’ll recognise which ones). Now, there’s a much wider range of ideas and premises to choose from. I’m free of loopholes, but happy to create the sense of doom so the characters start looking for them. I love writing these stories. Obsessed, it seems.

I try to help (as much as I can) other people who write by offering to share what I’ve learned. Some things can only be learned by doing, by practicing the craft (style/voice (I know they’re not synonymous, but no one else seems to agree with my version of what each is, so) is one – no one can teach you how to be you). In the constant practice of the craft, we grow and (nearly said prosper) improve. Some things I need to learn by listening at the knee of giants (you know who you are), and some things are best left alone.

But, back to the main game (wandered off a bit there – whoops!).

In my stories, I look for the loopholes to get my characters out of their situation. Because there is always at least one, and if there’s no more than one, I need to create more. Why? Because if there’s only one, the reader will see it and will roll their eyes when the exit strategy comes into play. If there are three, which will the character choose? Why? Will it be the most obvious? Will it be the most dangerous? Can the character think fast enough, react appropriately to the situation? And what about that choice makes it compelling (to read)? What makes it different? What makes it a ‘big bang’ moment? And the biggest reason of all? What about this choice is different from every other story out there? Why? Does it add value and move the story in (you guessed it) a new direction? Is it unique (or at least different enough)?

Loopholes – every story has at least one, every character in every scene has at least three. I might make that one of my rules – every character has at least three loopholes to choose from when in the deeps of danger.

And that’s my off-the-top-of-the-hat Wednesday post. Until Sunday – Ciao!

Cage Dunn

most pics from Pixabay.

How To Tell Well …

Yes, it’s a post for skills and understanding in the art and craft of writing (because I got told off for not putting one up for a while).

So, with no further ado: The Show versus Tell Debate.

In my first few books, I could spout off all the words about this stuff, and I thought I knew. But as you can tell from my journey, I had lots to learn. Lots. And lots of people write about how to Show, how to be in the moment, active, doing something so the reader comes along for the ride (vicarious). It’s good stuff.

It seems not so many write about the Tell stuff. I found one. True.

Randy Ingermanson and Peter Economy Writing Fiction for Dummies – contains a gem (at least one, maybe many), and something any writer should try to understand. Why? Because it makes it easier to know why to use a Tell, and which Tell to use. (BTW: not an affiliate link.)

Which Tell? More than one? What? I hear.

Yes. This is the summarised version (I own the book; if you want to be a writer, you should too):

Narrative Summary: used to summarise actions, dialogue, feelings, thoughts and descriptions (This is the example they use:  “George Smiley walked six miles through London in the fog, pondering how to trap his nemesis, Karla.”

Good, isn’t it? Still gives you a good strong feel for the movement without putting the reader into every step he took.

Exposition: an explanation of some set of facts (the example: “Karla was the wily head of Moscow Centre, a man who had lured Smiley’s colleague, Bill Haydon, into becoming a double agent.”

Also an excellent example of how to give the reader information without taking them out of the story to ‘show’ them, which would also take many more words than this and wouldn’t add to the story; it’s something they need to know, but don’t need to be shown.

Static Description: this is a description of a scene, person, or thing shown from outside any character’s head (example: “A lone streetlamp glowed in the fog on a deserted street on the outskirts of London.”

This example gives the reader a ‘feel’ of the moment, an immersion into the emotion and sense of place.

There are risks to ‘Tell’ and I’m sure you know them. Keep all Tells short, well-written so the reader doesn’t back out of the story, and above all, relevant. It’s a story, nothing more – but as soon as you step away from the journey, you risk the reader moving even further away. Maybe they’ll even put the book down. Your book.

And why have I done a post on Tell? Because, as these examples show, tell is also part of story. There will be a place to use one of these tools to improve your story. Knowing where to use it could save you thousands of words (no, not joking) and the stress of hearing the mantra ‘Show! Don’t Tell’ because even if most of the time we really do need to ‘show’ the action of the moment, there are times we need to tell, and if we don’t understand the nuances of how to tell, how are we going to do it well?

