You look down at her, slumped on the kitchen floor, the basket of other people’s ironing she’s just finished strewn across the polished quarry tiles. Her head lolls awkwardly against the range where she’s fallen. After you lost your rag and pushed her, but you pushed too hard this time.
©2018 Chris Hall
From my Flash Fiction Collection
It’s not easy living with a serial shape-shifter. Most people on Spegorus could change their physical form to some degree, but Peter had really never got the knack of it. His sister, on the other hand, had always had a real flair for transformation and over the years had developed a huge repertoire. Joanna could take on one of these alternative forms at the drop of a hat, while Peter struggled to change the colour of his hair (as she would joke at his expense).
Even as a very young child Joanna would transform herself into creatures from her story books, often at quite inopportune times. Peter could recall numerous occasions when a normal family trip out had dissolved into chaos as Joanna had suddenly reinvented herself as a six foot ogre or a fluffy pink flying pig or some other insane creature from her imagination.
Of course it was tolerated in a child – to a degree – but there were rules, obviously, for adults. If nothing else it was simply a question of good manners not to go changing into a giant mollusc in the middle of lunch.
That afternoon, however, Joanna had gone too far. Way too far. Peter had returned home with Gillian after a pleasant afternoon perusing the book shops and music stores in town. Peter and Gillian had a lot in common, including a love of reading and a dislike of creepy-crawlies. So when Peter opened the front door and invited Gillian in, the sight of a three foot wide hairy spider clinging upside down from the bannisters was an unwelcome, if not a downright alarming sight.
Gillian screamed. Peter cringed. Of course he knew it was Joanna, so apart from being vaguely repulsed he viewed the sight with relative composure. He put a reassuring arm around Gillian, but she pulled away from him and bolted through the front door and down the path.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing, Joanna? You know that’s an inacceptable form!’
Joanna’s spider antennae bent forward forming into two elegant question marks.
‘You are totally out of order. How can you be so mean?’
Joanna descended to the floor on a length of silk the diameter of a rope. She stood in front of Peter and opened her huge spider maw and yawned.
‘That’s it. I’m going to report you. But first I’m going to find Gillian.’
He turned towards the door.
‘I’m sorry, Peter, I was just bored hanging around the house…I’m sorry I upset your friend.’ Joanna wheedled in a little girl voice. ‘You won’t report me, will you?’
Peter looked over his shoulder to see a six year old Joanna in a pink party frock.
‘Don’t! Just don’t, Joanna.’ Peter seethed. He stormed out of the house slamming the door behind him.
Peter looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Gillian. He sighed and started walking away from the house, not really thinking, just walking. There was a small park at the bottom of the road. Peter often escaped here. He headed towards the lake and stared at the swans which were calmly sailing over the sunlit water. Peter sighed again and sat down on the bank of the lake.
One of the swans headed over to where he was sitting and waddled up the bank. Peter sat very still. Swans could be quite dangerous, he thought. If it was actually swan? He looked more closely. The swan winked at him.
‘Gillian?’
The swan nodded slowly and moved closer. Her beak nuzzled at his neck. Suddenly Peter felt a shiver go right through him. His hands and feet were tingling. He looked down. The ground seemed to be moving towards him. He stretched out his arms. White feathers were spouting where his fingers used to be. He looked down. His trainers transformed into webbed feet. Peter shook himself. Gillian’s swan neck was encircling his.
Together they walked down to the water’s edge and launched themselves into the lake. Paddling through the sparkling water seemed like the most natural thing in the world. He turned towards Gillian. She opened her beak and spoke to him. His swan’s brain understood and together they started to paddle harder. Gillian took off ahead of him. Now Peter was flying with gentle flaps of his great wings.
‘Let’s do this together for a while,’ he thought. The thought came back: ‘or maybe a life-time?’
©2018 Chris Hall
From my Flash Fiction Collection
Great Being Five surveyed her handiwork. She was responsible for four inhabited planets. She was pleased with herself having recently won an award for the one in Alpha Centauri. Although the planet was far from developed, life forms had just made the transition from sea to land and it didn’t even have a proper name yet.
