Cage Dunn's Blog, page 79

Yeeeee-haaaaaa

Finally, a word that is truly mine from the Daily Post! Cranky! That’s me, you see. C-R-A-N-K-Y Critter.

Me. In a nutshell. A cranky critter.

The why is a thing that’s an excuse. The truth is more along the lines that I developed my character by fighting my way through insurmountable odds and surviving (my childhood). How? By showing the side that was tough, unbreakable, vengeful. And then I learned to use that outer visage to good effect. That mask became useful as a tool.

My name to most of my fosters over fifteen or so years? Sarge. Yep. As in the ‘Do Not Mess With Sarge’ adage. It’s not that I was tough, or a bully, or unreasonable. It was about the rules with the fosters. Follow the rules; do not break the unbreakable rules; negotiate changes to the other rules or suffer the consequences (this is where they learn to get what they want by gaining support from others – communication skills, social skills, etc.). But I had to run the show, and if you’ve ever had to deal with a dozen or so highly flammable teenagers in full dram mode, who have low self-esteem and problems with authority, you may understand how I used my ‘cranky’ to get them into a place where they had a sense of ownership. Yep. Personal Power.

And I learned it all through the ‘look’ and the ‘feel’ and the ‘act’ of cranky. The look does it first – that tilted head with the eyebrows slanted in towards the centre of the eyes, the single-line frown of slight disapproval that grows when the look is ignored. That moves onto the body language of hands on hips and one leg spread out for balance (the fighter stance, they learned later in martial arts training), and the lean in to show a slight measure of overbearing of the elder v. younger. The final piece, the enactment of the consequences of failing to respond to the first two – the act, which puts out the possible cost of ignoring the rule, the potential for loss of something they wanted more than to win this particular round of belligerence.

After a period of time in the household, they learned that ‘Sarge’ was a mask, and that they could use their own mask to ‘fake it til you make it’ in situations in their life. They learned to protect themselves through the gaining of skills in self-defence and negotiation. They learned to not judge the person by the mask – the hardest lesson of all.

Most of the world lives and breathes their relationships by understanding what a person’s unspoken language is saying. Usually, it’s all wrong (their understanding, that is) because they look only at the outer, and don’t take the time to discover the ‘why’ of the mask.

Those kids had no choice. They’d survived until they came to my place, sometimes barely and always in a state of emotional damage that would take years or even a lifetime to work through, and now they had to learn that to survive isn’t a singular thing. Only community can offer true survival.

That was the lesson. Be more than one and you have a chance. Be part of the whole and become whole. Look past and beyond the mask to find the path to a heart. That’s where you find home.

Thank you for putting up ‘my’ word!

 

A Word or Two

He couldn’t think of a single thing to say – and now the moment was gone. It would have taken one word, maybe two, to get her to turn around and … and …

Aren turned back to the slush of freshly stamped and addled dirt that surrounded the new grave.

His wife of ten years lay at the bottom of that hole. And his only child lay with her. His wife’s family had stood on the far side of the hole, looking down with tears, and up with rage.

One word; if he could have said one word, would it have made a difference? Her mother’s stiff back and rigid facial muscles said far more than he could’ve broken through.

It was his fault, and they knew it.

Aren took a step closer to the mound. One more, but his feet dragged and his hands lay stubbornly by his side. His mouth hung open, absorbing all the moisture in the air.

One foot slipped in the grimy black mud that lay hidden under the mush of pounded grass.

So many people came. All stood on the one side – this side – and he stood alone on the other. Aren was always alone. Until he met Seza. His life and soul were bound up in her, and he became someone simply because he was loved.

A man who came to be a man through the trials of loneliness. Orphanages and foster homes, streets and gangs, crime sprees and forced holidays. Until Seza. Who turned his life around the moment she looked in his eyes.

The family said he didn’t deserve her. That she deserved better, more, anything other than him. The invites to family gatherings didn’t ever have his name on the card. Seza dragged him along to some, but most he stayed away.

His life taught him that enemies that were also family were the most dangerous. And it had proved true again. It had cost him the only thing of value in his life.