Ciao!  Good writing to all. And: Congrats to Mr Boyack, on his new release.

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Who are you?

Well, I’ve just started on my one and only coffee for the day, and … realised just how difficult things can be before that moment. Coffee doesn’t save me, it doesn’t perk me, it doesn’t actually do anything, but the day will not kick into gear without it. I’m not a junky. It’s only one. But it has to be at the right time. This time, or everthing goes off-key for the rest of the day.

And that’s not how I want it to be. It can’t be. I have a job that defines how I see myself, who I am. I need to find inspiration at ‘this’ time every day. It’s my job. An important job.

Not a paying job. Not earning enough to pay tax. But it’s my full-time professional output based on years of experience and learning and continual updating of skills.

What do I do?

I write. My job label is writer, author, fool. It’s what I do.

Is it who I am?

Not a silly question, not a play with semantics, not being pedantic. I write, therefore, am I a writer? What is it that makes a writer?

What are the important things to consider? I read this (Chuck Wendig), and thought about it. If I’d received that advice at 24, would I have believed it, acted on it? Would I have the courage to put out novel after novel after novel just to feel/fulfil that need to tell stories?

Well, short story long (the bane of reading something by a writer), I did keep going. One was published, almost no sales, disappointing, and then it changed. Fear crept in. No one liked it.

I didn’t keep sending stuff out to the world. I didn’t let anyone else read them (foster-kids don’t count because they owned the stories too) and I didn’t take it seriously. Why not?

It didn’t earn me money. It wouldn’t earn enough to keep the garden alive, let alone the kids and animals.

Who was I then? A variety of labels for the jobs I undertook to provide cash-flow. A carer to kids and animals, a provider of provender and shelter, a sounding board and ironing board and cheque-book, as well as the driver, teacher of skills of same (even without a licence – but don’t tell anyone!), tutor, hugger (based on different rules for each kid), animal trainer, front-man to the world. Lots of other things.

Notice one thing missing?

At that time, I didn’t put the label of writer on my life. I wasn’t then a writer, even though I penned stories, spoke stories, dreamed and scribbled and planned stories.

I didn’t put them out there for the world to see.

And, to me, that’s the single most important thing a writer needs to do. If I were a bard or a nomad or a shaman or any other form of storytelling person, would I keep the words to myself? Would I be allowed to do that?

Not even going to answer it. You know the answer.

And the writer doesn’t have just one story to tell. You can’t be a writer with only one notch on your belt. No one will see the story if there’s only one among millions.

The question remains: Who am I? How do I answer it now:

I am a writer who writes several books each year, publishes them, and then goes on to write another.

Why do I call myself a writer if it doesn’t earn me enough to keep me fed?

Because I love it; I can’t not do it; the obsession doesn’t end with the first story – it gets worse! There are so many more stories that now clamour at my door because they found someone who wants to tell stories! So, in they come, drop their ideas and plans and little twisty bits because they know the words will find a way to the world.

In the words of the Musae, ‘It’s brill, chicken, so tell my story first.’

I am a storyteller, a writer, an author.

Who are you?

 

 

 

 

 

Not on the Cards

A glimpse of the new story (first draft, so no high expectations, please):

Scene 1: Not on the Cards

Where was the paper? Chiri needed the newspaper. It was the first thing she looked for. It was how life went. Come in, sit down, open the paper, drink the coffee, wait.

Today, there was no paper. It would mess with the day. She sipped at the coffee, lifted it to see the label. It didn’t help. A change in routine always messed with the energy of the day to come.

And here was the first of her querents.

The woman blazed anger and hatred into the air surrounding her red and black aura. Chiri lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows – an invitation, if the woman wanted to see it that way. The cards in her hand buzzed. One card fell onto the purple silk square. Blank red. The face card for blood or war. The music rose in a wail of sound, a scream of pain and discordance. The woman tucked her scarf into her coat and glanced behind, left, right, before she changed direction. She touched the awning of the flimsy tent with the faded words, in red outlined by black on the white background, ‘Mistress Chiriositi Knows Your Future – Do You Want To See The Truth In Your Cards?’.

