Cage Dunn's Blog, page 95

The Blood List – A teaser

. . .

The dream cascaded around Van like a whirlpool, held her under and sucked her backwards into a vortex. Sharp claws ripped flesh from her body, hair from her head; slime and putrefaction and bile burned her nose; screams and heinous laughter echoed in her head. The life force was squeezed out of her body by the vice, by the sucking force that dragged her down.

The black man, his white teeth flashing like a beacon, floated toward her through the thick coils of detritus. He held out his hand. Van reached for it, but she swam in mud, unable to move forward. Movement to the left drew her eyes. She turned her head in that direction. The black mouth opened wider, shaped words; the black hands gestured wildly. She turned back to him. He raised one hand to his ear, opening the palm like a conch shell.

Open her ears; open her mind. Van visualised a door she unlocked. The process was similar to the pattern she used to remember things. She remembered how to do it. She had not gone mad. Her mind was locked, that’s all. She could unlock it now. She could go on. Her hand reached out and touched his. His hands held her in a firm clasp, pulled her toward him until she was close enough to see the hairs in his nose. Van breathed in. She felt safer now. Safer; not secure, and not free.

“The path is not clear. You must stand by the roots you have put into the soil.”

Van did not understand. She should understand. His mind was as close to her as her mind was to herself. A separateness, but not. A sameness, but different. His voice drifted, bringing her awareness closer to something she could feel; something with energy, alive.

“We are not made to kill our own kind. It is against all laws but those of the guardians, the spirits of the law. These,” he indicated the morass swirling around them, the black and blue and purple, anger and rage and claws, “are the result of distortion. Of the choice made to go against nature. It was not passion or fear, not defence or madness, that caused these ones to torture, to kill. They chose. They still choose. Their choices are warped by other choices, of justification, rationalising. They are absorbed into themselves; they have absorbed other life into themselves, and in turn, are absorbed by it; they are never again truly their own shape, their own soul.”

Visions swirled through the haze in her mind: visions of murder. Fury erupted in the form of blood that howled and burned when a limb was hacked apart; red terror pounded the air when a head was bashed into an unrecognisable lump. Hate, purple and black and filled with vile green lightning, pummelled at a broken body, kicked until there was nothing but mist and gore. These were not her visions; they did not belong to Van. These were visions from the things surrounding her. These were the ones without souls, and the souls they had stolen. This never-ending display was what they had done to their victims – whose souls they had stolen. The stolen souls were now part of their killers. They would not let go, they could not forgive. The ones who were murdered now held the murderers in the place where there was no other place; where there was nowhere to go, nowhere to be. No before, no after.

“Is this true vengeance?” she asked Mouyi – she knew his name; it had whispered itself into her ears. His laughter sounded hollow, felt hollow, through his hands.

“It is where the one who dies, the innocent and the not so innocent, can grant the gift – or not.”

The noises around Van were easing, becoming wails, sinking into the well below. “Many choose not to grant forgiveness. Many hold vigil over the soulless, tie its claim here, to ensure the soulless can never be reborn.” Van felt his sadness. “But they remain also, when all that is required is to forgive, to let go of the previous life.”

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I am not here. I am not anywhere. My tree holds my soul until the Naji, the spirit of my tree, decides to let go. Dies, or is killed. I am with my tree spirit.”

“Why do you wait? What holds you here?”

“I wait for the last of my people to seek my lore, the lore of Mouyi, the lore of my country. They have lost the lore, the spirit of place, and I wait for them to seek me. Until my tree dies, the tree of Mouyi, they may come to me. That is all I have now. Only hope.”

Van saw the tree. The huge white tree, branches swinging high in the sky and hanging almost to the ground. Sounds; warm, bright, living sounds ricocheted from the leaves, from the soil. A smaller tree was growing near the drip-line of this one. She walked over to it, releasing the black hand, Mouyi’s hand.

“That is your tree,” Mouyi said. “It takes protection from my tree, and therefore, from me. We are linked by the proximity of the trees in the forest.”

“Why do I need to be here?” Van asked. Was that the question she needed to ask? Should she have asked why she was here at all? Why . . . It didn’t really matter why she was here – how could she get out? How could she keep this place, these horrors, out of her mind?