Maybe he should give them what they really wanted; what they’d planned for. His left hand reached down into his pocket, through the gap to the leather strap around his leg. Two fingers and thumb slid the handle up into his palm. It warmed in his hand.

One more step and he stood on the side of the grave where her family and friends had stood. Where all the ground was pitted and filled with ice-rimmed puddles. A hard lump stuck in his throat and he tried to swallow it away, but it wouldn’t go. It stayed.

Aren shook his head. This was not his side. This was not the way he’d finish it. He dragged his heavy body around the mound to stand on the uphill side and look down at the goat-tracks of the people who’d gone, the people who said they loved her and would do anything for her, the people who’d killed her when they’d meant to kill him.

The crash was investigated, of course, because the family had connections. The damage was deliberate; he was a mechanic.

Aren didn’t respond to any of it because he knew. When he looked at their faces, he knew. It had been his day to take the vehicle to the airport to pick up the packages for her business. Aren was supposed to be driving when the vehicle reached the top of the Devil’s Elbow descent.

Seza took their daughter, wanted to show her the beauty of the sunrise over the low-lying plain where the airport lay. Wanted to show her a joy of life: a new day.

The knife rose in the air, almost of its own accord, lifted to horizontal, moved closer to his throat. The slit was right to left – he was a cacky-hander, something they’d forgotten when they’d sliced through the line, which was cut left to right.

But vengeance would not be his. Aren didn’t care enough now. This moment was all he had. It was a timely end to his grief. And this way, he wouldn’t be alone, ever again.

Copyright Cage Dunn 2017

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Caged

from Dogs N Cats N Us

One dog came to the front of the cage as he walked past. He’d walked and scanned each occupant for suitability. Only this one came up. One dog. Tiny. A tiny, little dog with deep dark eyes and pointed ears and an upright tail.

Drago flipped up the face of the ticket on the cage. Timid? Not this dog. Not suitable for children. Was she a biter? Breed: Tenterfield Terrier. Terriers were smart, weren’t they? Noisy, yappy, diggers? He didn’t know enough.

Such a tiny little dog. Too small. If he held his hand out flat, it could stand there quite comfortably. It would be – like everyone else – intimidated by him; afraid. He needed a big dog, a man’s dog, a real dog.

Drago continued down each aisle. Dogs of so many different shapes and sizes and colours. They all barked and ran and jumped up at other people, but not for him. None of them came to the front of the cage when he walked up. Not one.

It took a long time, but he walked back down every aisle, looked into every cage on his way through, then turned around and went back. He reached the cage where the tiny dog was. Where he thought she’d been. A young girl was in the cage with a hose and a broom, cleaning. No dog.

He checked the ticket. Right place. The same tag.

The dog was gone. He was too late. Someone else had got it.

Drago fell to his knees. He didn’t realise until the crack of bone on concrete. A big lump stuck in his throat, sank down into to his chest, froze on the way down to his belly to sit like an iceberg.

“You okay, mate?” the young girl stood with the hose in one hand while the other twirled the water off. “Mister?”

Drago looked up. He felt dizzy, drained.

“The dog,” he managed through a mouth that didn’t work properly. “The dog?”

“Yeah, here she is – just scared of hoses and water, so she hides under there.”

The large bundle of blankets at the back of the stall moved, slid down as the pointed nose emerged. Ears erect, bright eyes open as she tilted her head; one second and she ran to the front of the cage and licked at his hand caught in the wire.

“I think she’s yours, mate. She hasn’t come to the front for anyone else. Most people scare the life outta her. She’s had a tough life.”

That meant she was the perfect dog for Drago. Two peas from very different pods, and now pack.

The girl opened the cage gate and Drago leaned over and scooped her up.

“We’ll go home now, shall we, friend?”

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Copyright Shannon Hunter 2017

The Things They Do For Us

All my life has involved one, two, three and sometimes many more animals, either as pets, or working animals, or farm animals, or friends. And one or two (many) were the healers.

