Cage Dunn's Blog, page 80

Choices

It could have been this, or that, or something else. I should have applied for ‘real’ jobs, or set up a market stall, or …

But I write. It means I have to make choices about a life of minimal money/cash flow. It’s been a few years now since that decision changed my life. Has it worked? Was it worth it?

Well, the choice to write has worked. I’ve written a lot of words, done a lot of work, a few courses, read hundreds of books, and learned a lot. And I wrote six books last year – that’s a helluva statement. [some have since been ‘retired’ but …]

The choice to write was an easy one – the money thing is a bit tougher. My hair is much longer than it should be; my dentist is a distant memory (I should say: a dark and distant memory, shouldn’t I?); clothes and shoes are re-runs or re-fits. Of course, I still eat, and our bills get paid, and when I start writing well enough for readers to pass along the names of my stories, well, then it all comes good (doesn’t it?). [that will probably be a disappointment, won’t it?]

But the life? I wouldn’t have it any other way. Life is tough, sometimes not having ready cash is a pain-in-the-proverbial (like when you need a new printer!) because it slows down the output! And that’s all that matters.

The life of minimalism I chose is the right life for me because I live in a world created for me, by me, to do-see-be the real me. The chameleon, the changeling, the ghost, the monster, the scared-heroic-nasty-helpful-needy-greedy-lovable characters on the page are part of me (and not, but you know – they are for that moment).

The minimalism of my life enables me to ‘put on the skin’ of these characters, to live their life and dramas and achievements – so I have a full life within those pages/stories.

Outside – not so much (shoulder shrug). I do go out, and I garden and walk and do things – talk to neighbours and the postie and strangers who walk past – but the real life is now in the lives I create, in the people and places that are not outside my window or on my street or in my city or country – they’re probably not even in this world or on this planet. And I love that – it’s my world, even if my name and my body are not in there. My people are there, my heart and soul and yearning and learning are in those words where they live. In the pages of my books/stories.

So, is my life minimal? Not at all!

Back to the Main Work now – due for completion 31 March 2017 (or thereabouts! Have to do the editing, don’t we?).

The War in Australia – Renewables

It’s a subject much in the news lately. A big controversy over energy. I live in South Australia, and we went dark last year – cut off the national grid by the other states because they didn’t want to be damaged by our storm. They cut us off, but blamed equipment and automated responses. We are not silly, and we know better – because it happens all the time.

In Australia when you talk about National Energy – it means New South Wales and Victoria, because that’s where everyone lives, isn’t it?

Ppppphhhhhhttttttt!

South Australia is moving to a high level of renewable energy production sources. A good thing. They may have rushed it by shutting down some of the older generators a bit too soon, but the vision was sound. We can’t go on taking unsustainable fuels and using them as if they going to last forever. They won’t. We know that. And no amount of big-knobs giving us the sob-stories of ‘running out of gas’ is going to get us to back fracking.

They’d better get over it.

There are so many different ways to use renewable sources to produce energy. Solar is good, back it up with wind and battery farms and it’s reasonably sustainable (Apart from the plastics – made from oils – used to create these things). Tidal generation (not just the Snowy scheme that benefits only one state with little trickles into the second state) and water schemes would be a good bet to get some research going.

We all know what needs to happen, so why are we even giving the time of day to these petulant little CEO’s who want more better numbers on their bottom line? Does anyone really believe it can’t be a democratic society without Capitalism running the economics of freedom? Just because we see the loudest voice in the room ranting and raving and postulating, do we think we should believe it?

Putting our costs up is putting us at cross-purposes, turning us away from doing business with that company. We know when we’re being lied to. We know who loses.

The People voted in a government to do a job – not to poke fingers and rude words at other politicians (he’s a blah, blah; he doesn’t know his own shoelaces; he’s a hick from a hick-state, etc.) and think this is all it takes. Do your job, or the next lot voted in (you know, the red-head voters who are sick of the schoolboy antics of the current top two gamers) will do what’s happening elsewhere in the world. Believe it. Open your eyes and see the evidence.

The People are many, and they’re sick of the palaver. Every day we hear it: ‘we need to put prices up for this reason, or that reason, or because our investors … blah, blah, blah’ – we have to tighten our belts, live on less, etc., but if we don’t see you doing it, or if we see blatant waste and corruption, what do you think we’ll do about it?

Don’t think we don’t know the truth; don’t think we don’t know how much we, the People, get bled by these Capitalist businesses backed by government (our) money. Don’t think we aren’t teaching our children, the future voters, how to think beyond the rhetoric.

If the world is to keep growing and therefore keep up the flow of consumers, someone somewhere needs to consider just how energy is provided to keep up the standards the people have come to expect.

We need to move beyond the things that aren’t sustainable (and I include nuclear due to the risk of accidents and storage of waste issues) and into the areas that are not only sustainable, but viable for the planet, won’t harm the creatures who live on this little rock, and won’t cost us an arm and a leg and a safe place to walk.

Look beyond the need for a secure business to the need for a secure planet. Think big, macro even, but know that it starts with the smallest thought. We in South Australia may not seem to be important to anyone else, either in this country or the world at large, but remember, this is the place that gave women the vote first. We are progressive.