“You must trust your tree. Trust your spirit. Know where it is your spirit lives, where it waits for you. In the darkness, it will be your only light, your only salvation.” Mouyi was moving away.

“Wait – what about my mother? What about . . . ?” Van did not want to say her name. This was not the place to call someone to by naming them. Van was here. It was not where she wanted to be, and it was not where she was going to stay. She had a life, and she wanted it back. The way it should be; the way it used to be.

Mouyi did not answer, anyway. His tree absorbed his spirit, and Van felt the breeze drift through her as she opened her eyes to the other world, her ears open to the roaring of the bull koala bashing his way through his territory.

. . .

Meet a Cheetah

The Blood List – they need to die

Out now, see Titles page:

Conflict – The Desire to Right a Wrong that insults the notion of social order VERSUS disdain for social institutions.

That’s what conflict is; the juxtaposition between what we know is right, and what we want to do to make things right. There are times when that conflict is insurmountable, or at least, that’s how it appears. The conflict of someone who has always abided by the rules of law and society they live in, who then becomes a victim, or who loses all they had, or who has waited so long for things to happen – for the bad to be fixed – that they chose the other side.

The dark side. We call it that. When someone chooses to enact vengeance, or payback, or to rectify a problem.

This is where Van begins. She kept in touch with the investigation into the rape and murder of her 12yo step-sister. The case is declared a ‘cold’ case. What does that mean? To Van, it means her mother commits suicide – because she failed as a mother, because she can’t make it right.

Now, Van has nothing and no one who cares about her, no one alive she can care about, share with. She has no community left.

What can she do? The highly skilled IT security officer uses her professional skills to find detailed information about the list she saw – the POI list. To track them down, to pass the information to the police, to do something, anything, to fill that hole.

 

Did she do the right thing? If it’s the right thing for her, why didn’t someone else do it?

Why do we feel we can justify these actions?

To be or not To be

To be or not to be . . . A Writer!

To be a writer is not just a matter of writing words on a page.

The words must have meaning to someone; they must show how a story unfolds. This is true of both fiction and non-fiction because what is the point if there is no flow of meaning?

To be a writer is not just a matter of writing words on a page.

The writer must be in the business of writing. They must put aside time in each day to write their words; they must give these words to someone for a purpose. This is true of both fiction and non-fiction because what is the point if only the writer sees their words?

To be a writer is not just a matter of writing words on a page.

To be called an author, the writer must put their work up to the market to be judged; they must submit their work for ‘worth’ to the appropriate market. This is true of both fiction and non-fiction because what is the point of spending all that time, effort and research on something that has no value to anyone but the writer?

To be a writer is not just a matter of writing words on a page.

The writer must research deeply into the subject matter of the writing; they must know their readers will not stop and say ‘But this makes no sense,’ or, worse, ‘This is not factual/true.’ This applies to both fiction and non-fiction because what is the point of words that annoy the intended reader – or do not impart the facts/truth/perception of such?

To be a writer is not just a matter of writing words on a page.

The creator must plan each stage and plot of the unfolding story. Sometimes they must decide if the story is best told back to front, or at a skew from a standard timeline, or maybe even chronological. There must be a structure: a beginning somewhere, a middle and an end; a point of entering the ‘building’ and knowing how to find the way around; to know there is a way in and out. This is true of both fiction and non-fiction because what is the point if a reader cannot understand how or why or where things are happen?

To be a writer is not just a matter of writing words on a page.

The creator must lay aside the work, re-read and replay the scene, restructure and repair, until the structure and the presentation and the journey are exactly as the story means it to be.

That is what it is to be a writer.

Copyright and Fair Use Proposed Changes

In Australia.

What a croc! Really? How can any politician (rude words and bloody hell, Joe) say that creative people don’t do it for the money? Politicians say the same thing about what they do – does it stop them from accepting their public-paid pensions? Maybe we should stop paying them when they’ve finished with their public service (or after five years)? And maybe I don’t even mean after they get out of politics – how about from when they first drafted their important statements – put on paper the things that got them into the job? Signed the documents – we’ll start from there, shall we?

