Congregation

August 31, 2018August 31, 2018 Chris Hall1 Comment

From my Flash Fiction Collection

Even for a Catholic Church there are a lot of statues. Not just the usual suspects: Our Lord on the Cross, Our Lady Weeping (touch of woodworm on those toes), and good old Saint Francis with a mouldy-looking bird on each hand and a rabbit missing half an ear at his feet. All have been subjected to some dodgy touch-up jobs. Nail varnish on Saint Anne? You shake your head.

There are newer statues too; peopling the perimeter like extras from a low-budget film. They stare out from the shadows, waiting for the action.

You drop a coin in the shabby wooden box, select a candle, light the wick and place it among its fellows. You pause, looking like you’re offering a prayer; for form’s sake.

You glance at your watch. Surely he should be here by now?

Perching on a pew near the back of the nave, you survey the altar. The altar cloth is rumpled and askew; the silverware huddled together at one end, as if something (someone?) had been resting there and was suddenly removed.

A shaft of sunlight falls on the golden lectern, illuminating the outstretched wings of the malformed eagle which support a heavy leather-bound bible on its wings. You notice a chain and padlock securing the stand to a ring-bolt in the floor. You can’t be too careful these days. Something catches your eye; movement reflected in the eagle’s wings. You glance over your shoulder. The statues appear closer; one of them, a young man, has a hand raised as if in greeting. Was it like that before?

The clouds move over the sun and the lectern fades in the gloom. A door scrapes open and a pool of yellow light spills onto the flagstones alongside the altar. There is a shadow too: an elongated arm with an extended finger touches the edge of the altar cloth. Then ghost-sounds of shuffling feet, whispers of words and the rasp of heavy breaths echo across the nave. You suddenly notice that the statues are lined up along the central aisle. They watch you; empty-eyed. How did they get there? You close your eyes, shake your head and open them again. Are you dreaming? You don’t think so.

A door slams somewhere and a black-garbed priest appears carrying violin case. The man for whom you’d been waiting: the one who says he has a story for you. He sets the case down on the altar and opens it, taking out a strange-looking rifle. He glances at the statues and stares back at you. Now he smiles and flicks off the safety catch.

They say you never hear the bullet which kills you. Father Anselm’s petrifying bullets are different.

Inspired by The Haunted Wordsmith’s Three Things Challenge: statue, priest, violin

10 writers and their cats

August 30, 2018August 30, 2018 Chris HallLeave a comment

10 writers and their cats.PNG

Published in Lit Hub Weekly: August 20- 24

The following article is from a book called Writers and Their Cats, which is a book about writers and their cats (!) and is written by Alison Nastasi.

The writers:
Angela Carter, Chester Himes, Gillian Flynn, Jorge Luis Borges, Judy Blume, Julio Cortázar, Mark Twain, Marlon James, Patricia Highsmith, Ursula K. Le Guin.

Click here to read the article

Me and (a slightly unwilling) Luna.
We’re obviously in very good company! Are you?

3 Struggles Only a Writer Will Understand

August 28, 2018 Chris Hall2 Comments

I can relate to this. How about you?

Ryan Lanz

by Liam Cross

As writers, we’re often referred to as some of the strangest, most misunderstood members of society, and it’s a theme that has certainly carried down from generation to generation. It’s probably to do with the creative lifestyle – always obsessing over a project and never being able to properly switch off.

It’s like we have this constant creative buzz in the back of our minds that is ready to erupt at any moment, spilling countless ideas and caffeine-induced plot outlines out into the real world. I say real world because at least eighty percent of our minds are occupied by fiction that was either penned by us, or by some other richer, much more talented writer.

View original post 968 more words

With these words…

August 24, 2018January 7, 2019 Chris Hall6 Comments

Duke_Humfrey's_Library_Interior_5,_Bodleian_Library,_Oxford,_UK_-_Diliff — Duke Humfrey’s Library, the oldest reading room of the Bodleian Library, University of Oxford **Photo by DAVID ILIFF. License: CC-BY-SA 3.0**

She hadn’t realised the consequences of taking down that old book and reading from it aloud. Nobody had warned her.