But she was worried. Planet Earth was in trouble again. She sighed. It used to be such a nice little planet. She had enjoyed the dinosaurs and had been quite sad when they were wiped out by a huge meteorite. She should have seen that one coming, done something about it, made a small adjustment to its trajectory. But her eye was off the ball, busy nurturing a newly-forming planet on the other side of the universe. Not that the Great Beings were really supposed to interfere.
She’d watched the new little humans emerge, delighted as they discovered fire, tools and the wheel. Built great empires, made beautiful music, art and literature. She loved all the sea creatures and the birds and the big and little furry animals. Of course there had been terrible tragedies. Wars mainly. And awful natural disasters. She had held back as the Great Beings were required to do, even when they had created those dreadful atomic bombs. Very clever, but dropping them on those pretty little islands and causing all that sickness and death. It was all she could do to do nothing.
She had sat patiently through the Cold War, amusing herself with the pleasure of new discoveries by scientists and botanists. She particular enjoyed the TV broadcasts by David Attenborough. But now, now there was a problem developing which truly threatened the planet’s future.
She focused her third eye and searched. There he was, that idiot American with the funny hair. Donald Trump, making threats against that dangerous madman in North Korea. The people of the Earth sure did pick-em, she thought. Tuning in to the escalating situation with nuclear weapons poised on either side, Great Being Five was certain that her lovely blue planet was only weeks away from destruction. Something had to be done.
A natural disaster, one that was already foreseen. Give a little nudge to the Earth’s settings. Which though? She had to be certain that it would kill off Trump.
She scanned the data banks. That’s it! Mount Teide on Tenerife. One devastating volcanic eruption and half the island would fall into the sea causing a huge tidal wave to sweep across the Atlantic Ocean and take out the US Eastern Seaboard. Just a small increase in pressure and there she blows! And look, there are even reports of increased seismic activity. I just have to wait until Trump’s back in New York and bam! He’s swallowed up in a massive tidal wave. Gotcha!
Great Being Five’s conscience monitor started to flash. What about all the innocent people who will also be killed. What about the animals? The cats and dogs, and birds and fishes? No, think again, Five.
All right then. Just one little accident, just him. Great Being Five trained her third eye on the target. All she need was the opportunity to engineer an accident.
The following Earth day all the news and social media channels suddenly focused on one single event. Over the airwaves came the BBC World News. ‘In breaking news, President Donald Trump is reported to have fallen from the roof garden at Trump Towers. The President had apparently been leaning on the guard rail, tweeting his latest tweet when in a freak accident…” Five smiled quietly to herself.
©2018 Chris Hall
She looked innocent. Of course she did. My aunty often told me that once a woman is over 50 she becomes invisible. So how much more invisible is a little bent over old lady pulling one of those tartan shopping bags on wheels. Nobody ever thought anything of her. Nobody ever imagined what she might do.
So there we were that Thursday afternoon after school, Billy and me, just hanging out like outside the library. Not because we’re into reading or anything, just because it’s a nice shady spot in summer and there are steps and a wall to sit on, and nobody bothers you so long as you don’t make too much noise. And sometimes you can chat to some girl from another school…well, you know how it is.
Anyway, as I said, we were just hanging out and this old lady, all bent and bundled up, even though it was summer, came around the corner of the library building pulling this thing behind her. It looked kind of heavy and like something was pushing out the sides of the bag at the bottom.
She was struggling with the door while holding onto her bag, so Billy jumped up to help her. She sort of grunted and nodded at him but he said he couldn’t see her face because her head was so far back in the hood she was wearing. He said she had a funny smell too, but that’s not unusual with old people is it?
Anyway, a few minutes later there was like ‘boom’ and all the glass in the library windows shattered and the doors blew open. Then there was a huge sound like wings flapping and page after page from the library books flew out of the windows and through the doors. Strings of words slid off the pages and landed in the street where they shrivelled up. Others landed in the library garden and burrowed into the ground like so many worms. And then all the blank pages just took off like so many birds with white wings. Up and up they went into the sky which was so bright with the sun that you could hardly look.