Murder. That’s what she had on her mind. Murder. And in the final stages of planning. The cards in Chiri’s hand raised the volume of their song and called the woman in.

Another one who required help before her life turned to the grey of the void.

It was early. Most of the market stall-holders were in the noisy process of setting up. Saturday. Camberwell car-park markets. The congruence of the power of the five-intersecting roads that hid the line of power directly beneath the earth. The lines that held Chiri in this place until she found the way out, or through, or between.

This woman wasn’t a stall-holder. Probably not even a local. Maybe wondering why she was here. The lilting melody of the siren-song of the cards called them to this place. Just like Chiri, they didn’t have the option of ignorance. Obey, or suffer.

So many needy people. Desperate people. Chiri couldn’t ignore them. The cards wouldn’t let her. They were the only link that held the connection to the thing Chiri needed most. She was a slave to the dictates of the cards until she found her daughter, Saffo, and brought her home.

Wherever that may be. Whenever that turned out to be.

“Hi,” the woman said as she ducked under the curtained doorway of the stall that contained Chiri, the small timber table, and two chairs.

“Come in, Sara,” Chiri said and nodded in the direction of the small black box. The white triangular paper in front of it read ‘donations’ and the slit in the top was wide enough to take a watch, but angled in such a way, and narrowed in the angle, to ensure no visitor ever saw what was within.

Sara slid a blue and silver note from her red leather wallet and folded it in four before she glanced behind and to each side. Seeming satisfied, she tapped it into the box. The slit closed as she looked back at Chiri.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” she said. She wiped her hand down the front of her coat, gripped her wallet so hard her nails gouged the leather.

“I’ll do a reading, shall I?” Chiri said as the first card fell vertically into the centre of purple.

Sara pulled the chair back and sat down. She slid the wallet into her bag, and folded her hands in her lap with the purse under them. Holding the secrets within the veil.

“Flames in five,” Chiri said. “Hot temper to worsen the will.” The next card spun through the air and settled horizontally over the first. “Wood in eight. Fuel to the flame in plenty.” The next card landed in the vertical position above the first two. “Fear of the weight of consequences.” The blank black card flashed with red in the centre.

Did Sara see it? Would she react? But Sara watched Chiri, not the cards.

Chiri nodded, but didn’t add more words. Not yet. Sara would understand or not. It wasn’t up to Chiri to explain. The cards did that.

The next card slithered into place below the first two. “Below,” Chiri said. “The season is one step behind.” She leaned in and wiped a leaf from the surface of the wild flower meadow that surrounded the almost leafless tree on the face of the Seasons card. Whatever this woman did would find its culmination in late Autumn.

Now for the real reason.

She lifted her hand from the deck, leaned in slightly, and laid it gently to the right of the main cards. “Behind,” she said. Her hand trembled as the blank red card revealed itself. “The power of might, of blood and war, has led you to this point.” Chiri gave a tiny shake of her head and turned to the card about to land on the left side of the main cards. Yellow. “Coin for service.”

Shit. It was a bad one.

The woman had the good grace to lower her eyes when Chiri glared.

“To even wish for the death of another is to bring it too close to your door,” she whispered into the cold air between them.

The next card flew to its designated place on the lower right. “A strong wind will ruin your life when you place the flame of passion too close to the fuel.” The Air eight card twisted to forty-five degrees. Chiri looked up at Sara’s face again. “I won’t continue with this reading. I don’t want to know what you decide, but hear my words, hear the warning laid out here before you, plain as the three dictums.” She put her right hand on the cards, palm up and waited until Sara placed her hand within the clasp. “If you hold your words of passion for a few months – months, you hear, not long – by mid-winter the problem will be one that doesn’t require intervention. It will be gone by the end of July. With no cost to you or your soul.” Chiri pulled Sara’s clammy cold hand close to her chest, felt the pound of the pulse against her bones.

“Will you wait?” Should she say the rest? Yes. “Or will you take the dark path and die in his place?”

Sara’s face went old-bone grey. Her lips quivered. A curl of hair slid across her now damp brow. She lifted her hand away and wiped down the side of her pants.