She’d always loved books; especially old books. Battered and bruised, but still adorable. Like a comfortable old armchair. The feel of the paper, pages yellowed at the edges, curled like parchment, worn down by the gaze of its readers. The smell: a little musty; a little dusty. And words which have been read and re-read; taken in, digested.

She’d been permitted to browse this ancient library. To scale the heights of the upper shelves and plumb the depths of the bottom-most archives. To swim in an ocean of promised words.

Finally, she made her choice, a heavy tome and rather old. The pages were discoloured, their edges torn, and the leather binding scuffed and stained. But the drawings of flowers and birds it contained were still colourful. There were passages of script held within the pages, although the language and spelling were archaic and hard to follow.

She took her prize to a remote desk and opened it carefully. She pored over it; savouring it. The illustrations were remarkable; tinted drawings so precise that they could have been photographs: two young girls dressed in pinafores, chanting a hand clapping game. Over the next page, a robust woman in a heavy woollen dress shouting straight out of the page at her, brows knitted with concern, arms open in appeal. A little further on, a poem was it? To be read aloud; of course.

And as she whispered the words, the world grew very bright for a moment, and then the lights went out.

Come, gentle reader, open the book! Look, she’s waving at you; page 229.

The Clapping Song

When only the right word will do

August 23, 2018August 23, 2018 Chris Hall6 Comments

Roget by Thomas Pettigrew 1842, print of portrait, Medical Portrait Gallery — ‘Roget’ by Thomas Pettigrew 1842, print of portrait, Medical Portrait Gallery

ROGET’S THESAURUS
Not a rare type of dinosaur, this wonderful list of vocabulary on a large scale, categorized by topics has earned an enduring reputation as a handy aid to composition. Nouns, verbs and adjectives are all widely represented, although not the dreaded adverb.

Roget’s Thesaurus was born out of need. As a young and busy doctor, who was much given to lecturing, Peter Mark Roget felt the need to improve his powers of expression.

A compulsive list-maker from the age of eight, Roget devised a ‘classed catalogue of words’ for his own use in 1805. However, it was not until he was in his seventies in 1852, that the first edition, called the ‘Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases Classified and Arranged so as to Facilitate the Expression of Ideas and Assist in Literary Composition’ was printed.

Roget’s life was marked by several depressing incidents. His father and his wife both died young; while his beloved maternal uncle committed suicide in his presence. Roget struggled with depression for most of his life. It is believed that his work on the thesaurus arose partly from an effort to battle it.

Roget’s Thesaurus has been reprinted and revised many times since its original publication. My copy, a school prize no less, was the ‘New Edition, Completely Modernized and Abridged by Robert A. Dutch, and was hot off the press when I received it at the end my first year of high school in 1975. Doesn’t that date me!

I do still use my Roget from time to time. Okay, I know that Microsoft Office has its own in-built Thesaurus which can be handy, but it’s not anyway near as rich in vocabulary as Roget. Nor can you hold it in your hands and browse from section to section, as one intriguing word either spotted or remembered, takes you on a magical mystery tour for another.

I have to approach him with a degree of respect though, as my poor old paperback copy is rather delicate now, with loose pages and whole sections coming adrift at the seams. I hope I’ve worn a little better over these past 40-odd years.

But I wouldn’t be without him, my reliable old friend, Roget.

Roget’s Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases

The Importance of Editing

August 21, 2018August 21, 2018 Chris Hall1 Comment

Good article. I’ve also found that commenting and helping to edit other people’s writing has made me more conscious of the way I write. There are some good examples of ‘tightening’ up too.

Ryan Lanz

by Doug Lewars

If you want to become a better writer, become a better editor.

If you want to become a better editor, edit work that is not your own.

I recently joined a local writers’ group and was requested to comment on various extracts from group members completed and in-progress work. I quickly found a number of recommendations I could make for improvement, but what came as a bit of a surprise, was when I went back and started editing some of my own work, I found exactly the same things there. One common mistake is using names too frequently when a pronoun would suffice.

View original post 759 more words

Get out of that, Superheroes!

