Tag: statues

The Eye of the Beholder

Chris Hall27 Comments

What do you see 8

‘They look so realistic! It’s bronze isn’t it?’ she steps forward reaching out to touch the arm of the nearest figure.

‘You shouldn’t touch…’

She pulls her hand back.

‘…remember in the Tate with the Henry Moore?’

‘But this is outdoors, exposed to the elements.’ She paces around the sculpture of the warrior bearing his fallen comrade in his arms. ‘The detail’s so fine!’ Unable to stop herself, she brushes her fingers across the shoulder of the upright warrior. The metal is cold and hard. She knocks against it gently with a knuckle. ‘I wonder who they are?’

‘Who they were, you mean.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘There must be a plaque or something.’ She crouches down, running her hand over the calf muscle of the warrior’s left leg. ‘What about the leaflet they gave us?’

He fishes in his pocket and hands her the crumpled guide to the castle, before strolling off towards the battlements. Sculpture’s never really been his thing and he finds the pair, posed together as they are, strangely unsettling.

The print on the leaflet is small. She walks over to a nearby bench, fumbling in her bag for her reading glasses and dropping the leaflet as she does so. As she bends to pick it up, she hears a loud yawn. She glances around, but no one’s there.

It hits her like a mallet.

The statues have moved.

She retreats, catching herself as the back of her knees make contact with the bench. She sits abruptly, never taking her eyes off the two statues.

The warrior has unburdened himself of his comrade and is stretching magnificently. His back is turned towards her and she can see every muscle and sinew rippling across his back. In one fluid movement his companion rises from the ground and stands facing her.

Living statues, like the ones they’d seen in Barcelona? But she’d just touched one and it was cold and hard.

The eyes of the statue facing her widen; his mouth drops open.

She freezes.

He puts a hand on his companion’s arm; he turns. Eyes lock on hers.

A long moment is frozen in time.

A loud whistle distracts her; she hears him calling her name. She looks up and sees him waving to her from the castle walls. When she returns her gaze to the statues; they have resumed their original pose.

She rises and approaches, raising a hesitant hand. Cold, hard and immovable; but she didn’t imagine it.

Did she?

She starts to walk away, then turns, staring at the two figures. Then she realises what’s changed.

‘You switched places!’ she accuses, raising a finger. ‘I know it!’

The statues remain impassive.

Footsteps approach from behind her. ‘You’re not talking to them are you?’ he says. He puts his arm around her. ‘You’ll be telling me you’ve had a conversation with them next,’ he laughs.

She smiles up at him and turns to leave, casting one last glance at the sculpture.

The upright warrior winks.

 

Written in response to Sadje’s ‘What Do You See #8′ photo prompt.

Congregation

Chris Hall1 Comment
Congregation by Chris Hall lunasonline
Photo by Alem Sánchez from Pexels

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.

©2018 Chris Hall

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