And then there was another sound: ‘whoosh’ and would you believe it? The little old lady flew out of the doors on a something like a broomstick, although it looked more like one of those old-fashioned mops. She threw back her head and her hood blew down, long wild wispy hair went crazy around her head. ‘Free them, free the words!’ she screamed, cackling as she circled once around the library building then headed off over the cars and taxis down Victoria Street.
The library’s been closed for two months now. We still hang out there, but now we’re watching for the word worms to come up.
©2018 Chris Hall
10:15. I’m late. I grab my camera bag and run. The whole world seems to be out, all converging on City Hall carrying flags and banners: some in support, most in dissent of our ‘glorious leader’. I’m in the dissent camp. I’m also a correspondent.
I mustn’t blow it. I clutch the camera bag to my hip and put on a burst of speed.
I’m opposite City Hall but I can’t get the shot. There are too many people in the way. The motorcade swings around the corner. I have to hurry.
I jump onto the perimeter wall of the building behind me and scurry along, closing in on the action. As I unpack my camera I see that the motorcade has come to a halt. Military and security service personnel are much in evidence. Assorted dignitaries line the red carpet which runs down the City Hall steps to the presidential limo. The limo door opens and the man for whom the masses have gathered, steps out flanked by his guards.
I focus the camera, holding my breath. If only those two security serviceman in their dark suits and darker glasses would get out of my line of sight.
Shots ring out. One of the servicemen drops to the ground, bright blood staining his shirt. The crowd surges. I leap down from the wall, fighting my way through the confusion. More gunfire comes from within the fleeing crowd. But I’m already behind the car doing my own shooting.
A bullet whistles past my shoulder. I spin round, eye to the viewfinder. The assassin moves in, weapon in outstretched hands. The barrel is pointing directly at me.
Another shot. The assassin crumples. Blood streams across his face from the single head wound. Blood pools on the tarmac. My camera whirrs. Snick, snick, snick.
©2018 Chris Hall
“I thought you said this was a good one. Ordered mind packed with information, experiences and emotions?” Probe Agent Delta-Zero-Four turned to her colleague, the scales on her forehead raised. “We’re not going to learn much here. Look!”
Probe Agent Beta –Two-Two peered over her shoulder at the screen, “When tested the subject scored exceptionally well,” he read. His forked tongue flickered. “Mmm, does look a bit of a mess.” He jabbed a manicured claw at the bottom of the screen. “What are those?”
“Initialising visual brain-image enhancer,” she tweaked a knob on the side of the monitor. “Thought-debris, mind-rubbish, emotional nonsense…I don’t see much else.”
“Very well, are we agreed Delta-Zero-Four?”
“Agreed, Beta-Two-Two.” She said, pushing a red button in the centre of her console.
The screen went blank for a second, then a message flashed up: “Mind-wipe activated, click on the tab for next subject.”
Delta-Zero-Four clicked on the mouse.
©2018 Chris Hall
From my Flash Fiction collection
Moonlight shimmers on Jenny’s dress. It is the winter solstice and the night is clear, the bright white moon surrounded by velvet blackness. Jenny is the Chosen One. Her long golden hair crowned with a mistletoe and ivy garland cascades over her shoulders. Tall and slim, she holds the silver chalice aloft
She must be so cold, Cal thinks.
The villagers stand in a circle holding blazing torches, their faces reflected oddly in the flickering flames. The priest throws back his head and starts to chant. The gathering echoes his words of power. The spell reaches a climax and suddenly there is silence. Jenny puts the chalice to her lips and drinks. It falls to the floor and rolls away as the trance takes hold of her.
The chalice stops at the edge of the circle by Cal’s feet. He picks it up feeling the warmth where his sister had held it.
The priest lifts Jenny onto the stone table. A woman comes forward and takes the garland from her hair, replacing it with a delicate silver circlet. The priest starts to chant again and the woman returns to the circle. The transformation is about to begin.
As the villagers depart, Cal slips away and hides behind the old oak tree. He watches as the priest raises his arms and performs a final incantation before following the line of villagers back down to the valley.