Jay Weatherill, go renewables. Please. F*&k the Federal lunatics who can’t move or act on anything, despite their promises.

the storm

 

 

Sorry, couldn’t help it – I don’t like being sold down the plughole by big businesses who think they run the country, or by governments who think they have a mandate to denigrate the states who do the right thing by their people.

And I’m one of the people who votes, who also lives on a very small income (my hospital only cover is 15% of my total income, and it’s just gone up again by nearly 5% – so I’ll be dropping that and going to the public system, won’t I? More cost to the public purse because our government caved – again!).

The Terrible Truth About Fear

It has to be said straight up – it’s self-imposed. We do it to ourselves. A controversial statement, yes, but true nevertheless. Some of it comes from the auto-responses associated with staying alive, but some/most/lots of it is learned. Either through community or cultural practices or training or … you name it – if there’s a way to teach a person to fear, humans know how to do it.

Do any of the following sound familiar?

The boogey-man’ll get ya!

I’ll tell your [you know: ma, pa, cops, baddy, etc.]!

If you go out into the [dark, woods, night, city, etc.] it’s your own fault if something [said very deep, with the head lowered at a slant and the hand wrapped around the throat] happens!

It’s the way it’s always been [this is one of the worst ones, to my mind – manipulation into a bad situation because it’s always been that way – pphhhhfffffttttts].

I don’t know who you think you are, that you can do things differently to …

It’s my roof!

You won’t get anywhere in this life without me/my help etc. [yes, this instils fear – think about it: will you ever be able to get away from this situation without them? If they tell you often enough that their truth is the only truth, will you believe it? Of course you will. The only thing stronger than that fear is the need to stay alive, regardless of the cost – and can you therefore run away from it! and into the darkness of the unknown?]

There’s always a price to pay, kid!

Someone always sees/watches/knows.

I’m watchin’ ya, kid.

Those people eat babies! [look at the propaganda of WWI and WWII- our governments did that!]

If you let them in [head shakes, mouth opens as they look surreptitiously behind them] … you’ll never get rid of them/they’ll take our jobs/they’ll change our world etc., etc., etc.,

There are a lot more of these little wordages – every culture and community has their own version of the same things. It’s called protectionism of the group. It used to be necessary when we were small groups in a big world. The problem is severe now because we [human beings] occupy so much more space than we used to; we move around and intermingle with other races and cultures; we see them all the time on a variety of media [and what is media most fond of showing us?].

For some, this intermingling is an enlightening thing. For others, it is fearful. Why is it fearful? Because we are trained, through tens of thousands of years, to fear the unknown, the protect our own from the invader, to be fearful of the unknown.

And it goes on. The fear adages may have changed to take account of the current state of the world community and all the sub-communities – but the fear remains the same.

Unfortunately, we have allowed the fear-mongers to have the biggest say. We vote them in or support their ideologies or rally behind them when we think what they’re doing is protecting us.

If we looked closer, more carefully, we’d see they are only protecting their own arse, and if the proverbial hits the fan, we’d be left to cop it while they swan off with wise words and platitudes that sound a lot like the lines above: ‘You should have know this would happen if …’ blah, blah, blah.

Don’t be one of the people who believes we can’t change from what we were; don’t be the person who condemns without knowledge.

If I am a black person, will you like me? If I am a black person, will you hate me? Why?

If I am a non-specific racial profile, will you like me or turn your back to ignore what you don’t know?

The choice is yours, and your mind is yours. Look in the mirror and see what you think of yourself, how the fear-training has affected how you live your life and how it affects how you interact with others in your community (physical and otherwise).

Over to you. Check your DNA to find out just how many different ‘peoples’ you come from.

 

Lord Poserei, Master of Gold in the City of the Wall

“Lodros?” Poserei yelled.

“Yes, Master?”

“Lodros; my name is Poserei. I am Master of Gold. Please address me as befits my office.”

“My apologies, Lord Poserei, Master of Gold in the City of the Wall.”

“Better.” He brushed imagined flecks of dust from his brilliant white overtunic. “Now, I will be undertaking a personal matter until the noon-meal. Please ensure two things: that I am not disturbed; and that you are nowhere near my rooms.” He sucked in a deep breath, waited for the usual response of ‘But Master …’

“Yes, Lord Poserei, Master of Gold in the City of the Wall.”

“You may address me as Lord Poserei when we are alone.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Master Poserei is the preferred address. Please do not doubt the cost of defying my wishes.” He smiled at the paleness that crept into Lodros’s face. Stupid worm should have expected that. Poserei turned and shooed the older man from the room, locked the door top and bottom with the physical barriers, and returned to the small fireplace and his favourite chair. He needed comfort for this task. And something else – where was it?

As his body lowered into the over-stuffed long-chair – the only one in this City – he felt around for the right spy. Needed to be small, fast, good eyes. And some type of mind. Not a fly, not a bee – there! A wasp with a long yellow body and black stripes. If anyone dared to touch it – which would break the link – they’d suffer some serious consequences.