The dog who showed a young boy how it was safe to be touched (just a little, and with rules!), the cat who slept by the head of the young girl and purred and comforted until the restless and terrified mind could drift into sleep, the old horse who protected chickens because her friend in the wheelchair wanted it – it goes on and on and on.

The things they do for us, and only because it’s what we want or need.

At the same time I was a foster carer for humans, I was also a foster carer for non-humans: dogs, cats, pups, kittens, rabbits, horses, chickens, goats, sheep, snakes, birds (got the scars to prove the sulphur-crested – and so has the white cat), even some non-approved animals who decided to live in a burrow under our house [as an aside, when I got the builder in to strengthen the foundations without disturbing the wombats – he did it for cost only]. It’s possible I’ve missed some out. There were lots.

And there were times when we couldn’t save them – too much pain and harm and damage – but we did what we could to make their life feel as safe as possible. We didn’t give up on them – the foster humans saw the need in these abused animals and connected. Sometimes, this is what saved the human; sometimes, it was enough to also save the animal (I’m speaking mind here; we didn’t ever put an animal down or get rid of it for the sole reason of being difficult or afraid or unsocial).

Because if an animal has been through that and can learn to love again, learn to trust and hope – we all can, can’t we? And if it takes a long time, that’s what it takes, isn’t it?

And the issue of fostering – well, I didn’t get to give them back, did I? If one of the kids bonded with that animal – well, that’s pack, and pack doesn’t get booted out. Packs stays. Do you think there was ever a foster (animal) that didn’t bond to one of the fosters (there were a LOT of fosters)?

The fosters learned through contact with others who’d been through the same terror. They learned that the life they left behind wasn’t normal, even if it had become normalised while they were in it.

With the love of an animal who’d suffered, they learned how to heal, not only in themselves, but in the giving of healing to others.

They learned about pack, about family; that blood is only blood, and pack (family) is loyalty, protection, safety, and love without obligation. So they made their own pack family, and they made the rules of pack (some safe zone discussion involved in creating those rules).

That’s all it took to heal. Connection.

As an aside [another one] the short stories in dogs n cats n us is NOT from the foster times – I promised to never reveal any of their stories unless they approved, or the owner of the story was [  ], or I did it for myself only. The short stories I put into it are all from other areas, and semi-fictitious.

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New Volume of Short Stories

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Dogs have Masters, Cats have Staff – isn’t that what they say? But it’s more than that, and we who love them know all it can be, and all it was, and all it will be. And we shall never forget.

Saying Hello, Saying Goodbye; the things they do for us, the love they give, the lives they share. In the Beginning, and at the End, they will be there for us.

Here

The Borders

All those places that have a place that block passage, where there’s a price to pay, where the traveller knows the other side is different.

They approach the cusp, sometimes with a sense of wonder and fear, sometimes with no expectation but that they will get to the other side. Sometimes, it appears as if that’s what happens – at least to the ones on this side – but they never arrive, and never come back, and they leave no sense of themselves in the air. Gone. [image error]

The market days didn’t produce enough; there were fewer lookers, even fewer buyers, and Crixa ended up packing up almost as much as he arrived with.  But the lenders would come in two days and if he didn’t …

There was another choice. He could go there. Once before, when he was young and his father was as desperate as he was now, he went into that place. And they both came out, didn’t they? They both survived that journey, and the earnings were worth the risk.

The summer after that visit, his father left and didn’t return. Old Miza said he’d been seen at the border gate, but couldn’t recall if the gate was opened to him or not. Crixa didn’t go to the gate to check, nor did any of the other towns-people. If that was where he went, and if he didn’t return, he would be added to the list of Borderers and forgotten.

As Crixa walked past the posted list of Borderers, he reached up to touch his father’s name. He frowned. The name wasn’t there – not his father’s name. Crixa’s name was on the list, a glowing whiteness that blinked and flickered liked a guttering candle.

He stepped back, frowned, looked around. The lane had changed. There were no people, no stalls in the laneway next to the tavern, no sounds of music or children or beasts. His boots slid on the wet ground – wet? – as his body slid and slithered closer to the edge of the buildings.