Chiri grimaced. What would she choose?

Sara stood, wide-eyed, stammering and stuttering. The chair fell as she spun around and almost tripped over it in her rush to get out; her hand gripped the loose door curtains and they held her for a moment. A cold draft of air entered as she tottered beyond the flimsy walls of sheer white light.

Chiri looked down at the cards, now all held safely within the fold of her hands.

She looked at the small box by the door. Still no newspaper.

A brown-eyed woman walked by, looked left, right, left, slipped inside the gauze of the curtained stall of the Card Reader.

Chiri nodded at the donation box and waited until she saw what went in. It was a note she didn’t recognise.

“I don’t really know why I’m here,” the woman said.

“I’ll do a reading, Sue, and you’ll know what choices will open.”

Would she get the newspaper when this one left, or would she have to search for it? It was unusual to not have it waiting for her on the box. It frightened her to not know why it wasn’t there. The one thing that made it clear when she was, even if she knew the where and the why.

Chiri didn’t want to think about the only other day in her constant stream of Saturday’s when the paper didn’t arrive on time.

That one lapse of judgement was what started it all. A slight trill in the breeze brought his scent to her nose and she shuddered. It wouldn’t happen again. She wouldn’t let it.

The Cards

The Cards that Represent the Way Of the Portal

Grouped to threes:

one – the number of things gives the power;

two – the sight of things as they come together;

three – what is the connection/connector that brings it to this now

Air: wind and breath

Fire: flame and passion

Wood: growth and stability

Stone: Size and density

Water: Fluidity and life

0-9: low number equals low effect; high number equals high effect.

Blank faced cards

Black: Unclear

White: Clear

Depth: black/white for clarity/lack of

Yellow: Coin/money

Luck: what surrounds the yellow card of wealth and business

Red: Blood/war

Danger: what surrounds the red card of blood and danger

Green: Sage

Safety: advice comes from the cards that surround the green

Brown: Shaman

Wisdom: what is missing from the surroundings of the brown card

Stages

Child: In the beginning stages, childish

Young/Adolescent: Learning the path of life, eager, thoughtless of danger

Adult: Strong and potentially militant in stance

Older: Life skills hard-earned

Elder: Wise enough to see beyond the immediate

Choice/Destiny: Single wheel on purple background (what led them to this point)

Season: Tree centred in field of wildflowers (the when)

Copyright Cage Dunn 2018 – all rights reserved.

Yes, I’m doing it now and not tomorrow, because I’ll be elsewhere tomorrow. Pics from Pixabay.

 

If You Want to be Heard

You have to speak. No one can hear you if you don’t or won’t say the words, do the thing, make your presence felt.

I follow a lot of blogs because I find what they have to say is interesting. And, being a compulsive creature of a clean nature (that’s bs, by the way), I check up on them even if I don’t see a post for a while.

Gone. Disappeared into the ether. More silent than night.

Why? Was it so hard to say your piece?

After a few moments (and doing other things, when it frees the mind to do such fossicking), I discovered a pattern.

People let it all out. Once. Sometimes twice. And that’s all there is, all she wrote, all that’s necessary.

It’s not.

One post the other day talked about where the bullying mind-set came from, why people do it (can’t find it now, unfortunately).

We know where it came from. It came from the silence of the parents when the grandparents said things that made the ‘boy child’ special. More special than the girls. Treated differently. Better. They get more. All the girl children see this, absorb it, take it into their reality. It becomes.

That silence is a lie. It has to stop. You have to stop it. Every single person. When you hear someone say something like ‘what a special boy,’ or ‘he’s special because he’s the only boy,’ or ‘only boys can do that,’ you need to step in to change that scenario.

There is no difference between special when it comes to gender (lots of other things too, but we’re talking about one thing at a time, okay). You can say ‘Men have more muscle mass so they can do this or that or the other better than a woman.’ If that statement were true for every single male, maybe you could say it. You can’t. I can’t. No one can. Some men can lift a lot of weight, but many, many more can’t. Some women can lift a lot of weight (I used to throw hundreds of 70kg bags of wheat from the ground up onto the back of a truck in a few hours), and some can’t.

