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

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.

Little Malice: the prequel

July 27, 2018August 22, 2018 Chris Hall

The Book lunasonline Voynich more Plants Credit Yale University — Credit: Yale University

From my Flash Fiction collection

I was sent to the Valley in my fourteenth year. I was given a little attic room and assigned as apprentice to the Herbalist beyond the Green.

She set me to work in the Storeroom, where I organised the shelves, made labels and lists. She was impressed with my lettering. Gradually I started to learn Herb-Craft: where to gather the freshest ingredients, what to plant and when to harvest, recipes for teas and tinctures, poultices and potions.

A year later, following the midsummer feast, she put me to work on the Book. I copied out new recipes, made illustrations, noted where and when certain plants could be found. I began to assist in the Dispensing Room. She was pleased with me and with my work.

I learned that certain things displeased her. If she found me chatting too long whilst I was dispensing remedies, she would stand at the door, arms folded, tapping her foot. My friends soon took the hint. Or if she saw me spending time at a particular market stall, she would take me firmly by the elbow telling me to ‘come, leave that now’.

I worked with my pen and brush in the Storeroom at a little desk among the wooden shelves on which the flasks and jars were kept neatly in rows. Even on the hottest of days the Storeroom doors remained shut. No prying eyes were tolerated; the work was secret. I was sworn to keep those secrets.

One afternoon, I’d made myself a cup of herbal tea using leftovers from a poultice. She came in and sniffed my teacup. “What is this?” she asked. I explained. “Is it in the Book?” “No, it but was only a handful of leaves.” Her eyes flashed, “There must be no omissions from the Book.” She stabbed at the cover with fingers clenched and walked out.

Two years passed. My knowledge grew. I followed her rules; made sure she had no cause to admonish me. She taught me a little rudimentary Spell-Craft and the Storeroom prospered as never before.

One morning in late summer, when the dew was still fresh on the ground, I took my basket up to the head of the Valley to the source of a little stream I knew. There I found newly growing belladonna and wolfsbane. I picked a sprig of each and hurried to back to the Storeroom.

Later that afternoon, I settled down at the little desk with my brush and pen and my new specimens. I opened the Book and turned to the poison plants section. But it was missing. I checked again, carefully, page by page, but it was as if the pages had never existed.

I hurried over to her little house and called her. She followed me slowly and sat down at the desk. I showed her where the missing pages should have been; how they seemed to have disappeared into thin air. I thought she’d be cross and give me that look, so I prepared myself. But she looked up at me and said “Never mind now.” She laid her wrinkled hand on my arm: “Go home; I’ll see you in the morning.”

The Storeroom was unusually busy the next day and my morning was spent making up and dispensing remedies. It was only in the afternoon that I took the Book down. The moment I opened it, I could see something was wrong. Strange symbols had been written in the margins and there were untidy blots and crossings out. I didn’t understand.

I heard the Storeroom door open. She appeared in the doorway and came over to the desk. “Something’s happened to the Book,”’ I said, showing her.

“Only you use the Book. No one else has touched it.” She brought her face close to mine and I saw pure hatred on her face. “Why have you done this?”

“I haven’t done anything.” I felt myself starting to shake. I knew I hadn’t done anything. I stared up at her. “It wasn’t like this yesterday.” My stomach churned under her gaze. “We looked at it together, remember? The missing pages?”

“I know you did it.” Her voice was like gravel.

I stood up, facing her across the little desk. I held her stare; not this time, I thought. There was a burning smell. I looked down. Smoke was rising from the edges of the Book. The paper began to curl and suddenly the pages ignited. She slammed the Book shut.

“Go!” She pointed to the door. “Just go!”

I grabbed my basket and cloak and fled towards the Green. I looked back just once. There she stood, framed by the doorway. She glared back at me for a moment; then she slammed the Storeroom door shut.

I never went back. I avoided that part of the village and only went to the market during dispensing hours when I knew she’d be occupied. I could never rid myself of the memory of the expression of loathing on her face, or the power I’d felt that moment when the Book had ignited. I had been changed forever.

Read what happened after that: Little Malice and Little Malice 2
About poisonous plants

Do writers really go on holiday?

June 27, 2018 Chris Hall2 Comments

Well, this one does! Or rather, I’m going away from home – just for a week – to somewhere new and exciting.

Tomorrow we fly to Botswana, to Maun by the Okavango Delta. A rather different part of Africa from where we now call home (Somerset West in South Africa). More like ‘wild’ Africa.

I’ve scheduled a couple of posts but my laptop is staying at home, so back to pen and notebook. Will there be scary, dark stories? Will there be animal adventures and tall tales set in the bush?

Time will tell. But be assured, I’ll be writing!

Little Malice 2

June 15, 2018January 7, 2019 Chris Hall9 Comments

She’d taken a dislike to me, made that doll-thing with the pins stuck in it. I stole it from her house while she was out, but she saw me on the way back. She knew.