Jenny is alone on the hilltop now. Cal shivers although he is dressed in his warmest clothes. How can Jenny stand this?
Something rustles in the undergrowth beside him. Cal looks down. A small furry creature looks up at him with bright black eyes. More rustling: a rabbit, now a fox and a fawn. Forest animals gather around the stone table. The smallest ones climb up and nuzzle up to Jenny. Soon she is covered by a living blanket of fur.
Out of nowhere, thunder; sounding like galloping horses. The noise reverberates around the hilltop. Clouds cover the moon. Cal cowers.
Then a column of the brightest light that Cal has ever seen strikes the hilltop. The creatures scatter leaving Jenny exposed on the stone table. The beam glows and throbs, alive with energy. Cal watches open-mouthed as Jenny’s body is lifted up.
The transformation, Cal thinks. No one has ever witnessed this.
* * *
The following morning the priest walks up the hill to bring back the Chosen One. As he looks around to check he is alone he notices something at the foot of the old oak tree. He hurries over. It is the boy, Cal, who picked up the chalice last night. The chalice is still clutched in his hand, but the body is lifeless. The priest shakes his head.
He walks over to the table. The girl is sleeping peacefully, covered in a shiny silver blanket. As he removes the strange material, she stirs and opens her eyes. Bright turquoise: the transformation is complete. She is truly the Chosen One.
©2018 Chris Hall
From my Flash Fiction Collection
Charles stared at the message on the screen. The web page you are viewing is trying to close the window. Do you want to close this window? He moved the cursor between the two options in the dialogue box: ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Charles wasn’t sure. He had a number of windows open. There was one he didn’t want to close just now. He was in the middle of something.
The message repeated. Do you want to close this window? Charles rubbed the grey stubble on his chin. ‘Okay, okay,’ he muttered.
Janet peered over the partition at him. ‘You all right there, Charles?’ He looked back at the bright young woman who sat opposite him. ‘Er, think so.’
She nodded and continued tapping away on her keyboard. The younger generation, he thought, it’s all so easy for them. He turned his attention back to the screen and frowned. It seemed to have been busy all on its own and now there were a string of dialogue boxes all overlapping each other, all asking the same question. The question buzzed in his head: Do you want to close this window?
Another message popped up: The program you are using needs to shut down. He glared at the screen. The American spelling irritated him.
He moved the mouse slowly, checking each of the boxes. Which one? His fingers rubbed his temples. Charles felt the panic rising. He stared out of the window across the college lawns, breathing deeply.
Oh, to hell with it, he thought. He clicked.
Are you sure you want to…Click.
Are you sure you want to delete this student?…Click.
Warning! Please do not press this button. Charles lost it…Click.
A small plume of smoke rose up in a distant part of the campus.
Task completed successfully.
©2018 Chris Hall
The sun is low in the sky, but the baked-on heat of the day throbs out of the concrete stoep. The bush sings with insects. I sip my sundowner slowly, the sharp, grassy taste lingering on my tongue, the liquid cool in my throat. Condensation beads on the glass and drips drops of fine rain on my bare knees. Wood-smoke from someone’s early evening braai wrinkles my nose.
The thicket rustles and a tiny antelope appears in the small clearing beyond the stoep. He sees me and freezes. I keep still-still not wanting to frighten him. We stare at each other. I hardly dare breathe. He is so close, so wild and timid. Motionless, our eyes locked together, a minute passes, two…
‘Top up?’ a large hand holding a green bottle accompanies the question. The little animal starts and skips off into the bush. The spell is broken.
©2018 Chris Hall
Henry was a big, old tabby cat who had lived with Annie since he was a tiny kitten. Henry liked his life with Annie, which was cosy and secure, with few upsets or nasty surprises. What Henry liked best was curling up next to Annie after tea with his head resting on her knee, while they watched television or she read a book, while stroking him absent-mindedly.