August 17, 2018 Chris Hall5 Comments

superheroes lunasonline — Source: Gamebody.com

From my Flash Fiction collection

The HQ of Deeply Underground Subversive Comics was under attack. Bullets sprayed across the hillside from a jet fighter. Moments later a nearby explosion rocked the desk where Mick was working.

“Dammit, we’re going to have to move out!” He yelled at Simone, who was steadying her laptop with one hand while furiously typing lines of complex coding with the other.

“Can you reconfigure the IP address before we go?” she yelled back.

“Sure, I’m on it.” Mick flung himself down at the adjacent desk and pulled the keyboard onto his lap. “What were you working on anyway?”

“Just some research for ‘Jasmine’s Day’.”

“Not on Google?”

“It was only innocent stuff,” replied Simone, emptying her desk drawer into a large canvas satchel.

“Huh, like last time.” Mick’s fingers danced over the keyboard. “Why can’t you just stay in the Deep Web?”

The flames outside were dying down. Suddenly the viewing screen was filled with what looked like giant flying insects. “Drones incoming!” Simone shouted as she crouched behind the main console and started to rummage about in a cupboard.

“Deploy ‘Flame Kitten’,” Mick turned to give the order to Jonesy.

“No can do boss, she’s busy in Syria.”

“Who else we got?” Mick finished typing and slung the keyboard back on the desk.

“‘Silver Sparrow’s in South Sudan and ‘Galactic Gecko’s in…”

“Dammit! What’s the point in us creating these superheroes if they’re not here for us when we need them?” Mick hammered his fist on the arm of his chair.

“Prime directive boss,” Jonesy shut down his screen with a click and tucked the tablet into his overalls.

There was another explosion and an ominous crack appeared in the ceiling. Simone looked up. “C’mon guys, we’ve got to get out! To the escape corridor!” She slung the satchel over her shoulder and pulled out her cell-phone. “There’s nothing for it,” she tapped the screen rapidly; “I’m messaging ‘Grand Trope Central’.”

“You’re doing what?!” Mick grabbed his rucksack from under the desk.

“We’re going to need something good if we’re going to get out of this.”

Mick, Simone and Jonesy reached the corridor just as the ceiling collapsed and the roof caved in. Flames shot across the room.

“Sealing hatch!” Simone announced as she hit a large red button mounted on the wall. A metal shutter slid into place closing off the corridor. “C’mon, run! It won’t hold for long.”

As they jogged along, their progress was hampered by a series of thick cords which crisscrossed the brightly lit passage. Mick grunted as he clambered through the knotted strands. “What the hell are these, anyway?”

“Twisted plotlines,” replied Simone. “Try to bend them rather than break them; they might be important.”

Simone’s cell-phone beeped, signalling an incoming message. At the same moment the corridor lights failed, plunging them into darkness. The only illumination was from the phone; the message read: ‘look ahead’. Simone looked up from her phone; a large wooden door had appeared from nowhere right in front of them, seemingly hanging in limbo. Golden light leaked around the edges of the door. A red neon sign flashed. ‘Enter,’ it commanded. Simone glanced at her two companions.

“What the f…” Mick took a step towards the door, as the excruciating sound of shearing metal echoed down the passage. They heard a drone whirring towards them.

“C’mon,” Simone tugged at the sleeve of Jonesy’s overalls, “we’ve no alternative.”

Mick touched the door which swung inwards, bathing them in the bright golden light. Blindly they rushed through; the door slammed shut behind them. Slowly their eyes adjusted. They looked around, confused. They were back in the room from where they’d just made their escape, but it was undamaged. Good as new.

The viewing screen over the main console flickered on to reveal a figure, features obscured by the bright back lighting.

“Sit down,” commanded the voice from the screen. Obediently Simone, Mick and Jonesy seated themselves at their workstations. “You have done well,” the voice continued, “but now you must move to the next level.” The walls around them began to shimmer. “Write yourselves out of this!” The screen dissolved. There was a loud pop and a flash of light.

“Whoa, what’s happening?” Mick‘s words were barely audible above the sound of rushing wind. Suddenly the noise stopped. They looked up at the viewing screen. Outside the view was as green and tranquil as before the recent attack.