“No,”  he cried out, “It was only a thought, not a wish!”

The path lit up with white stones at the edges, with glowing footsteps far too small for a human child. A single dark shape walked down from the border crossing towards Crixa.

“Father!” he cried out. “Father, I didn’t mean to come across. Please let me go.”

“The rules, Crixa. What are the rules?”

“Wish not for more than the world can offer; See not the answer in a dream or fancy; Seek not salvation from beyond the ken.”

“Aye, now go back, and take your wares down the hill, not beyond.”

Copyright Cage Dunn 2017

I Made a Word

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Not one word; many words. I made many words, and they all have meaning – each distinct, but the context of pattern within the enclosed structure they’re in make them so much more than the one word’s meaning. One word fitted in with other words to make one sentence – a sentence with one subject, one object, and one verb. One construct.

Stick the conjoined sentences into one paragraph, that has one point to make – each distinct, but within the context of the pattern within the structure. Shape it so the emphasis on the opening is the setting up of the one point; do the middle story-telling part, then build it to the emphasis on the finale. That’s it – a paragraph.

But a paragraph on it’s own means nothing (well, not as much as it could).

Put that paragraph in a paddock with a few more; create a structure within the group of paras, so that the first para sets up the second (and so on) until you have – wait for it – a scene! (A reminder: One scene is one event in one location and time, from one POV where something changes.)

A scene has one event where something changes from beginning to end. A bit like a sentence, it has a subject (POV), and object (even if a thought process) and something happens (the verb). The first part of the scene sets up what’s to come; the middle plays it out and builds and builds to the climax at the end!

That’s it. One word put in with other words creates a sentence; sentences put together create a paragraph with one point; paragraphs put together make a scene (Let’s Party!).

And just in case anyone’s wondering: A chapter has no real meaning. It’s purpose is to give you somewhere to stick your bookmark – it’s only a scene that’s important!

Put all the scenes together following the same logic – the setup (Act 1), the first half of the middle (Act 2-part 1), the Middle (where it all gets tipped up and out and we see in the murk the reality of ….), the second half of the middle (Act 2-part 2), the Climax (Act 3).

I think that may be how one word can become one story. The whole concept of story began with one word.

What’s your word?

Disagree? Let me know how it all comes together for you, and we’ll have a chit-chat, shall we?

I look forward to making words with you!

 

 

Stories in Shorts

Due to the delay on Equine Neophyte of the Blood Desert, we are dishing up a new anthology:

What’s in there?

Stories Written by:

Cage Dunn

Shannon Hunter

Karel Jaeger

Rose Brimson

Cisi De

Cat’s Eye                                        The Old Man and His Desert

The Truth About RumpledStiltedSkin: A Very Ugly Old Man

To Tell it How it Really Is               The Garden of Souls

Shrine                                               A Quiet Night

Practical Issues                                The Storm

A Thought                                        Was it a Light?

Gone                                                 Someday, or The Day After

Maneki Niko                                    Survive

Cat Whisperer                                  Burglar!

Baban                                               Tones of Dawn

Min-Min

 

The Massif

an excerpt from The Journey of Shadow Book I of the Narrung Sagas.

… Shadow settled her body into the sand, tried to ignore the itch and burn of the sand-flies that zoomed in on her exposed skin. Would Pax have lavender oil to keep the pests away. The smell – would that give them away? They couldn’t use anything to make it easy for someone to find them, so no stink-pretty; these shepherds and their dogs had good noses. And one particular dog had a nose for trouble. And strangers.

She had to put up with the buzzing, biting, bleeding things. It was bad enough putting up with the flies – these sand-biters were worse; they stung. And the itch that came after – one arm scratched almost raw. She dribbled a tiny bit of water on the red welts. It didn’t help, and it wasted water. She should have known that.

The shepherds worked through the night: pumped water to the trough, fetched water to the animals staked and hobbled, put out feed, walked the perimeter. At least one dog accompanied the person on piquet.

Shadow fought off the dull heaviness, the gritty feel of sand scratching her eyes. She needed to stay awake to ensure their cover and to watch the dogs. Her hand gripped the stone around her neck, held it away from the salty sweat that stung and burned.

