Don't Bang On the Lion's Cage

Don’t Bang on the Lion’s Cage is a short story inspired by ‘Allegro Strepitoso’, a painting by Carel Weight at The Tate gallery; the French song ‘Fallaitpas écraser la queue du chat’ (Don't Tread On The Cat's Tail) by Clothilde; and my own blend of writerly schadenfreude.

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Cuddles was stretched out like a luxe rug in a billionaire’s bachelor pad, but he could not be mistaken for a hunter’s trophy. The stench of flesh on Cuddles’ mane and the livid glint in his eye meant he was all too alive to be mere flayed skin, stuffing, and marbles; which was unfortunate for his keepers and the circus troupes they had dragged in out of desperation. Even the darts that pockmarked his rear could not calm the frenzy of a lion wronged. Rather, the old nanny trembling in his paws was his prize, won fair and square during a game of pass-the-parcel with his tamer.

"She wasn’t superstitious, but she should have been", thought the lion. “Just a little bit.”

Shrieking did nothing to help the old busy-body save herself, nor did running. The lion moved in with the speed of a frantic, ravenous street urchin upon sight of a stray hot-cross-bun. As witnesses would later tell The Times, the whole spectacle was not entirely unlike watching a pig wearing heeled leather boots attempt to trot away from the farmer during slaughtering season; futile and sickening, but all too extraordinary an occurrence to drag one’s eyes away.

‘What on God’s green earth happened to cause such a thing?’ wondered the zoo keepers, powerless to soothe or punish their cat.

Cuddles had quite a few choice words for them, but he often found that humans never listen… He roared and roared, the fire building in his big, barrel chest. Over the chaos of screams and cries, he was not heard. But should a reporter have asked his opinion, he would have told them loud and clear that the matter was one of divine discernment. To put it simply, the old woman was a pest.

The earliest memory Cuddles could remember was his shipment from the Sub-Sahara as a cub; the seas were rough and he was frightened to be separated from his mother. He braved the new, cooler climate and confinement as an orphan. Bars restrained him, and though he held his head high – what else could you expect from such a regal animal? – he had a strong distaste for the human race.

His rage was exacerbated by the rattle of his cage during gales. Though he did not hate the wind – the invisible yet noisy cellmate who ruffled his mane like a fond lioness – one thing that never failed to anger him was the deliberate rattling of his cage. 

For weeks on end, a spoiled child had been toted to Marigold Lane Zoo by his nanny. Cuddles could pick the kid out of a nursery school line-up, had any of the bobbies asked him to; he recognised the blighter by the stickiness of his face, always smeared with confectionary of some kind.  

“Make it roar,” demanded the boy.  

"But Thomas, surely that would frighten you,” the old pushover tried to reason with him. 

“I want it to!” he bellowed, thrashing his legs and throwing himself from the pram which he was entirely too big for. 

Without a thought for Cuddles’ comfort, the nanny reached out and banged on the bars of his cage. His natural reaction was to roar, which delighted the child. From then, the boy wished to see this spectacle before naptime every single day. Cuddles’ heart would pound when he heard the familiar click of heels outside his enclosure, accompanied by soft, wheedling voices. The lion felt his pride dissolve with every roar.   

Superstitious tales shared between the prisoners on cold, wintry nights led Cuddles to believe in retribution. The capuchins sidled over to him one night and whispered legends of the rainforest into his ear. They curled their little paws in his mane and told him he was powerful. That he still had authority. That they believed he could free them. 

Cuddles was enchanted by the capuchins. Whether it was the spells they cast on him, or the way they patched up his deflated ego, Cuddles found himself king once more. His wishes were granted with just one baleful glance at the old nanny, who became mesmerised by him, her own eyes flooded with fright. 

His first act of dominance over this woman was to charm her fluffy friends into carrying out his deeds. Those curly-haired, long-snouted, pink beasts somehow always managed to be on the other side of the cages, which made them perfect accomplices. As the hounds turned on their mistress and pursued her, slavering at the mouth, Cuddles grumbled happily to himself.  

On the second day, the nanny still had not learnt her lesson. Cuddles was glad to reinforce his teachings by way of the parakeets, who took aim from the aviary battlements, showering her and her charge with missiles. The following days were brightened up with small visitors from the Reptile House, whom Cuddles coached on the best way to climb up the lady’s leg. Though her shrieks were loud enough to hear on the other side of England, his tormentor still took her toddler to the zoo the very next day. Even the baboon dung placed in her handbag by little capuchin fingers was not enough warning, and the fruit bat attacks and spider bites failed similarly. 

If Cuddles wanted to exact his revenge on this bully, he knew he would have to do it himself. His powers had grown over the course of the week, and the nod of his favourite capuchin told him it was time. 

With one fell leap, Cuddles threw himself at the bars of his cage. Like a bulldozer tearing through paper, he was free from his restraints. The look on the nanny’s face was an image Cuddles wished he could remember forever. 