Some men can run faster than some women. Not all. Some women can run faster than some men. Not all.

Are you getting some of the point?

A man isn’t more intelligent than a woman. A woman isn’t more bitchy than a man.

It’s all a made-up paradigm that needs to change, and the only way to make that change happen is to do it yourself. One word at a time. One ear at a time. One interruption at a time.

I don’t care if you settle into a routine where ‘he does, she does’ because that’s what you’ve chosen. I’ve done it, I do it, it makes life easier. I do this, he does that. We’ve come to an agreed arrangement (pity he can’t cook better than me, though).

But there are too many times I’ve been dismissed, shat on and disregarded simply for being ‘not male’ and therefore, not good enough, not smart enough, not [you see it, don’t you? The pattern?].

I still hear people say it (Christmas seems to bring it out). They say ‘I have to get a special present for him; he’s the boy; he’s special.’ And when I ask ‘Why is he more special than her/the girls?’ I get this funny look, like I don’t understand the rules of the game.

I do understand. So I keep saying it until it sinks in. I say it louder if there are young girl children close, or young women, or young men who are about to become entangled with young women. In fact, I’ll say these things any chance I get.

I have no reservations about being the only one in the group to question the status quo – because it doesn’t belong, and it never did. I will never see a difference between what is physically represented and the concept of that physicality (gender, shape, size, colour, hair/not hair, etc.) being the thing that limits their capacity.

A man can be what he wants to be, and so can a woman. A man can be in a single-sex relationship and still be a man. A woman can be a parent, but not be a nurturer. A genius doesn’t need dangly bits to have a brain. A musician or singer or writer or politician or swimmer or soldier or [any person in any profession, trade or skill group] isn’t there because they are male or female. They may be ‘special’ in terms of following their dream, or their path or their destiny, but it’s not because of gender.

It never was.

To stop the bullying, the groping, the undeserved entitlement of one over another, you need to speak up when it happens. Immediately. You need to make your voice heard. You need to do it consistently, constantly, and with everyone you meet.

My name is a concatenation of two names, because if I write under a female name (please don’t tell me this doesn’t happen), I get treated differently.

I am Cage, gender undefined female, married to a man (even if I call him ‘researcher/guru’), a writer of stories and novels (and pack-leader to a dog), ex-foster carer to almost three dozen teenagers and a couple of toddlers and dozens of animals. I’ve built a shed and a house and a farm. I’ve fixed up several old cars (vintage and veteran). I’ve competed in horse shows from endurance to dressage. I’ve competed in triathlons and marathons and finished them. I’ve travelled almost every bit of dirt in Australia. I have something to say and it isn’t my gender saying it; it’s my humanity.

My stories are my voice; my blog is my voice. Where is yours? I’m willing to listen, all you have to do is be part of the conversation.

Yes, it’s off the cuff, unplanned like a lot of my posts, but that doesn’t make it less serious.

If you want to be heard, you have to speak up.

That doesn’t mean what zealots or extremists think – basically, I think they’re brainwashed as badly as people who follow a political party as blindly as a mole in a deep, dark hole and not thinking of the future that might bring to their descendants. That’s not enlightenment; it’s not freedom; it’s not the path to an open and enquiring mind.

I’d like it to not be the future, but it will take a lot more voices than mine alone.

Care to join in?

Bits of my journey ’til now.

 

Made it! 2018 Aims & Claims

We’re finally there. Here, I mean. In a moment when I count up all the events, achievements, failure, surprises, shocks, and – yes, wait for it – promises.

I can’t just do the one year, so here’s two. I’m not going to tell you about some of the things, because … well, because I’m just not.

Achievements: I checked yesterday on how many novels I created in CreateSpace. Ten. When did it start and when did it end and why aren’t there ten novels available on my site? (can’t insert a pic – you’ll have to trust me on the numbers).