The string of magic he grabbed was ordered to capture the insect and thrall it to the mind of the Master – him, of course. The string objected, tried to back away. Would the insect harm the magic? The assent was immediate, an act of fear. Good. Poserei liked that. Maybe it would behave better if it had to suffer occasionally. Although, he had to admit, he liked to make it suffer often, and harshly. How else do slaves come to understand the order of things?

He settled himself into the best position for a long hunt. It may take some time to undertake this task. The neos would be doing demonstrations, and he wanted to inspect all the actions and reactions. He had to know if any of this intake had a true feel, or worse, if they could see the magic as he did. It didn’t happen often anymore, but it did happen.

A good thing, as long as he was prepared. If he found one, he could use the energies to rejuvenate his own body. He plucked at the flabby skin under his beardless chin. He was looking and feeling a bit old.

“Too much administrative detail; too long in this backwater; too many idiots to deal with.” Poserei closed his eyes, focused the string to the link with the wasp, and sent it forth, forced it into the path he required: the demonstration rooms in the Hall of Neos.

Each room he entered showed the magic in disarray – which was as it should be. The high-stepped tiers showed dull outlines of stupid neos who didn’t seem to understand what it was they were supposed to know, or learn, or feel. Numb, like sheep hung upside down for the kill-blow.

The occasional flash of colour, an aura of mild connection to magic, showed itself to the wasp-eyes, but each one was barely enough to plump out even one wrinkle. Maybe he’d take one or two anyway, claim they failed some test or another, and use their energies to make presentable for a while longer. Until a true seer came along.

But something was wrong. The magic played tricks with his requests. He could feel it – a flaw. Something with power helped the magic in its resistance to his need. It fled from him more often, and that meant it had to have someone – or something – that helped it avoid the traps he set. And the orders he gave. And the punishments when it failed – he lashed at it anyway. A Master must maintain dominion.

Keep looking. There had to be something to see, or he would have full control.

The third group, snotty little brats mostly, but for the lostling. Was she the problem? He sent the buzz around the room, looked for her, but didn’t see or sense her – why? This was her group; where was she? The wasp went out again, this time under the structure as well as over, past the window and the front chalk-board. And again. And again. Where – ah, there.

Hidden under the bleachers, slumped over to avoid the brats who peed on her.

Poserei laughed, something he hadn’t done for a long time. He watched her face while the two students demonstrated their total lack of sight. He waited. If the magic sensed a true seer, it wouldn’t be able to help itself. It needed a seer to make music, and it needed music like he needed …

Was that a flash? Stupid insect chose that moment to spin its head. He spun it back, wrenched it so hard, the useless thing died instantly. The link retracted with a snap and bang that caused an immediate headache. He wrapped his hands around his ears and face. But this would be the best time to …

Was there another creature close by? A small seek-thought set up a trap for anything unwary enough to be within the confines of the City. He needed to see if something had happened. Needed to know.

A loud tap on his door disturbed his concentration. The seek-thought failed as his mind withdrew back into his office. He blew out a full breath.

“Lodros – I said no disturbances!”

“It is not Lodros, Lord Poserei. It is I, Ronto, Overseer of Guilds, who requests an audience.”

“Is it urgent?”

“Yes, Lord Poserei.”

“Wait – I must complete my … task. Come back in a quarter turn.”

“Yes, Lord Poserei.”

Rude little man; couldn’t even address him properly. Who runs this place, anyway?

He’d make him wait. It wouldn’t be urgent. It would be about money. It was always about money with Ronto. Money that disappeared like water into sand. And with as little return.

His head pounded and the required concentration was tattered. Poserei stood and stalked around the room until his mind was tinged with red and purple. Let the little dastard see what he had caused. He walked to the door and flung it open, waggled his head when he saw the little pest waiting. Standing, of course; there were no chairs for visitors.

“Well, come on in and tell me all about it – I’m sure it’s much more interesting than what I was doing.” It pleased him to see the man go red at the neck. He should try to grow a real beard if he wants to been seen as a serious contender. He rolled his eyes and lowered his head and shoulders without bending or leaning down to go through the too-short doorway.

“Maybe we should discuss it out here, and get it over and done with more speedily.”

“Lord, it is about the Guild Houses that are empty. We need more students, and with the students, more funding to keep the guild houses maintained. There are only fifty two guilds with students – we are losing skills. And Masters to teach. And the Houses are becoming decrepit.”

Yes, it was going to be that little discussion.

Poserei put the knot in the tail of the discussion.

“There will be no more students if there is no more magic, will there?” Ronto looked up. Shock lifted the lids so far up the pupil was completely surrounded by a large expanse of white. Bloodshot. Poserei had to restrain his pleasure at the response. Let him steam that one for a while, and see how much money it needed.

“Was there anything else, Overseer? I do have other tasks to settle.”

“Lord, there are one thousand and one guilds and houses – what do we do with the empty ones? What do we do?”

That wheedling whinge. He closed his eyes.

“Get out, Overseer, and consider that question. And when you have an answer, write it down and send it to me for consideration.” He flicked both hands at the small man. “Go on, find an answer. Out.”