Is it a fact that these works are ‘irrelevant’ or ‘out of date’ based on specified time-frames? If it is a fact, where is the evidence? Where is the rule of ‘reasonable’ expectations? (that’s a legal term, you know). Where are the real words being said about how this proposal is stealing my potential income, my right to earn money from my hours and years and decades of work?

Now let me be angry – I am one of two people who live on a very small income; too low to be eligible to pay tax, but I must be happy with this because that’s what this proposed change is all about. My money. My assets. My legacy. My inability to buy more than absolutely necessary (no restaurant dinners for me, not even a pub lunch).

Do it right. Split the issue and put up one item for each considered change. Make it a little easier for people to see what you’re really up to. For crying out loud, if I wrote something with 601 pages (the proposed document), no one would even consider reading it unless it was compelling, active, and a known sage element.

The one document covers proposed changes to:

The IP System (as a whole construct – so look at it as a construct, not a definition – what is the difference between a patent and a copyright? And why does it not matter in this discussion?);

Commercialisation, markets, international obligations (not stated what obligations, but let me ask: where does the international market get reminded of its ‘rights’ to pay the Australian authors who have no choice but to sell using these markets?);

accountability (+ one more, but you read it for yourself, please). the report

No. Speak up. Shout. Yell. If it’s not done right, so many people suffer – that’s 6% of the GDP here – and will be more likely to give up and do what the instigator did – go on a bloody pension and live off the government (because we don’t have super, do we? Don’t earn enough!).

I will not go down without a fight. My work is my life, but it is work, and I deserve to be paid for it – and my descendants should be able to accept my gift (or the charities, or . . . whoever I choose to pass it to), just as a politician does with their assets.

My house is my own, and I can pass it on for an exchange of whatever it is that gives it value to both myself and the willing purchaser.

 

If the government wants to look at the issue of Fair Use – be specific. Fair Use of what? Is it only the things that other international governments tell us we should respect because their citizens are missing out?

Do I think Australians pay too much for things they buy on the international market? You bet! Why does it happen? Because we are a little country, a small market, and our government doesn’t have the (you know what) to stand up to the mega-companies and tell them how to play ball with out rights.

We, the creators, are happy to play fair, happy for people all over the world to buy our work at the same level of incentive as in Australia – but I want the same in return!

Become an international market – set the rules for the international market to do business here. Make it fair to the creators, not the multinational rulers.

Make amendments as if you are the ‘business’ (creator) and you are being ripped off by everyone, including your own government!

Fair Use, indeed. Call it what it is: Theft of Creativity.

Footnote: My anger has created these words, and they don’t spell out half of what I mean, but please feel free to make your own words more powerful, and send them to someone who can do something about it – PLEASE!

 

 

 

 

Jeffers

A story (copyright CS Dunn 2015) [also in pdf Jeffers]

He had the side alley. At least it was in the shade. It was too hot to be out hunting for wild kids who stole only food. After all, a person had only to go to the barracks to get a feed, so why the concern for someone filching “cause he didn’t want to go to school. Jeffers didn’t appreciate being volunteered for this task, but apparently his record for “catches” was too good. Well, maybe he’d let this one slip and reduce his count so he couldn’t be volunteered again. Not too soon, anyway. He wanted to spend time with his own children when he wasn’t on patrol in the regions – and he was on patrol more often than not lately. He leaned against the grubby limestone wall of the alley leading to the greens market. The smell of rotten greens assaulted his nose, and if this is where the kid was most often sighted, this is where he would be for the rest of the day. The sun had only been up for a few minutes, and already the sweat was trickling down his back. He rubbed his back against the wall to ease the tickling sensation. That was when he saw the shadow move; a puff of dust on the pounded limestone road. He settled his feet ready to spring, kept his eyelids half shut. This had to be the one. The small shape was crouched deep in the shadows and all Jeffers could see was the whites of the eyes. He saw the eyes register his presence before flicking away.

Smart kid. Jeffers yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, not taking his half shut eyes off the shadow. It rose up, the shape hunched forward – about to run. Jeffers leaned forward a little from the waist and just as the lad came to his feet, Jeffers shot his foot out and tripped him. The hand that had been at his mouth flashed out and grabbed the back of the trousers, his other hand grabbed an arm.