Moordenaar, The Third Moment (potential for a rewrite), Unknown Sins , The Journey of Shadow, A Dragon Dream (these two part of the Narrung Sagas – potential for a rewrite and the final novel), Speculations of a Dark Nature (3 themed anthology ebooks combined), Dogs N Cats N Us (a compilation of two anthologies), Agoness, Equine Neophyte of the Blood Desert (really should’ve found a shorter title), and Who Will Rule Magic? Kraken, Dragon, Cat vs. Kangaroo, Cockatoo, Crocodile. ( No links within these titles – that would constitute spamming, which I don’t like).

Some were unpublished: The Narrung Sagas stories, Moordenaar, Unknown Sins. Why? Not well written, not well structured. I think with Moodenaar (which got a name change at one stage due to an influx of anxiety), it was the story I had to tell, the one that everyone has in them that needs to come out to purge the soul (the big Theme). It wasn’t good. Well written, maybe, but not well structured. It was a cleansing, and now it’s gone. The Narrung Sagas may come back, but not until I’ve had long enough to outlive the shame of putting it out in public. Unknown Sins is allowed to die a slow and quiet death, but it did lead me to my main passion for story subject matter (not SF, the other stuff in there, and if you didn’t read it, you’ll still know what it is when you read any other two of my stories).

Some were withdrawn: Speculations of a Dark Nature, the Third Moment. The former because of the number of stolen copies out there, apparently freely available if you sign up to the pirate sites. The latter because it needed some approvals that weren’t forthcoming (a rewrite to take out the contentious elements is being considered).

The almost-complete mss: Valki (short form of the Title), A-Z of short stories (almost done, but I use these anthologies as a placeholder when the main WIP becomes difficult, so no time-line), and two ongoing projects (Not on The Cards and Unburdened – titles not yet solidified).

When did I start?

March 2016 was the first novel published and made available. Then June, July, September and December 2016. That’s five completed MSS in one year (if you count the tryptic of anthologies as one).

Now for 2017 – what happened? What got published? The two anthologies (Stories in Shorts and Dogs N Cats N Us, combined for a CS paperback: Dogs N Cats N Shorts); Agoness, Equine Neophyte, and Who Will Rule Magic? Kraken, Dragon, Cat vs. Kangaroo, Cockatoo, Crocodile  (see, should’ve found a shorter title!). Four novels and two anthologies of shorts. Four paperback books, five separate MSS.

It’s amazing to look back at that and see it as the apprenticeship. Am I a Master yet? You tell me.

And now? I received three paperbacks earlier than expected and I’m just finishing up the final proofreads for them before I start back in on the next few projects. When I’ve done the amendments (hopefully, the last one will be tonight) I’ll donate them to the local library (so, no scribbles). If you have the Kraken story, change ‘Spear of Destiny’ to ‘Spear of Chironex’ and please ignore the few minor errors. (Avg rate of errors missed from e-proofread to pb proofread is eight or so, not horrible, not great – but I have yet to read a single book with no errors at all.)

I’ve learned a lot. I’ve done a lot. I’ve learned through doing and helping other people do. I’ve learned through disasters and trials and tribulations (hard drive failure being the worst for the writer-me). I think my stories are getting better. It’s a tough job, sometimes lonely, sometimes crazy, sometimes verging on obsessive.

Why do I persist if it’s so hard? Because I love stories. I love telling them and I love reading them. I was an avid reader, but I wasn’t finding anything that really, really was my ideal story. I’d talk to people about the books I’d read, I’d join discussions about the what, where and how, and I’d be disappointed in the final result.

I worked as a tech person and wrote tech documents, and I did them well. Not a good start into a storytelling world, though, because the readers are so different. I nearly wrote ‘rules’ but it’s not about rules, it’s about who reads the output.

My university degree didn’t teach me what I needed to know. It didn’t give me enough to make the journey through the apprenticeship any easier. I had to do it, suffer the humiliation of the failures and rejects and silence. And keep going. And keep doing. And go to other classes to try to learn as I went.

Now? Now I’m really enjoying the journey; I’m enjoying the stories I’m writing; I’m enjoying the collaboration (even if it slows things down, gets personal, and creates friction {fiction-friction, I’ll have to use that!}, and takes up valuable time), but most of all, I’m enjoying the output.