He hunched over and stepped back into his office, slammed the door. Sensed the shock at his rudeness. Heard the words he spoke ‘What of the Promise?’ but Poserei didn’t consider that a threat – after all, who could threaten him? He was the strongest in magic now. And he’d keep it that way.

When the last guild emptied, when no more students came for testing and the City closed down, then he would be free to be … the only Master of Magic. The last Master of Magic.

He just needed to recheck the students to ensure … to be absolutely sure …

 

An excerpt from ‘Equine Neophyte of the Blood Desert’ – a first draft form.

Copyright Shannon Hunter and Cage Dunn 2017.

There won’t be a new post until next week due to ‘obligations’ – the most important one being to finish the story, and start the editing for a release (grit the teeth) on 31 March 2017.

 

The Truth About RumpledStiltedSkin

A Very Ugly Old Man.

The Story was twisted out of all proportion, and now he needs us all to know the truth, so here it is, from his own mouth.

That young girl, she was cryin’, see. Doing all that weepin’ and wailin’ and wringin’ of hands – an’ I could hear her all the way down where I was. That’s the dungeons to any what ain’t been there. That’s where they keep such as me, who don’t like the way people’s looks ats us.

All night, right up ’til when the bloomin’ moon snuck her light in my grate and I sees her face at the winder – an’ she was a beauty, alright. Black hair, dark eyes, pale skin. Tall, most likely, or she wouldna been able to lean out like that. I couldna do that – too short, too stumpy – tha’s why they calls me Stilty, ya knows – the legs that goes all bandy-like an’ twisted.

An’ I was hooked. Like any normal man is hooked by such a pretty face an’ such a dire problem.

So I went to her, through the pipes an’ drains and runnels, until I stands before ‘er, an’ her reaction to my being there or the way I looks was the same as all the others. But she’s in trouble and when I offers meself to help – if I can – she don’ look at me so harsh.

An’ she tells me the problem. A big one. Her Da – silly man – been heard all around that his dotter can spin straw inter gold! Yea! What a man to lie so bad about his only family – and she had nuttin’ to do with it, did she? So I says I can help, but what I didn’t say was that magic has a price, an’ it has to be a fair price, or it won’t play. Instead, I tol’ her that I has a price, an’ it has to be fair ‘cos I be the one awake all night.

She offers the trinket, an’ I take it an’ stick it in my pocket. I thinks to meself that I’ll give it back later, when she be freed.

An’ I works the whole night, happy to be able to help such a pretty girl, such an innocent. An’ in the mornin’, when she wakes, I aint there, but the spindles are full of gold thread, as she needed. An’ I was far below, catching up on me own sleep in the quiet of a town roaring with her success.

But that night it comes again, the howlin’ and ballin’ and tearin’ of hair, and when I goes to her – a bit sooner, this time ‘cos I think she won’t hate the sight of me now – she tells me the King has ordered her to spin more, or he will execute her father for failing to offer her skills to the king as soon as he knew of her gift. Nasty man, this king, I tells meself. Nasty. An’ of course, it’s not her fault. She is still innocent.

The gift is the only piece of value she has left. Her final offering. The jewel gifted to her by a mother who died so long ago. The thing in her life of greatest value. I takes it and does my task, callin’ on the magic to help me – ‘cos ye know I canna do it on my own; I’s only a man, an ol’ man, an ugly man with bumpy skin – who wants to help a pretty young girl; who wants this girl to smile at him, to see him as a real person and not a rumpled bit o’ dirt.

An’ in the mornin’, as she wakes to the room full o’ the gold thread – so much more of it than the night before – an’ I hasta sleeps the whole day in a dead slump. It took all’s I had – an’ I didna have enough in me to even go for food; had ta call in the rats to get stuff so’s I could rise from my rag bed. But when the rats tell me tha’ she’s still a prisoner, that now the King’s edict is to ‘marry the girl, make her Queen, if she can spin enough gold thread to save his kingdom from ruin’ – well, tha’ makes me sad.

Of course, it happened. She cried and wailed and hung outta tha’ window, an’ I goes to her, all hunched over and miserable – ‘cos I knows the truth of it all now, and she be lookin’ at bein’ queen, while I got no one, an’ no hope. An ol’ ugly, short man with no hope of marryin’, of findin’ the woman who be bearin’ the child necessary to become apprentice to the ways of magic. An’ I’s the last, ye know. The last who can pass it on.

This time, I asks for the only thin’ what’s gonna have value to me – an’ the magic, o’ course. I asks for her to give me the first child she bears. I don’ have all that much time to be able to wait; it has to be the first, or could be too late. An’ I watches her face to see if she’s not sayin’ the whole truth. An’ there’s a worm there, that I sees, but not an untruth. She agrees, but not with a whole heart. An’ I thinks to meself ‘when I comes for the child, I’ll tell her the why.’ Still I was sure she would unnerstand.

But tha’s not how it happened, is it? She did what they all do – men and women and children, rulers and teachers and parents and friends and enemies.