The little beast hissed and snarled and twisted, lashing at Jeffers. Jeffers laughed – it was a wild alley cat, not even human from the sounds it made. He was used to his own kids wriggling, and he knew just where to grab to hold them still. Jeffers lifted him off the ground and let out the high-pitched whistle that would bring the rest of the guard to him. He heard the pounding of boots almost immediately, and relaxed his hold a little. He felt the twist of his thumb against his wrist, and by the time he turned back to look, there was no-one there.

How the Other did he do that? He must have gone up the wall.

The troop leader had just arrived, a newly commissioned corporal Jeffers didn’t know, and he was giving him that look. “Well, Jeffers, report: where is he? You signalled us in.” The corporal wasn’t looking anywhere but straight at Jeffers. He knew Jeffers had not wanted to be here today. This would look like insubordination. The Other take the kid.

“Sorry, Corporal. He just took off up the wall. I did have hold of him, he just disappeared.” Jeffers looked back at the wall as he shrugged his shoulders. There was a strange look to that part of the wall –like a dust-devil white-out, and an almost mirage-like overlay to the stones. He looked harder without moving closer. There was a space that looked a lot like the whites of the eyes. He made as if to turn back to the troop, but leapt up and grabbed the area of the wall where those eyes were.

He connected with something that screeched and squealed like a piglet. He dug his fingers in, hard, and locked his wrist while he brought his other hand up to grab another area of the ‘mirage.’ Success. There was an insubstantial waif-child in front of him again. He would not relax this time. He dragged him off the wall and swung him out in front of the troops, and made sure he did not let the feet touch the ground.

“And here he is – the little shadow cat who needs a good cuff.” He turned to the corporal.

“Grab some ties and put them on hands and feet, and get something to put in his mouth to keep him quiet!” The boy was getting heavy.

Heavier than he looks. As the corporal attached the ties, Jeffers checked them, and swung his head towards Hobi, a man from his own troop, “And get the hog ties on him, too. He’s not going to disappear again!” Hobi obliged, stringing the hog ties from the hands to the feet and around the belly and neck. That should hold him. Jeffers hoisted the body over his shoulder and turned towards the barracks and fort up the hill. It was going to be a hard slog with the squirming and pounding and heaving – definitely more like a wild shadow cat than a civilised person. There would be bruises all over him by the time this was over. Casually, he turned to Hobi and muttered, “If anyone brought a spear, I could tie the kid to it like a real hog.” He wouldn’t do it really, but the kid seemed to understand and didn’t try to fight so hard.

Hobi chuckled, “Allus knew you was a cannibal, Jeffers, but I dun think this ‘un is gunna get et – ‘e’s a gift for t’ spies, ‘cos ‘e can camouflage ‘isself – you mark my words, this ‘un is a spy in the get!”

“A bit young, don’t you think? He’s only just taller than my five year old, and skinny as a stick. He’ll need a foster for a few years yet, even if he can turn into smoke.” Jeffers was huffing now. “Even if he does weigh more than he looks, and even if he does go into school, he’s got a long way to go before they decide which trade he goes to – but at least someone can feed him for a few years!” He lifted one of the kid’s legs, and the other leg, tied as it was to the first, came up in the air as well, “See this leg – I could wrap my baby’s hand around his thigh – he’s too young and too starved to be given to a trade yet, especially the spy trade. That’s the worst thing to wish on any kid!”

There was something special about this one, for sure. Jeffers decided to be at the hearing that would decide the fate of this young boy. He turned to Hobi, “Go to my place and tell my missus we could have another kid by tonight – but say it nice, so she doesn’t decide to kill me first!”

Hobi laughed and turned back toward the markets and the homes lower down the hill. “I’ll be back right soon, Jeffers. I’ll let you know ‘ow long you got to live!”