I can write five novels a year. The proof: I’ve done it two years in a row. It’s factual, evidenced by the physical presence of these items.

2018: Five novels will go out into the world from this keyboard. Plus, one anthology. That’s my goal – five novels PLUS the anthology. An extra, if you will. One more than the past two years. Except these ones will include all the things I’ve learned, will incorporate the feedback I’ve received (from readers, reviewers, critics), and at least one of them will be published differently (can’t stop learning, can we?). Which? Valki, The Cards, Unburdened, Annandan, Dragons and Beer to Go, Cat Whisperer (not set in stone, not guaranteed, not to be taken as gospel).

And the big thing? Once I get to ten published and available tomes I’m happy with, I’m going to do a big marketing push. Why not now? Because I want to have a back-list, I want to have a range of genres, I want to have a range of readers who are happy with either this one or that one or maybe the other one.

The output may be similar in terms of genre, but people look for different things. I do, don’t you? There are differences within the similarities, there are similarities within the differences, but the main aim is to let the reader find the right story for them, and I’ve been lucky enough to get honest reviews, critiques and feedback to enable a better understanding of this (Thanks! to all of you).

End Post for 2018 Aims and Claims – no pics because they’re not working today (again).

Have a great year, aim high enough that the point you reach will be the best you’ve ever done, even if the goal may need to be amended or carried over in some form. It’s what you aim for that defines the journey, and it’s the journey that defines the inner person.

Ciao!

 

[ didn’t mean for it to be so long, sorry ]

 

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Looking for the Lost Word

 

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There are Good Guys Out There

It’s true. There’s always a story about a good guy pulling out the right attitude to save the day. Stories abound. I confess to not seeing them, or not reading them, or sometimes not even believing them.

What is it about the movement of my time through this life that’s changed the way I respond to these things? I used to be nice. I used to believe. I used to do the right thing. I think.

Is it the life I had with so many foster kids? Or the foster animals that would’ve been put down purely for the lack of social skills? Is it the many more stories of cons and scams and – the worst of all – the powers that be who deem all below their rank and power and privilege to be irrelevant?

See? Cynicism at its worst. How can a person continue to trust, to have faith in their fellow human beings, to be willing to put in more than they get when what they see, feel, get is not done in the interests of the whole, of no benefit to any but the One Who Speaks Loudest and from the Highest Chair in the Land. Might beats Right.

And fancy saying these things at this time of year.

Yes, it’s that time of year. Forgiveness and all that. I suck in a breath and look sideways to see if anyone’s looking as I think this through. Forgiveness. It should have a question mark. Forgiveness? That’s better.

Will I ever forgive the person who tried to drown me when I was a kid? Nope. Simple answer to that one.

Will I ever forgive the ——– who sexually abused me? Nope. Another simple answer.

Will I ever forgive the person or people who abused, neglected and abandoned the ones who came into my care? Nope. Never. It was their responsibility to do the best they could to leave them with the skills to become contributing members of their society. No forgiveness for those who practice cruelty as if it were a gift of enlightenment.

Will I forgive the man who enables other (usually) men to abuse, degrade and humiliate women, children, dark-haired, brown-eyed, accent-voiced people who are not the same as him, and don’t follow his religion? No. Not ever. I will never forgive those who continue to exhort his values either. Never.

I am lacking in the willingness to forgive tyrants and harbingers of evil.

I need to read more stories of the good guys.

Please, I beg you, send me those stories. I need to see more of them. To find the two examples in the first para, I scrolled through 14 pages (yes, pages with ten or more stories on each page) of the other stuff.

It’s time we started to spread the word about the good guys.

Something like this place.

And what would I have done without this guy? He saved me from the depths of [that place].

 

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Slim, named for his voice (see Slim Dusty), Writer in Residence; One of the rescued – too old to be retrained as a house cat, apparently.

 

that’s my end of year post – 2017 wasn’t a good year – and I promise much more light in the next twelve months. Unless …