Dawn finally lightened the sky to the east. She’d watched the camp all night; watched their night-watchers watching the darkness, as they listened to the night sounds, as they sniffed at the air for sign of predators and enemy. And prey.

The ragged purple streaks from the Narowi massif appeared out of blackness to the north. The peaks shimmered to blue and grey hues with the touch of early light. Even though it was more than 500 milmetris away, the massif intimidated the view. The highest peaks hid in permanent cloud which took on the same hue of the massif, and made it look as if it went all the way to the top of the world and beyond.

Maybe it did. [image error]

This was the first time Shadow had travelled more than fifty milmetris from Aramel. She shivered. A map! Did she have a map? No. Wasn’t issued. Would she be able to draw one? What did she know about the terrain up here? Could she rely on memory to draw up a suitable map? How stupid could a leader be to forget to bring a map?

The chill would get worse for the next hour, then the heat would kick in; the light ground mist would burn off like a thought.

From the Sea of Sand to Hells Gate, the next destination, the burning sun would scorch anything stupid enough to be out there. She sipped at her water, rolled it around her mouth before swallowing; scratched absent-mindedly at her arm as she thought out their next stage. Without a map.

They would move on to Lake Teeni from Hells Gate. Water and trees and shade; maybe even a swim in the lake. Then on to the final stage.

To Ulamba, the sacred cave, where one of the Master Judges would debrief and grade.

The route from Lake Teeni to Ulamba was rocky and harsh; would probably take them at least four days, according to the reports of troops who patrolled the region. It wasn’t distance that would be the risk – the rocks held heat, and there was no water or food between Lake Teeni and Ulamba. It was the worst part of the mission.

They would need to be fully stocked and rested before they set out. And know where to go to avoid the death the desert gave the unwary.

 

…

Fibber, Fabricator, Teller of Tall Tales

That’s me! A storyteller; a writer; a person who puts stories out and shares them with the world. Well, that’s usually what happens. I set a schedule to do just that. And I joined in some projects with collaborations. And … and … and …

The inaugural AFLW (Australian Football League – Women) played their grand final yesterday – and I watched it! Exciting! There are many reasons why it’s exciting:

the first time women have played professional AFL in Australia
I always wanted to play
it was a good hard game

The latter, a good hard game, was my downfall. You see, I took a speccy over the lounge, hit the light/fan, dropped like a stone onto my right side, and … the result of that amazing speccy is dislocated hip, shoulder, and thumb. But the injury is meaningless; what matters is:

Eight weeks on the sideline.

So, I think, I can write; sit at the computer – groan in agony. No, can’t sit.

So, move the keyboard to a softer location. Done, now to type – can’t use the thumb (you can’t believe how long this short post has taken – or how many times I’ve had to go back to fix things —- aaarrrrgggghhhh!)

Eight weeks out.

There goes the schedule. Lower-lip drops sulkily down the chin.

Move the schedule back. By two months?! No, by one month, because I’m absolutely certain that by the time I can sit comfortably for even five minutes, I’ll be back.

I’ll be back!

How can the mind that thinks up dozens of new stories (the 26 letters of the alphabet, the 32 beat sheets to prove the theory, the working group that got 16 storyboards in one day, etc. etc. etc.) last that long?

It’s not possible; I know it’s not possible. I also know it won’t stop me. I can read through all the notes, the arcs, the beat sheets, the outlines and storyboards; I can come up with better, stronger, faster, more powerful beats – and learn to write with my left hand.

there is always a way; there is always hope; there is always that brat of a fibber, fabricator, liar (tale-teller if you don’t like that word) who spins words and worlds and ideas in loops of fantastical dreams through my mind.

I’ll be back!

In the meantime, I’ve sent my favourite B-reader (Bear) the almost-final-final first draft of Equine; I’ve set a project for Shannon and Karel, and Nan (Rose) is busy with getting the legal rights to be able to tell some of her stories.

But I sit (try to) in the position that causes the least pain, and dream (and practice writing lefty).