The Council of Seniors were deciding several matters that day. Each matter was decided by the Council, then passed to the H’Rucca representative for the final seal. R’Cci was the H’Rucca senior on this Council, and she was shrewd. The City of Aramel was lucky to have her on their Council. She was the most revered of the H’Rucca wise ones, and it had been surprising she had nominated for this role. Aramel had gone without a H’Rucca representative for almost five years before that, and all Council sessions had waited on a visiting H’Rucca before holding a conclave. Sometimes, a troop had to be sent out to contact the nomads so urgent matters could be dealt with. Everyone in Aramel was happy to have R’Cci at Council.

Jeffers watched R’Cci as they got through the other matters, and when the kid was brought in, still in the torn and filthy rags that passed for a tunic, he saw her eyes widen. She did not take her gaze from the scrappy little wild-eyed thing. R’Cci stood, her frail figure barely taller standing than she had been when sitting. The Council of Seniors turned to her as one.

“This one is mine,” she said. “She is one of ours, even if there is no family sigil or name mark. Her skin is ours; her mind-shape is ours. I will take this one.” She sat. The Council nodded, and it was done.

Well, a girl. Jeffers had not even noticed; most kids seemed alike until age or clothes defined them as one or the other. He would never have guessed. At least now his wife would not be so ready to hang and quarter him, and he would still only have the four kids at home. He felt the loss, as if the little waif should have come with him and been part of his family.

R’Cci took possession of the child at the end of the conclave.

Jeffers walked back through the greens market, hoping to get some bargains on the way home. As the day got hotter and the greens wilted with the heat, the vendors lowered their prices to try to clear their stalls for the night deliveries. He was sniffing the tomatoes and squeezing cucumbers when he felt a touch on his arm. He spun around, fists bunched. No-one would steal from him.

R’Cci lifted her hand, palm up, a sign of submission and friendship.

“I saw you in the crowd,” she said. The girl was standing behind her, just the big eyes and her head visible. “I have set a charm on this one,” she pointed at the girl, “so she will not be able to hide from me or from you, from others and danger, she still can.” She took Jeffers arm. “I am going to walk with you to your home, to discuss her future life with you and your family. I am an old woman, and I would take on her care and training if I could, but my time on the Council is over, and I would ask this boon of you and your wife. We can discuss what you would want in exchange for this favour.” She did not take her eyes from his face, seeming to search his eyes down to his very soul. Jeffers could see the brown of her eyes turn to gold with flecks of orange, and they were spinning slightly, seeming to draw him into her. He couldn’t see or hear anything else even though he knew the market was busy and garrulous. He smelled cinnamon.

“You’re using magic, aren’t you?” he asked. “You’re looking for anything in me that would harm your girl? I wouldn’t you know. I like kids. I don’t hurt them. And I won’t do something just to get your goodwill.” He could feel her stare as if it was burning a hole in him, seeking out all his hidden corners. “I will take her on – if my wife agrees – with no need for a boon or a promise. Your people are the beginning of mine, and the H’Rucca are my people, too.”

“It is good you ask your wife, as no man has the right to tell his woman what should be for her. You are a soldier, going about our country without her, so she will be the one to decide, but if she asks a boon, she shall have it. All H’Rucca and I, R’Cci, eldest of the H’Rucca lore dreamers, will see to her needs.” She took her eyes out of his soul, firmed her grip on his hand and led him away.

The vendor pushed a pile of vegetables into his arms, his smile as wide as his face, “Take this, and this, and this,” adding more and more. “You are a man blessed by R’Cci. I give you all you want, anytime you come. We thank you, R’Cci, for being one with us and ours.” He backed into his stall, bobbing and bowing as he went. R’Cci led Jeffers away, down the lane that would lead to his home. The girl followed as close as a shadow.

“Does the girl have a name?” he asked.

“You have named her already, although not formally. She will take the name you gave her, Shadow, until she reaches her name day to choose her own. Do you agree, Shadow?” She didn’t turn her head, but the girl nodded, and R’Cci seemed to sense the assent. “That is settled; now let’s go see your wife and children.”

 

You weren’t using it

A Ramble Through the Things that Happen in a Day

First, a poem about my place.

Place

Copyright 2016 Cage Dunn

Cool air swirls, lifts, settles. Red sun peeps over the horizon, chases the cool, breathes its scorch into the air, onto the earth – parches skin, eyes, lungs.

Sounds awake, shrubs droop, grasses whisper, locusts ratchet.