One Saturday morning Annie came downstairs carrying Henry’s travel basket. Henry felt the fur on his back start to stiffen with fear and worry. The travel basket always meant something horrible was going to be done to him. Perhaps they were going to see the vet; that place with all those other animals and smells and being picked up and pulled about by a strange person who smelt of chemicals and stuck needles and worse in you. But, no, surely it wasn’t time to go back already. He was pretty sure it that it hadn’t been a whole year ago since they last went, and it wasn’t as if he was sick or anything.
Then Henry had another scary thought. Perhaps he was being taken away to the animal prison, where cats and dogs were locked up in cages while their owners went away. This hadn’t happened for ages, as since the time when he’d got the sneezes after being locked up, Annie had arranged for that nice girl, Louise to come and feed him. That wasn’t so bad, even if Annie wasn’t there, Louise would talk to him and stroke him when she came to feed him every day. Anyway, Annie would have put lots of her clothes and things in a big bag by now if she was going anywhere for long.
But none of this happened. Annie put on her coat, grabbed he handbag and picked up the basket without putting him in it. As she went through the front door she said:”I’m bringing back a surprise for you, Henry!” Henry didn’t like surprises. He wandered over to his favourite chair by the radiator next to the French windows and settled into a slightly disturbed nap.
About an hour later, Henry was woken by the sound of Annie’s key turning in the lock of the front door. As soon as she opened the door, Henry could smell something strange and definitely unwelcome.
“Here we are little Luna, this is your new home!” Annie said to the cat basket. “Come and meet Henry.”
Henry stood up in his chair and stretched. He eyed the basket as Annie put it on the floor in the centre of the room. He could see through the mesh at the front of the basket that something was moving inside.
“Come on Henry, come and meet you new little sister,” Annie called to him.
Henry jumped down from his chair and approached the basket. There was a small black and white cat inside. He looked from the basket to Annie. “Luna’s coming to live with us. She’ll be company for you when I’m out.”
Henry stared at the small black and white cat through the wire mesh. The small cat stared back with beady black eyes. Henry approached the cage and sniffed delicately. The little black and white cat arched her back at him. Henry stepped back warily. He wasn’t happy at all. He didn’t want ‘company’, he didn’t want this strange little cat invading his home and he didn’t want to have to share Annie with it. Perhaps if he ignored it, it would go away.
He turned his back on the basket and sat there for a moment. Annie was crouching down making crooning noises. “Shall we let you out so you can meet each other properly?” This was too much. Henry got up and stalked into the kitchen. Pausing briefly to check his food bowl, he put his nose to the cat flap and stepped out into the garden. Ignoring Annie calling him back, Henry strode purposely down the path to the bottom of the garden, where he jumped onto the wall and settled down for a good long sulk.
When Henry returned to the house, the little black and white cat was still there. Worse still it was on his couch playing with Annie. Henry stared at them in dismay. “Come on Henry, come and say hello,” Annie patted the couch next to her. Thinking it part of the game, the little black and white cat jumped onto her hand. Annie scooped her up and held her close to her face, peering at the little cat: “Funny little thing, aren’t you?” she said lovingly. Poor Henry, he slumped off back to his chair, where he sat paws curled under him glaring at Annie and the little cat.
Henry nodded off. When he woke, the little cat was nowhere to be seen and Annie was in the kitchen making her tea. He wandered into the kitchen, looking suspiciously behind the door and under the cupboards. “Looking for Luna, are you, Henry? Well, she’ll be sleeping in the spare room until she settles in. I’ve put her in there now, so you’ve got me all to yourself this evening.”
At least Henry would have Annie to himself in the evenings, Henry thought. However, the following day, when Annie had let the little black and white cat out into the garden under her watchful eye and she’d skipped around and whooshed in and out of the cat-flap a few times and nothing bad had happened, she was allowed to come and go as she pleased, just as Henry was.
The trouble was that Henry had his routine. After breakfast he would go out and patrol the garden, taking in new sounds and smells. This done he would return to his favourite chair and doze the day away until Annie came home and it was time for supper. But the little black cat was young and curious and keen to play. Although she had started to spend quite a lot of time trotting round the garden, when she came in as soon as she’d had a brief nap, she wanted to play. And when Annie wasn’t about, she wanted Henry to play too.