Mick shrugged. “No immediate threat then?”

“Maybe not.” As Simone took out her laptop the sky darkened. On the viewing screen they saw a huge metal disc hovering over the mountain. It didn’t look friendly.

“Here we go again!” Mick said, snatching his keyboard from the desk.

Grammar Rules – Okay?

August 16, 2018August 16, 2018 Chris Hall2 Comments

The New Well-Tempered Sentence

As I’ve shared with you previously, my punctuation ‘bible’ is The Elements of Style by William Struck and E.B. White.

The same rules, with lots of entertaining examples and wonderful illustrations, can be found in this little tome: The New Well-Tempered Sentence: A Punctuation Handbook for the Innocent, the Eager and the Doomed by Karen Gordon.

The title says it all really. The book is hugely entertaining; there is certainly nothing dry or dull about this. Struck & White is a quick and crisp reference book, but Karen Gordon’s offering has totally original explanations of the rules of grammar, together with witty and whimsical illustrations. It is even peopled by a small cast of characters, which you wouldn’t usually expect in a grammar book.

Get hold of a copy if you can. It’s a riveting read!

Blogging: Using Categories and Tags

August 14, 2018August 14, 2018 Chris Hall2 Comments

Some useful info on those funny little ‘tags’ and their ‘category’ cousins – use them to full advantage!

Christine's Collection

Some time ago I started dropping in on First Friday to meet and greet a few new bloggers. A lot of them are just learning the ropes and open to a little guidance, so I often leave some advice about categories and tags. I’m posting this here today in case these thoughts may help some other newbies and maybe some longtime bloggers who haven’t attached much importance to this angle.

Categories & Tags

…are very useful creatures. You can create them as you publish each post, using the sidebar on the right. Tagging our posts is how we invite other bloggers to check out what we’ve written. For example, if I create a Personal, or an Education, category or tag for my post, it will send my post title and a couple of lines to the Reader. Other bloggers searching for posts on Personal or Education will see mine listed…

View original post 679 more words

Mystery Man

August 10, 2018August 9, 2018 Chris Hall6 Comments

casa in Cabo de Gata

Our accommodation, high up in the Spanish village, was one half of a converted barn. Ursula, the owner, lived alone in the other half. She’d explained that the building had recently been converted, pointing to the original doorway between her side and ours which had been bricked up with local stones. It was all very charming.

After feasting in the village that evening on paella, washed down with generous quantities of local red wine, we trudged back up the hill to bed. Our front door, the original barn door, proved too much of a challenge to lock properly and we left it secured only on the latch. We went to bed, unconcerned.

I was awoken by a door rattling. I heard feet shuffling, then the bedroom door opened. A man’s head appeared. He muttered something and shut the door.

I slipped out of bed in my pyjamas and found our intruder in the living room where we’d left a lamp on. He was feeling his way along the stone wall between the two parts of the house. He was completely naked.

I retreated to the bedroom to wake my husband, not wanting to tackle a naked man alone. He stirred. I explained. He asked, ‘has he come to fix the fridge?’ I tried again. Eventually he grasped the situation. Pulling on his jeans, he followed me into the living room.

The man was still examining the wall. I cleared my throat: ‘Can we help you?’ The man turned, I tried to focus on his face. He frowned and said something we didn’t understand. ‘Do you speak English?’ I asked. ‘Ah,’ he nodded. ‘Do you know Ursula?’ He looked blank.

My husband looked at me. ‘I’ll go and see if I can find were he’s come from,’ he said, hurrying outside and leaving me with the lost, naked man. I handed him a towel which he put around his shoulders and not where I’d hoped. I motioned him to sit down; at least we had a table between us now.

My husband returned. ‘There’s a light on next door. I’ll take him there,’ he said, and guided the man outside. Ursula answered the door and took him in without a word, studiously avoiding us for the remainder of our stay. We never did find out who our naked visitor was, but now we’re always very careful to lock our doors!

Beach at Los Toros Campo de Gata National Park by Andres Campos