Birds, unseen, declare territory. Kangaroos, visible, lie down, scratch at the ground, scratch at fur, chitter at joeys, lick paws, rest.

The day wakes, sky moves from black to blue, from red to purple, from dark to light.

Dust floats, sashays its way through the haze,

Settles, rises, dances; dares the day to burn it away.

Red earth, red dust, red kangaroos.

Grey shimmers, grey emus, grey lizards.

The desert awakens, full of life, lifeless, aware.

 

 

Some days are meant to remind us of the things that are bigger than us.

Some days are meant to be forgotten. When a loved one dies, a child or a parent or a partner. A beloved pet, also part of our family, our community. No, not forgotten – kept for personal use only, suffused behind other things; a private place where only you can feel it, see it, be one with the emotional parcel. It is never truly an alone moment; we re-feel these things when we see someone else in the same place, the same pain. We feel – our own and theirs. We share, and in the sharing, we ease a little of each of us.

Some days are pure joy, the moment when the sun hits the flicker of spider-web, the diamond fracture of colours; how it catches your eye with the promise of brighter things; when a child laughs with outrageous guffaws; when the world does something good, worthwhile.

Remember the one person who stood up to an army in a square?

The person who not just spoke of forgiveness, but demonstrated the forgiveness to the world, and his torturers?

The one child who walked up to the homeless person and gave away the scarf and gloves that kept the cold at bay.

 

Make more of those days – the good days, the ones we not only want to share, we want others to share with us; the ones we want to hoard, to keep the pain until we have time to dig at it, to make sure we still live with the loss; the ones that show we are human, can empathise and demonstrate to our community that we are worthy of our place.

 

Today is one of those days, and I’m off to chat to ‘that one’ up there.

Do not forget Rule No. 1

I think it may be time for dinner – or would you prefer I eat your toes while you tap away on that thing?

Rule No. 1: The cat rules

Rule No. 2: See Rule No. 1

Rule No. 3: Read mind of cat, he’s too busy to try to put ideas into your head as well.

Rule No. 4: See Rule No. 2 and Rule No. 1

Rule No. 5: Do not wake a sleeping cat

. . . to be continued, if and when Cat feels like it.

 

ANZAC Day, Australia

Every year, for several weeks before and after the day, I think of my father. I also do that around his birthday, and Remembrance Day. But ANZAC Day is special, because it was special to him.

No one else in the world could fully understand the story that was inside. Just his comrades who were also there at the time. And although everyone is different, there is still a community that forges from the flames of war. The strongest community of all – the one that comes from seeing Death up close, when it whispers in your ears at night, screams in your face during the day, or laughs at you while you carry the body of your best mate (at least, he was yesterday) back to somewhere so what’s left of him can be sent home.

These are the things that stayed with him: the lost friends, the fear of everything that moved in the shadows, the fear of not dying, the fear of being too afraid to be able to do what’s required, the fear of being sent home a cripple (in body or mind), the fear of what you have become.

He was never the same man after he came home. He survived the physical assault of war, he survived the illness for a long time. His mind did not survive, and eventually the illness got him (at 47). His nightmares were well known along the street where I lived as a child. Did anyone understand? Anyone other than the people he shared that moment with?

As a child, I did not understand. At times, I was afraid of him. As a young adult, I tried to understand, and he tried to tell me why I would never understand, and he hoped I would never truly understand the madness.

After he died, I had to accept that I would never understand.

I go to the Dawn Service each year to ‘see’ a little bit of him in the veteran soldiers who come (with or without medals, I know who they are by the bearing, the eyes, the knowledge that no one else can share – his eyes); I go to show him I’m still trying to understand, that he and his brothers are not forgotten.

And I go because it isn’t over. We still send fresh minds out to . . .

 And I cry; every year I cry. Not just for him, for all of them. For all the children who will suffer the nightmares with their dad (or mum, or both).

I still think of him with the deep emotion of fresh loss because I know I will never understand. I have never been where his mind has been, and I pray his soul is at rest. Please don’t let the pain of that life lead into the same thing after life has gone. Please give him peace. Give them all peace.

Lest we Forget – they were part of us, we are part of them, then and now.