I feel I ought to have a Twitter account and so I have! Some useful advice here on how to use effectively as a writer.
Little Malice
I’d been watching her secretly for quite a while. I knew that she routinely went out at this time and would be gone for a while; that she kept a spare key under the flower pot by her back door.
I crept into the house and listened. But where to look? Where would she keep such a thing?
It was a small house: kitchen, sitting room, an alcove for a bedroom. There it was. I picked it up and examined it: a kind of doll crudely made from sail cloth. Wool defined the features; brown for the eyes, black for the hair. Just like mine.
Two thick pins stuck out of the knees. Gently I pulled one out. My right knee relaxed. Then the left; my pain had gone.
There was a pin cushion on the shelf as well. I knew exactly where those pins had been. I saw the pin holes in the soles of its feet; a nick in the fabric of its dress over the stomach. And there was a burn mark on its left arm. Like the one on mine.
I put it in my pinafore pocket; left the house, locking the back door and replacing the key.
Then I saw her; coming towards me across the village green. Walking it that quick, determined way she had. ‘I know you took it,’ she said, as she drew level with me. Her eyes flashed. ‘I can easily make another.”
So can I, I thought, so can I.
©2018 Chris Hall
The Thin Places – Dark Tales short story competition success
Make sure you click through to read Louise’s story! Of course Bold Street and St Luke’s (the bombed out church) feature in ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone”.
For a while now I’ve been fascinated by the idea of time slips: those places where, some say, it is possible to step from one time or plane of existence, to another. It’s not so much that I believe it really happens (although, to be fair, I won’t completely discount anything science hasn’t yet disproved) but more the possibility, the what ifs of the idea.
There’s a street in Liverpool city centre, Bold Street, which has long been associated with time slips. Most of them concern contemporary individuals who reportedly found themselves whisked back to the 1960s. I’ve spent a lot of time on Bold Street over the years but, sadly, have no tale of my own to tell. Nevertheless, I’ve searched out all the accounts I can find to read and reread. I also found one about a policeman, in New Brighton, on the other side of the Mersey…
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Editing Tip: Common Consistency Errors You Might Be Making
Some useful tips here! I found the differences between UK and US English an interesting challenge when doing a spot of proof-reading for a friend who writes in US English when I am very much a UK English speaker (‘Paul’s English’…you know who you are!)
by Emily Nemchick
When you check your own manuscript for errors, you are probably looking for misspelled words, dodgy grammar, and the inevitable typos. Those are all things you need to correct—but you should also be aware of pesky consistency errors that are commonplace in poorly edited manuscripts.
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Carter and K12…A very short story about cats and women
Couldn’t resist this little tale (or should that be tail?).
Photo: Pixabay
Carter crash landed on K12, which is a planet, filled with women and cats. The cats on K12 were said to be rather large and so were the women. He couldn’t believe his bird fell out of the sky above this planet, of all places.
“Well, Carter,” he said, out loud. “Don’t just stand here, get moving.”
He dug the lantern out of his downed ship and started waking. It wasn’t long before he saw the first cat. His grip on the club in his right hand tightened.
“I’ve been in fights before, so come on Big Kitty, show me whatcha got,” he said, softly.
“Mew,” said the cat, sitting in front of him.
“Afraid, are you?” he snickered.
“Mew.”
“Are we going to fight, or what?”
“Meow,” said the cat behind him.
“Two of you? No problem,” he shouted, brandishing his club.
The cats looked at each…
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The Chosen One
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
Crazy Old Cat Lady
Today Mike Mander had received a letter. It was written on an old fashioned type writer. Someone wanted a book redrawn, said something about giving cats a bad reputation. The Dreaming. A dystopian story of a world were cats ruled, keeping humans as slaves for food and play. Some crazy cat person for sure. He crushed the paper and threw it in the bin. It was late, the sun was going down.
He usually walked home. It wasn’t very far if he took the short cut though the industrial port. There was an old house on the hill. It always had light on in one of higher windows. The rest of the house was dark. It must have stood there long before most of the port, when there were still natural beaches and rocks down there, now it was falling apart. He wondered who was living there.
He passed…
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Here’s Why Pitching Isn’t as Scary as You Think
Taking out some of the fear…
by Meg Dowell
Pitching isn’t so bad.
So you’ve reached that point in Writing Insanity Land.
You’re ready to pitch article ideas to publications. Hurray!
There’s just one problem …
Pitching is scary.
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SoCS: The Barbecue
It was hot sunny afternoon. I was sitting on our lawn, along with dad. The ice-box lay open, within arm’s reach. A blanket of ice cubes comfortably covered Eight pints of beer, preserving their cold sanctity. They appeared all the more appealing in the mid-day heat. Dad’s eyes were covered with dark sunglasses, but I knew that even he was eyeing the pints. We had no choice. It was mom’s rule that the beer was not be touched until everyone had arrived.
It was our fortnightly family barbecue lunch. We were waiting for my uncle’s family to arrive. Mom was huddled over the grill, marinating the meat with her special mix of spices. Meanwhile, I and dad, were sizzling in the sun, not unlike the meat on the grill. The only redeeming factor was the amazing aroma emanating from the grill. It made me drool more profusely than the sun…
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Brief Encounter
From my Flash Fiction collection
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
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