I tried to make one of her, as a precaution; sure she’d make another one of me. But I couldn’t get the likeness. She didn’t though. Those pains never returned; the ones from the pins. Just that sick feeling whenever something reminded me of it.

Folk in the village cottoned on; others had suffered too. I never said much; smiled, nodded and moved on.

The following spring, I was visited by a crow. He sat on my washing line and looked at me, his head on one side. He came every day. I fed him titbits; told him my troubles.

Other people had crows visit too; the ones who’d fallen out with her.

One spring day more arrived. First a couple; one alighted on the church spire, the other on the maypole – mine, I thought. More came, settling on her roof, on window ledges and door frames, covering the house in a black shroud.

Folk gathered on the village green. Windows cracked, wood splintered. No-one went to her aid. We drifted back to our houses.

Night fell.

In the morning, they’d gone. The little house had been stripped bare. The small, stooped skeleton pecked clean inside.

Some called it a murder of crows. I called it revenge.

Little Malice

June 8, 2018January 7, 2019 Chris Hall5 Comments

Little Malice lunasonline

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.

The Chosen One

June 1, 2018 Chris Hall1 Comment

The Chosen One lunasonline

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.

Transmoggified

May 11, 2018January 7, 2019 Chris HallLeave a comment

Transmoggified lunasonline

Susan sat back and admired the trunk, now in place under the living room window. It had been a chance find in the local junk shop, but just the thing she had been looking for. It had been a bargain too, as the shop keeper had no key for the complicated looking lock and since she wouldn’t be able to store anything in it he dropped the price for her.

Susan’s ginger cat, Bertie had followed her indoors as she lugged the trunk from the car. He leapt onto the dining table to watch as she rearranged the sitting room furniture to accommodate the new object. When she was satisfied with the new arrangement, Susan placed a large vase with two wooden bowls on either on top of the closed lid.

Bertie jumped off the table and approached the trunk cautiously. He sniffed around the base and rubbed his face on the corners. He prodded the iron work lock with an inquisitive paw then sat back on his haunches observing the trunk intently.

Susan sat on the edge of the couch watching him. Bertie tilted his head to one side as if considering something, then mind made up he jumped into the top of the trunk. The vase wobbled as Bertie crouched down between it and the bowl next to it. He peered down the back of the trunk. Then he stood up and moved to the other side of the vase. He turned round and crouched down again staring at the lock on the front of the truck. He reached down with his paw and prodded the lock. Then he jumped down and started to attack the lock from the front.

Susan knelt down next to Bertie, who was now clawing frantically at the lock. “What are you doing, Bertie?” Susan said to the cat, gently pulling him away. Bertie let out a low growl and lashed out at her. She let go of him but not before his unsheathed claws scratched the back of her hand. “Hey,” she exclaimed. “What was that for?”

But Bertie had resumed his assault on the lock. He had both front paws on the top of the lock and was pulling with all his might. Susan could see the muscles in his back straining. There was a loud click. The lock opened and the lid of the trunk sprung up. Bertie fell back, but immediately righted himself. Susan just managed to catch the vase before it tipped over. The two bowls rolled onto the floor, where they clattered on the tiles until they came to rest.

Susan set the vase down and pushed the lid back. She and Bertie peered into the trunk. It was filled with embroidered fabric which was faded with age. Bertie jumped inside and began pawing amongst the material. Susan reached in and drew the nearest piece aside to reveal one end of a tightly wrapped package. Bertie turned to face the object, back arched. Susan gently pulled back the rest of the coverings.

The package was about 18 inches long. It was bound in strips of what looked like linen in an elaborate crisscross pattern and it had.., “Oh,” Susan gasped, the head of a cat. Susan picked it up gingerly and laid it on the floor. Bertie snaked his way out of the trunk and sniffed at the object.

“I think it’s a mummy, Bertie,” Susan touched its face gently.

Bertie hunkered down on the floor next to the cat mummy, his chin resting on his outstretched paws. Susan stood up wondering what to do with their find. It gave her a vaguely uneasy feeling. Bertie seemed transfixed.

Bertie continued his vigil for the rest of the day. Susan left him to it. She had a report to complete.

Later when Susan was preparing for bed, Bertie was nowhere to be found, which was unusual for him. She opened the back door and called to him, rattling the box of Cat Crunchies loudly, but even this failed to solicit a response. She sighed, locked the back door and went into the sitting room. She picked the cat mummy up from the floor, looked at it for a moment and laid it back in the trunk, closing the lid carefully.

Morning came and there was still no sign of Bertie. Susan had had a troubled night. Fragments of her dreams came back to her, convincing her that the mummy had to go. The obvious place that occurred to Susan was the British Museum, which fortunately was only a couple of tube rides away.

Susan took the cat mummy out of the trunk and wrapped it in one of the pieces of embroidered cloth. She laid it aside while she checked the trunk for any other objects, but there was none. Putting the mummy in a Tesco bag seemed disrespectful, so Susan took her small haversack instead. Fortunately the mummy just fit. It wouldn’t do to cross London with the cat’s head poking out of the top, Susan thought, smiling wryly to herself.