They say what they think will get them what they want, an’ tha’s the end of the obligation. An’ look what it cost the world. The Magic is gone because the eyes see only the outside of a thing and think is a reflection of the inside.

 

Copyright Karel Jaeger 2017.

Anniversary

It’s been a whole year since I put this site ‘out there’ for the world to see me (well, the mask of one of me). A whole year. Where did that time go? I don’t recall time moving this fast before. Am I seeing time now as an oldie, and not someone who moves through each day as if there will be many more?

Is this the nuance of aging? That you see time slip past you so many times, see so many moments become days that become weeks and months and years and decades (whoa, breathe) that it slips by without full effect? I don’t want that. I want more time. I need more time.

There are things to be done before I slip the coil, stories that need to get out of the head and onto a page (and hopefully, into a reader’s consciousness). There are things I haven’t done (even if I did say I was going to do them).

Why haven’t I done all the things I want to do? Why? What is holding me back? Is it time? No. I know time; I understand how it moves and how I rust with the movement of the ripples of time. Is it because I fear? What do I have to fear? Is it fear of facing myself, or fear of what other people will say/think/do?

If I had no fear, if I had no emotional reaction to the world around me, I’d be a dangerous person. I need fear – it’s a survival response. But do I need it to have more power in my life than the other things? The things I really, really, really want and need to do before ‘the end’ is written on my story?

Is it time to cast aside the cape that weighs down the shoulders, that hides the real person under its darkness, that covers the chrysalis of my true self?

Yes. It is. And I will. Soon.

There it is, you see – dream the dream, know the cost. See the action required to be the hero of the story, and you know what you have to do. And you may do it once, or twice (maybe). You may ‘save the day’ in terms of the resolution of your story, but if you go too far, if you lose all your fear, if you don’t slip and slide as the journey goes on – you have another question to ask? Am I … ?

That question. Am I only human when I slip from my high expectations? Am I good enough to keep up the results of the effort put into my story so far? Am I going to be someone different now – or am I now what I have always been and will always be? Is the difference from the journey visible to others, or only to me?

The final question: Does it matter if I am the only person who knows the why and wherefore of my life; the struggles against this or that or them or me? The answer: No, indeed it does not matter to anyone but me. It is my life, and my life is the choices I make to move me further along the track, to stand still in the tracks/ruts, or to move to this side or that for a purpose (or not) – or to look to the stars or the bright and shiny moon. It is only I who will know the true cost, the true journey – and that’s what makes it all worthwhile. That I know who I am.

I’m glad I began this journey, and know this – it’s not over yet!

[image error]

 

 

A Buzz of Fear

Today is the day to do the blog I would normally do tomorrow. Why? The swarm of garden activity that happens at this time of year. Autumn. Trim the olive tree, the citrus trees, the hedges, remove a few things that are over-old or rotten from the over-wet summer, trim, trim and trim some more. Oh, and add some things that are more likely to survive my sojourn to the life inside (due to the dicky hip – a temporary thing, I assure you).

So, where to start? Not where you think. The basic list of things that need to be done, but I have to have help, so getting that list in the right order, being able to distract and refocus the helper in the right direction – it all takes a different (and difficult) strategy. I’m not used to not being able to do these things myself. I want to do it – I try to do it (and fail), so I have no choice.

Ask for help, accept it when it comes. But I can’t accept it not being done up to the standard I’m willing to accept. Seasons wait for no one. When it’s time to do it, it’s time. If I waited until the days were shorter, or ……. [blah, blah, blah is what I hear instead of the excuses], then the plants suffer the consequences. So I have to find ways to make it as important to the helper as it is to the plant.

Do you want to get apricots next summer? Peaches (beautiful, sweet, peaches – which we didn’t get this year due to the spring storm that wiped out all the flowers)? How about the cherries, almonds, loquats (also wiped out by the storm – the bane of early flowering fruit trees)? Some things did okay last season, but that means they need this winter for R&R, to get a feed-up to get into the swing again, to cope with the blastingly hot summers we usually have.

The pears and applies produced a lot of fruit this year (we sacrificed one tree of fruit to the birds – have to share, you know), and they now need fertilising, trimming, tidying up, and mulching. Lots of mulching, because the storms have sucked the life out of the soil. And move a few more worms into the area as well.

The white sapote hasn’t fruited yet, nor has the avocado or the mango – but they have shown signs of flowers, so …. soon? Did you hear the drool? It’s my little bit of heaven, especially the anticipation of enjoying all these things as they come into season (right now, it’s  figs – three different types).

For me to enjoy my little bits of heaven, I need to find a way to create the same, similar, or even slight, sense of pleasure in someone else. The helper needs to find the path to the connection to the garden, to the insects that swarm and buzz and do their own part of the job in feeding [my] world (oh, and the neighbours, of course).

I’m a writer, I know words, I should be able to do this – but I can’t seem to do it. Instead, I bully, push, explain too much and too hard.