Her favourite game was to start a pretend fight. She would pounce on Henry when he was snoozing calmly and start to wave her little white paws in his face. Sometimes Henry would chase her away, which of course she thought was part of the game. Other times, Henry would simply hold out a front paw and place it on her chest and because his legs were so much longer than hers, she couldn’t reach him with her little flailing paws and before long she would give up and find something else to do.
The evenings were just as bad. Rather than being allowed to cuddle up quietly on the couch with Annie, the little black and white cat would be jumping about, asking to be stroked and generally trying to win Annie’s attention. Poor Henry was fed up.
Over the next few weeks, Henry tried to get Luna into trouble with Annie by knocking things over, spilling the food and water bowls and even bringing a live mouse in from the garden. But even though Annie believed that Luna was to blame for these things, including one of her favourite vases being broken, she just laughed, called Luna a ‘funny little thing’ or a clumsy little cat’ and blamed herself for not moving things out of Luna’s way. And although she was obviously a bit cross about the mouse, all she did was look at Henry saying: “I’m sure she’ll grow out of it, like you did,” with a fond little stroke under his chin.
The little black and white cat didn’t seem to understand that Henry was trying to do, or even think that he didn’t much like having her around. Henry did his best to discourage her, but he was too much of a gentleman to actually hurt her, although he had resorted to snapping at her and giving her a cuff over the ear with his claws carefully sheathed. She still seemed to think it was all a game.
Henry took to sleeping in parts of the garden where the little black and white cat wouldn’t find him. It wasn’t as comfortable as his chair by the window, but at least it was peaceful.
One day, Henry was snoozing behind a large overgrown plant pot which was set against the wall at the bottom of the garden, when he suddenly became aware of a very unwelcome presence. It was the big scary white cat from a few gardens down. Henry had fought with him a few times in the past and once been badly bitten on the leg by him. The bite had been so bad that Annie had to take him to the vet to have the wound stitched up. Henry hadn’t seen him for a while but he was afraid of facing him again after the last time.
Henry kept very still. He knew his tabby coat would disguise him well, but he also knew that if the white cat got close enough he’d be able to smell him. Henry tried to calm himself, but the pads of his paws were sweating and his little heart was hammering in his chest. The white cat paused and slowly turned his head towards Henry’s hiding place. His golden eyes narrowed as he stared into the undergrowth. The white cat crouched down and slowly started to creep towards Henry, moving around to the side of the pot, cutting off Henry’s escape route. Henry was trapped!
Suddenly, Henry heard the sound of the cat-flap opening. The white cat heard it too. He turned his head to see Luna scampering across the grass, with her ‘play with me’ look on her little black and white face.
Henry seized the moment and shot out from behind the plant pot, bounding down the garden towards the house, almost knocking Luna off her feet. Henry stopped and turned to face the white cat, but Luna trotted on curiously stopping just short of the white cat’s reach. Luna sat down in front of him, head on one side regarding him inquisitively.
The white cat arched his back, his mouth forming into a snarl. Henry forgot his fear and charged towards the white cat, just as the white cat launched himself at Luna. There was suddenly a whirlwind of screeching cats, paws and claws spinning and fur flying over the lawn.
It was all over in seconds. The three cats sprang apart. Head down, the white cat sprinted away across the garden and over the wall. Henry and Luna watched him go. Henry slowly stalked back to the house, through the cat-flap and up onto his favourite chair. Luna trotted after him.
When Annie came home, both cats were curled up together on the couch. Bending down to stroke them she saw that Luna had a scratch on her little black nose and Henry had another lump missing from his ear. Annie was puzzled; surely they hadn’t been fighting each other? But when she glanced through the French windows and saw the clumps of white fur blowing gently across the garden, she understood. Henry stirred under her hand. He lifted his big, soft stripy head and tenderly licked Luna’s little scratched nose.
From that day onwards Henry and Luna lived together happily. Henry would play with Luna for a little while every morning and Luna would let Henry sleep undisturbed in his favourite chair every afternoon. They never saw the white cat in their garden again.
©2018 Chris Hall
luna's on line 