He squeezed the woman in his strong arms until she expired from fright, which her bemused charge watched with a lack of warmth or compassion. As the crescendo of roaring, cawing, cackling, and jeering caused the visitors to cover their ears and sob, the rainbow of tranquilisers fired was like mere confetti in the air, powerless to quell the animals’ victorious cries. 

A perfect summer afternoon for the prisoners of Marigold Lane Zoo. 

Get Real: Flash Fiction Inspired by the Dogme 95 Manifesto

In the Reading the World module we have been looking at a variety of media from around the world; this includes books, films, music videos, gallery exhibits... anything you can think of, really. Some of my favourite films and stories originate from different countries around the world, and I always want to experience new cultures, so this module is ideal for me.

I had never heard of the Dogme 95 movement or watched a Danish film before, so learning about Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg's filmmaking manifesto was exciting. Their approach to film is raw and realistic, not sparing us any discomfort - and that isn't necessarily a bad thing!
I will be reviewing Festen (or "The Celebration" in English) in another post. Since it was my first taste of such a gritty, realistic film made entirely on a handheld camera, it gave me lots of new ideas on how to approach my own scripts and filmmaking.

The Dogme 95 manifesto could also be interpreted through fiction. As a group of storytellers, we came up with a set of rules called the 'DogReal Fiction Manifesto', inspired by the techniques of the Dogme 95 movement. The challenge is to create a piece of flash fiction that adheres to these rules!

DogReal Fiction Manifesto:
1. No happy endings
2. No magic unless it is the magic of dreams and nightmares
3. Only realistic locations/settings
4. Authentic speech including digressions, pauses, repetitions, verbal ticks etc
5. First person narratives only
6. No stereotypes
7. Linear timeline except when the protagonist experiences time differently
8. No Deus ex machina
9. No similes, metaphors, personification or other literary flourishes
10. Plots must be true to the character’s motivations and psychology
11. Author must not be credited.

My interpretation of this manifesto is that it must be true to real life. In that case, my flash (non)fiction will be written like a diary entry, no flourishes or embellishments allowed. Here is how I experimented with these rules:

I entered my house through the porch door.

“Bye, Nana. Thanks for going with me to the gallery. Bye! Bye!” I said.

“Hello, doggies,” I said. “I hope you’ve been good,” I said.

“See you later, pet,” my grandmother said. She closed the door behind her.

“Have you been good?” I said to the animals in the kitchen.

I placed my handbag and scarf on the dining room table. I walked to the kettle and flicked the switch.

“Tea,” I said.

I poured the water and let the teabag steep. Scrrpt. A noise in the hallway caught my attention.

I went from the kitchen to the porch door. Something colourful was in the letter slot. I knew the morning’s mail had already arrived. I picked up the paper and read it.

“Heh,” I said.

It was a flyer. What was written on the paper surprised me:

Conspiracy theory talk advertisements signed by a person called ‘Amazing Steve’.

“What even is this?” I said. “What kind of spam-?”

I folded the paper and put it in my handbag. An idea came to me, that I was being watched through the porch window as I read the flyer. That I had angered a certain amazing person by saying “heh”.

I closed the door.

“Indy,” I said. “Come here.”

I poured lactose-free milk from the fridge into my mug and added half a teaspoon of sugar. I sat at the kitchen table and read a book. 

As you can see, this sounds stilted, repetitive, and strange. The style of writing (and sordid gossip) in my own diary is more interesting than this, I believe. Writing in this way is very dry, but let’s see if I managed to stick to the rules.

1) No happy endings. There is no ending, happy or otherwise.

2) No magic unless it is the magic of dreams and nightmares. No magic either. There’s nothing supernatural about that boring segment of writing, unless ‘Amazing Steve’ has some magic powers that I’m not yet aware of.

3) Only realistic locations/settings. Real life is mundane most of the time, and so is my kitchen and porch.

4) Authentic speech including digressions, pauses, repetitions, verbal ticks etc. Yes. Here you can see the embarrassing way I talk to my loved ones and pets, and how I babble to myself as I go about my day. These kinds of things wouldn’t ever make their way into my future memoirs, if I can help it.

5) First person narratives only. Yes.

6) No stereotypes. Am I stereotyping myself? Who knows!

7) Linear timeline except when the protagonist experiences time differently. To the point of knowing how I make my cup of tea. It’s so linear that it’s boring.

8) No Deus ex machina. Since there’s nothing here that needs a solution, there’s no Deus ex machina.

9) No similes, metaphors, personification or other literary flourishes. I tried to make it as plain as possible.

10) Plots must be true to the character’s motivations and psychology. A boring, everyday moment inspiring a paranoid thought through overactive imagination? That’s true enough to me, and probably most writers, I imagine.

11) Author must not be credited. Well, I won’t write my name at the bottom of this post then.

I think all of the rules have been stuck to in some way, though I don't think I'll ever be writing in the style of the manifesto again! Realism in film and fiction can be interesting, but not to this extent.