Two of my neighbours saw us in the garden – and what did  they do? They came over to help, the showed the helper the things that matter, they helped him get the buzz for the work being done. They did what was needed. And whose suggestion was it to continue the job tomorrow? Not mine, but I’ll be there, supplying tea and scones (and instructions [grimace] but I’ll try not to; I’ll try to retain the sense of love and mystery my neighbours instilled in the helper for me).

That’s why this blog is today, and not the normal Wednesday. I’ll be on the other side of the glass, ensuring that what I see during the upcoming Winter will be the things I love to see – the garden of anticipation and business and production.

See you Sunday.

Oh, and in case you ask why trim now – I do the stone fruit trim in summer to keep the trees small, the autumn trim for some things (citrus, etc) to keep them small and easy to pick, and in winter I prune for shape (the deciduous things). Easier that way – no tree too big, and all trees produce more than enough for me and mine.

And What Do You Do?

“I write,” is the answer. It should be enough of an answer, but it never is because there’s always the next question.

“What do you write, dear?”

“Stories.” That should shut them up, but it doesn’t. They want to know the type of stories, the publisher, the genre, the  ……….. on and on and on.

The question they should ask is: “And where did that desire come from?”

I’m still waiting for that question. The answer is different today than it was yesterday, and it will probably be different tomorrow. Today’s answer: “It’s not desire, it’s obsession.” But that wouldn’t stop the next barrage of questions, would it? No.

The next answer closest to the truth is: “The stories are out there, and they pick someone to communicate with, and it all flows from there – sometimes the right person picks it up and turns it out to the world and lots of people read it; sometimes not.”

Close, but not quite the truth. What is my truth when it comes to the need to tell stories?

The need to escape. Some of this need came from my childhood (not so good, but most people can say there were lots of ‘not so good’ childhoods out there). Some from the fact of lots of siblings and one way to stay out of the way of a fist or boot was to be the one telling the compelling story (a good lie, in fact). Some of the need comes from the failure to walk through this life as a whole person – the feeling that something’s missing – and only a story with a character who has some of the things I want to [you know – fix, be as good as, etc.]. Some of it comes from the need to be doing something that doesn’t cause any more pain to my arthritis.

The stories have always been there, they’re still there, waiting, but they don’t wait just for me – they sing to anyone with ears. For example, I had a great idea (concept, outline) for a story about a town trapped inside a dome – 2 years later, out comes Mr King’s story. And you’re right, mine wasn’t finished – but so many things were similar (of course, his writing was uber better, because at the time, I was a newbie – not anymore!).

Now, I take the idea, play with it (with pen and paper) to do the compelling concept, and outlay the initial steps of a beat sheet. This part alone can change how the idea (or scene) that started the process was not what I thought it was. Something grows, becomes more powerful, and sets itself solidly in the mind. From there (with a bit of thought and storyboarding) it becomes a living, breathing thing. It becomes its own being, with its own life – and I am tasked with breathing life into that creature, to watch it be born and grow and – the final bit, the hard bit – leave home to do their own thing.

Is that the start of a good enough answer, do you think?

Oh, and here is the 4q outline.

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Writer At Work – Beware The Claws!

A Short View Into …

[image error]Equine Neophyte of the Blood Desert

(copyright Shannon Hunter & Cage Dunn 2017)

The view from high above the hot shimmer of scorched sand and sweaty salt-bush showed the desert formation: round-topped hills zig-zagged in red sand and white; dark valleys divided the two colours like a drawn-map picture. Neesa’s squinted as her day-dream zoomed from cloud height to the tops of the wind-whipped dunes and wisps of sand turned golden by the slanted sun. She tried something new, imagined wings spread to slow her descent. The deep concentration forced her breath to quicken into pants, hot, her chest muscles as hard as bricks, but she didn’t move her physical body, except for the sweat as it dribbled over her lips and dripped from her chin to discolour her grogram vest.

Can’t move. No one must know. It was a secret. Her secret. Her only escape. A rare moment of freedom.

Her view descended, now lower to the ground. She felt the lifting sensation of outspread wings and the skirr and snap of feathers as they tipped and dipped, heard the screech of a territorial hawk. As she flew over another small rise, she saw the deep depressions where the sand-grasses grew. Not that she’d ever seen real grass – she’d never been allowed to leave the confines of the City.

If only this were real.

Wind whistled through the waves of grain-topped fodder hidden by the rift-valleys. Would she find them here, grazing? She turned her imagined raptor head left and right, north and south, sought the dark smudges against the bright stalks.

There. The herd of red horses. The soul magic of the desert. The red Stallion, leader of his herd, arched neck that rippled with the strongest spectrum of magic – the dark red of life-blood.

The breeze ruffled his dark mane, showed the salt of his sweat, the tickle in her nose at the swirls of dust and sand from the desert floor as it floated around his lissom movements. He turned his dark brown eyes towards her, lowered his heavily lashed lids in a show of welcome – would his eyes be brown? Or would they have a colour of the magic of the horses of the desert?

No. Don’t disturb the dream magic with questions. Just be.

She breathed in his salty sweat, felt a questing nudge –

“Please pay attention, servant-designate Neesa – this is not a class of free-thought!”

Neesa’s eyes snapped open. The voice of the Master of Training sounded like she was rolling her eyes, as if this type of thing happened all the time.