It was almost 10 o’clock when Susan arrived at the grand entrance to the British Museum which was flanked by a row of thick Grecian columns running the length of the frontage at the top of the wide stone steps. As Susan approached the building, she glanced to her left where a woman was singing in a lilting voice.

The woman was singing to a row of seven or eight cats which were lined up on the low wall at the side of the entrance. In the centre of the row was a ginger cat which looked very like Bertie. She took a few steps towards the wall. It was Bertie! What on earth was he doing here?

She hurried forward and then paused. The woman stopped singing and came towards her. None of the cats moved.

“One of them’s yours,” the woman announced.

“Bertie,” said Susan, holding out her hand to him. Bertie didn’t move. He stared right through her as if she wasn’t there. She turned to the woman.

“He’s become a Trapped Cat,” she said, nodding gravely.

“A Trapped Cat? What are you talking about?”

“You have the answer in that bag of yours,” the woman gestured to the haversack. “Clever girl, you’ve done the right thing.”

Susan frowned, “I don’t understand.”

“You have a little trapped soul there in your bag and it won’t release Bertie until it’s been freed. Take it in and ask for Mr. Jeffries, he’ll tell you what to do.” Susan looked at Bertie. “Don’t worry, luvvy. He’ll be fine here with me.”

An hour later Susan emerged. She walked over to the wall were the woman was holding Bertie in her arms. Susan opened the empty haversack and the woman lowered Bertie into the bag. Susan patted something in her coat pocket and smiled at the woman, who nodded back.

Susan made the journey home all the time carefully cradling the haversack in her arms. Bertie remained silent and unmoving. She helped him out of the haversack and laid him on the couch beside her. All she could do was wait.

At the stroke of midnight Susan was in her back garden next to a small hole which she had dug in the flower bed earlier that evening. She took the package she’d been given by Mr. Jeffries and placed it carefully in the hole. She pronounced the guttural sounding words which he had made her memorise, then she filled the hole in. She stood for a moment, contemplating. Then she turned to see Bertie gazing at her from the kitchen door. He meowed loudly and trotted towards her. She picked him up and carried him inside.

Games Aliens Play

May 4, 2018January 7, 2019 Chris HallLeave a comment

you wine

Probe Agents Delta-Zero-Four and Beta-Two-Two were waiting for the next batch of human minds to be loaded for processing. Something had gone wrong with the scanner and their monitors were blank. Delta-Zero-Four was idly picking at her front claws while Beta-Two-Two was playing a game on his cellphone, his forked tongue curled around his upper lip as he concentrated. The phone was emitting a series of beeps and whoops interspersed with the sounds of gunfire and explosions.

“What’s that you’re playing, Beta-Two-Two?” asked Delta-Zero-Four.

“Mmm?” said her colleague, jabbing away at the screen with his manicured claws.

“What’re you playing?” she asked again, peering over the divider which separated their desks.

There was another rattle of gunfire and a flash of light from the screen of the phone. A cry of jubilation escaped Beta-Two-Two’s leathery lips. “Gotcha!”

The four operatives at the next bank of desks looked round at him and scowled.

“Show me?” wheedled Delta-Zero-Four.

Beta-Two-Two looked up. “Okay, bring your chair around here.”

Delta-Zero-Four hooked her tail over the back of her chair and propelled it round the desk on its castors with her broad scaly feet.

“Look,” he said, showing her the screen. “It’s the new Live-Game from BlatherTech, and it’s set here on Earth. It has awesome graphics!” Delta-Zero-Four nodded. “It uses live feed of actual human beings.” His claws tapped busily on the screen. “Here have a go.”

Beta-Two-Two handed her his phone. She studied the screen. The game was called ‘Fight your way to the top.’ There followed a series of instructions on the levels of play and the points.

Beta-Two-Two watched as Delta-Zero-Four made a few moves before selecting a target and firing a rocket launcher at the doors of Bankalot on Wall Street. ‘200 points’ flashed on the corner of the screen. She trashed the security desk with a couple of hand grenades and picked off a mixed group of secretarial staff and junior traders on the way to the elevator. The score climbed to 1000 points. Bursting through double doors on the fifth floor, Delta-Zero-Four pressed ahead, felling a handful of middle managers and a post-boy, who appeared out of a side office right on the edge of the screen (2500 points). Following the signs, she paused at the doors of the boardroom while she scooped up some passing ammunition, then she let loose with a pair of automatic pistols. The glass doors shattered and she strode into the room. Delta-Zero-Four sprayed bullets around the table. Spot bonuses of 500 points flashed up on the screen as she took out assorted senior executives including the Finance Director and the COO. Both guns flashed up as empty, but Delta-Zero-Four had collected a Smith and Wesson pistol on the way out of the elevator. She aimed and fired, hitting the man sitting at the head of the table between the eyes. The phone made a series of excited beeps and a message flashed up. CEO down! Score 10,000 points. Click to play again.

Close the Window

April 21, 2018 Chris HallLeave a comment

From my Flash Fiction

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.