It didn’t. Neesa made a mistake doing her day-dream in class. Big mistake.

She stared hard toward the front of the class through the struts of the tiered seating above her; saw the faces of the non-assigned neophytes as they turned back and looked down on her. She noted who moved to positions above her, prepared herself for the rain of urine that would follow the denigrating words relegated to those of her type. She kept her vision ahead, but listened – Grundiz and two of her cronies began.

“Slave-girl – please take my pee as a most precious gift, to be honoured by you drinking of it. Now.”

Neesa’s hands gripped the rough-sawn timber and pulled herself away as the first drops of wetness fell. They missed.

“Next time, creature – and don’t dare move again, or –” Grundiz sneered and spat. Missed.

“We will commence this lesson with two volunteers to undertake to move a heavy item with Magic. Who?” She peered up at the pasty-yellow faces glistened with sweat and glittery flecks of powder. The dismal yellow of light magic set a sparkle on the gold dust in their hair. “You,” she pointed at someone on the far right upper level. “And you.” That was Grundiz. Maybe there would be some fun in this after all.

Two chairs and a table appeared in the pit at the front of the tiered seats. Heavy, rough cut timber; the only type of timber in the City. Neesa didn’t look at the girls who stepped down from the heights and into the lower levels.

“I’ll set the net for magic – keep clear.” The Master moved her body in a rhythm that rustled her silk over-tunic and cape. Her long dark hair scissored across her back. Her tiny red cap tilted, ready to fall if the single clip holding it in slipped its mooring.

Neesa kept her grogram-covered butt as still as stone and watched as the flickers of magic came to the call. The outer net was flimsy; holes as big as sheep littered the protective circle that was supposed to surround and protect the users in the pit.

Did any of the other students see the magic? She looked, carefully, judiciously, at the faces now concentrated, wide-eyed on the spectacle below. Not even one face turned to the dance of light left in the wake of the wild Magic.

“Each of you is required to lift one chair – you, this one – and place it on the table. No, no – gently, no damage!” The Master screeched as she tried to position each student in the right place to make the right moves. “You REQUEST the magic, you OFFER it something, then …”

A huge gush of sound as the magic tried to escape the cruel hold, another screech – of pain. Grundiz was lying prone on the floor of the pit, magic dribbling away from her like blood from an open wound.

“Take her out to the spine-hall – come back when she’s stable – keep going, girl – what’s your name?” A mutter. “Esena – the lesson isn’t over yet!”

The demonstration continued, but Neesa watched the blank, man-shaped hole in the middle of the magic. Someone watched, thinking he was unseen, unsee-able. Neesa knew him. His shape was unique. He was the only man in the City of the Wall taller than the doorways. The Master of Gold. The man she feared more than death. If she knew why she feared him, would the fear go? No, because she could also sense the fear in the magic, how it moved away from him, how it slunk lower to the ground, out of his way, like a beaten child expecting another beating. Magic feared the Master of Gold, and Neesa understood that if something as powerful as Magic was afraid, there was reason.

… That was the first page; the novel will be complete and available end March 2017.

The Garden of Souls

The Garden of Souls, a guest post (short story) by Karel Jaeger (from 5bayby14u).

The noise echoed and rolled within the tight confines of the severely overcrowded Inn of Loca. Every resident shouted louder and louder to be sure Ol’ Stumpy heard their call on the desired number. Arms waved and hands clapped, heads thumped and spittle flew in exclamation as the tall, narrow-necked jar lit up a single square for each bet.

Ol’ Stumpy sat as calm as a well-fed Inn-cat as he scribbled on the black slate when a voice chipped in with the number or word or a shake of jowl. How he knew which name-sigil to put against the number was impossible for Livia to see. She didn’t need to – Stumpy did it as he always did, and the magic wouldn’t work for him if he did it wrong or cheated.

Each scrape on the slate was accompanied by a nod and a lit name-sigil appeared above the person, followed by a gold coin which flew through the air to clink into the large jar that sat on the very edge of the raw timber bench. A few more coins and it’d be all over for the year.

Roars erupted on the far side, amid the smoke and crackle of the large fire-pit. Two more sigils, two more coins appeared and dropped into the neck. One more. The last. Voices calmed; spittle dribbled down chins with mouths closed. Like a roll of thunder in reverse, the sounds decreased, then ceased as every head in the overflowing, crowded, hot and steamy room turned towards Livia.

She crossed her arms, scowled, sneered – nodded as the outer ridges on the jar lit up with her sigil and the last empty mark in the grid pattern of squares. The room erupted in another roar, hid the chink of her last piece of gold as it stoppered the neck. Hot glass melted from the top and sealed it.

It was done.

Livia turned to leave. The heavy iron-studded door tried to resist her efforts to open it, but relented when the tears began to burn down her cheeks. Cold air hit her as she stepped out into the last night of Winter. Her last night.

Cold. Bitter frost. She pulled her sheepskin coat closed, curled the wool scarf over her head and neck, and wrapped the tail end over her mouth and nose.

The yellow moon shone her glorious light of fullness on the signboard, newly erected for the season. The words weren’t visible; they were painted on the other side, towards the direction where the strangers would come from. Livia didn’t need to see the words; she knew them as well as she knew the path to her home on the edge of the gorge. She wrote the same words every year, the same warning to the pilgrims who would begin arriving on the first day of Spring. Tomorrow they would read the words she’d used to try to stop them.

 ‘Venture Not Forth to the Garden of Souls ‘For it Feasts on your Hope ‘Leaves nought but Holes ‘And your welcome to the World Beyond ‘Is Doomed.’

 A smaller line at the bottom laid out the only written law of Loca: ‘We hold your belongings for one Moon only.’

Of course, the pilgrims were always offended; they seemed to think the villagers of Loca wanted to keep the Garden to themselves. The pilgrims didn’t appreciate the sign, the warning, or the lack of accommodation – it was their right to expect the courtesy of the towns where they paid in gold. Many times Livia heard the same words: “A hand with a gold coin is the hand that should be shook with welcome.” But those words belonged to the low-landers, not here.

Here, the only inn, the Inn of Loca, offered no food or drink or rest to those weary from the path to the Garden. Stumpy always offered to show them to the path that led back down the hill – to anywhere Away.

How many took his advice? How many took seriously the words on the sign? In Livia’s lifetime, not one. The betting on how many hours would pass before the sign was ripped from the ground and tossed down the ravine was an annual event. Pilgrims with rage, offended at the polite warning. They should come and live with the Garden; maybe that would change their mind.

Maybe not.

They kept coming. Someone or something kept sending them. And because they kept coming, this would be her year to tend the Garden of Souls.

Another sign. She needed a new sign – a Truth Sign they couldn’t ignore – and put right at the edge of the path of No Return.

She ran home.

The cupboards were bare of food, but she had paint from the work on the main sign; she had timbers to hold it up at head height; she had a pre-finished black background flatten to put the words on. White words? Or red? Both?

Yes, both. Red centre, white edges. Red for the blood of souls, and white for pure of intent.

She set up her work space in the middle of the small main room. Sat on her stool. Listened for the right words to come to her mind – words of Power were what she needed. Her black slate slid onto her lap with the last piece of white chalk. Wrote a few letters, rubbed them away; wrote some more, rubbed them off.

Tried again.

‘No words pass this way’ – No, she rubbed it clean, wiped a damp cloth across the surface before putting the chalk back to the surface. Moved.

‘No words are to be spoken ‘Hum or sing or chant ‘No words – do not whisper or giggle or run or play ‘This Garden of Souls offers falseness ‘It is not the Well of Wellness to swell the senses and soothe the soul ‘There is no peace ‘No tranquillity within ‘Do not pick the Sage or Marjoram ‘Do not lean forward to sniff the lavender or rosemary ‘Do not crush the verbena or rose ‘Beware the hedge that borders the Garden ‘Beware the thorns and aroma and touch ‘Walk not upon the path of white shell ‘Walk only upon the grass verge ‘Or on the muddy sludge of the run-off ditch. ‘Do Not Let Them Hear You Breathe ‘Unless in Song or Chant or Hum ‘Pray for your life and your soul and your sanity ‘For if you come to worship in the Garden of Souls ‘You had best make your peace with All.’

 These were the words she painted onto the black flatten sign. The tears came again as Livia placed her belongings in caskets and boxes. Clothes neatly folded, tools packed in wax-coated, purpose-shaped tombs of timber, words of magic-doing and herb lore sealed closed until her death.

On her last look around the Cottage of the Gardener, she saw her end. The end of her journey or the end of her life? Only time would show if a pilgrim came to force the Gardener through the Gate of Offering to accompany them to the Rites of Passage.

If she survived her season as Gardener of the Soul, she would return to this cottage.

Sometimes, the Gardener returned, but usually not. Of those who did return in the husk of dried out skin and crackly bones that barely held them together, no words escaped, no smiled lifted lips or eyes, and the people of Loca swallowed their pain and pity and turned away.

The hut of the Gardener was banished to the outer edges, to the point of the cliff path that had no end, far enough away from the palisade of the village that the howls could not be heard, that the overwhelming sadness did not penetrate. The hut was both refuge and doom of the one chosen to tend the Garden, to stop the Resident of the Garden of Souls from walking beyond the hedges that held it.

A new jar would fill with gold for the demise of the Gardener. Or the return. Would Livia return? If she did, and a new betting jar was opened, would she last one day, one quarter moon, one half moon, one full moon? Would she last until the dark moon hid the yellow moon?

Would she be able to open her mouth to eat or drink. Would she have the will to add new words of knowledge to the tome of the Gardener?

Faded words in the tome of the Gardener Task said that to survive until the Dark Moon passed over the face of the Light Moon would break the curse of the Gardener of Soul Magic – would Livia be the first to bear the burden and live through the Sadness of All Souls?

Or would she join her predecessors in the end that came with the madness of the task? Would she take the final walk along the path that led to Nowhere but the bottom of the Gorge?

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Copyright Karel Jaeger 2017