Chinchilla tales

Welcome to a new storytelling podcast from me, Chris Chinchilla. Listen above, or search for “Chinchilla tales” wherever you find your podcasts.

This episode contains two works of flash fiction from a text and audio collection of flash fiction available now. It’s called “Small gregarious fiction, volume 1”, find out more at chrischinchilla.com/books.

The first deals with what happens when legends retire, and the second with opportunity from adversity.

Enjoy, share with your friends, and find more about me at chrischinchilla.com.

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Legend

I rested my lance in its ornate frame one last time, cleaning the gore from its tip and shaft and polishing it to bring back some sheen and shine.

I called for my squire to unfasten my heavy armour. He had been with me for years now, and I felt his deft fingers work through the clasps and straps, and slowly the weight encasing my body fell, and I could move more freely for the first time in days. I let out a deep breath and reclined in my favourite leather chair, the tension in my body waning as I did. My squire fetched me a glass of fine wine, and I beckoned for him to join me in a toast. He looked surprised at the invite but joined me anyway, knowing that as this had been my final mission for the kingdom, protocol be damned.

He broke the silence first. “How do you feel, sir?”

I took a long sip of wine and reflected on my decades of adventuring and service. I was tired, my body ached from years of abuse, and it was time I stopped. I was to move into training and mentoring the current and next generation of those like me, sharing knowledge and experience to mould them into the best they could be. Still, it wasn’t quite the same as a life on the road.

I sighed. “Mixed. I have never been one for emotion. As you well know, I don’t have the time for it. I am sorry to leave a lifetime behind, but I know I have to. It’s time for new legends to be born.”

My squire nodded and topped my glass, sloshing it with wine. I bid him cheers and looked around the room at the mementoes from my adventures. There was the giant skull of Haxdar, the first dragon I slayed, its leering eye sockets forever peering at me as a reminder of that harrowing day. There was the magic staff of Valdeer the Lich, sealed in a magic-proof cage so no one could ever wield its evil again. That was a battle I still have nightmares over. And there was the bow of Jilana, once my adventuring companion and lover. We had so many adventures together until the warlord of Forlarn struck her down with a mighty battle axe. A tear nearly gathered in my eye as I thought of her, and my squire, following my eyes, distracted my thoughts by changing the subject.

“I hear you start swordcraft classes tomorrow with the new officers? What will you teach them?”

Shaken from my memories, I turned to him and thought. What would I teach this new generation of legend makers? What lessons from my years of experience were the most important, the most essential to my survival and success. I sipped my wine. I had no idea.

The plane in the forest

She awoke and looked around her, pain flowing through her body. Her whole left side seared with pain from her shoulder to her toes. Her eyes cracked open, and took in the scene around her.

She was still strapped into a seat, an oxygen mask uselessly flapping around her face. Empty seats around her, a trail of detritus strewn around from single-use drink serves to magazines and children’s toys. There were flashing lights in the distance, but she couldn’t focus on where they were coming from. In the background was a faint mechanical hum, accompanied by the sound of metal coming to rest, gently wheezing as it released tension and cooled in the breeze.

The breeze. Wait, that didn’t make sense. Wasn’t she on a plane? That was the last time she remembered anything clearly. There had been some form of emergency, a lot of announcements, noise, lights, and activity. There had been so much happening in a short space of time, and then nothing but screaming. Then she blacked out.

So where was she? When was she? Why was there a breeze? She loosened her belt and gingerly turned around to look behind her. This sent a sharp stab of pain through her left leg, but she saw the source of the breeze. The whole back half of the plane was missing, and the most surreal sight greeted her. Beyond the machine and human-made chaos was the most beautiful and serene forest. Lush green pine trees swayed gently in the breeze, and birds flitted around the tree line, adding a subtle beauty to the chaotic noises in her nearby vicinity.

She slowly tried standing, testing how far she could push the pain in her leg. It hurt a lot, but she could move slowly and carefully, picking her way through the objects littering the floor. She made her way to the opening in the back end of the plane and stood staring out over the scene. It was outstandingly beautiful, and she breathed in the fresh air, the smell of fuel overtaken by pine trees and damp, clammy nature.

Where was everyone else? There had been hundreds of people on the plane, and she had seen no bodies, no sign of life apart from what they had left behind. Still, if she was to be stranded somewhere, there were worse places. She checked the plane galley. There was still plenty of food, well preserved too. There was copious water, alcohol, and blankets stored away in trolleys. And stabbing at a few random buttons, she even noticed there was some power left in the internal batteries. This would do, she thought. This would do nicely.

A loud burst of static disturbed the peace of her thoughts. It had come from the pilot’s compartment, the door of which was hanging off its hinges precariously.

“Four oh niner, please report your destination and status, and we can begin a rescue operation.”

She sat on the edge of the plane caprice, swinging her legs in the gentle breeze and watching the birds playing on the tree tops. The rescue could wait.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit chinchillatales.substack.com

Welcome to a new storytelling podcast from me, Chris Chinchilla.

This episode contains a short story written for a Reedsy competition about bar bets and losing your head.

Enjoy, share with your friends, and find more about me at chrischinchilla.com.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit chinchillatales.substack.com

Welcome to a new storytelling podcast from me, Chris Chinchilla.

This episode contains two works of flash fiction from a text and audio collection of flash fiction I will be releasing soon.

The first deals with accidentally starting a cult and the second is about magic, real or otherwise.

Enjoy, share with your friends, and find more about me at chrischinchilla.com.

Belief

I had never meant to start a cult. It just kind of occurred by chance one day.

I happened to mention my thoughts one night over dinner to the assorted group of wannabe progressive intellectuals that I typically hung out with for no particular reason, and it just kind of… resonated with them.

Half the table abruptly stood, patted me firmly on the back and exclaimed that they would follow me and my thoughts until the end of days. I frowned with surprise, the thoughts didn’t seem that wild to me.

Then they told their friends, who told their friends, and I awoke on Sunday morning with the intention of taking in an exhibition when I found several hundred people assembled on my doorstep. Someone called the police who threw away their placards and moved all the people along. But every single one of them promised they would return the next day.

And they did, but this time a thousand strong.

A national newspaper rang me and asked for my opinions on numerous issues. No matter what inane ramblings I uttered the journalist hung on to every word and the resulting article generated discussion unlike anything else they had published in years.

I couldn’t leave the house to buy a loaf of bread or litre of milk without a police escort and suddenly my life became irreversibly complicated.

One Tuesday morning I awoke to the smell of burning. A rival cult had firebombed my house, offended by something I had said the previous day. I was in a sleep filled daze, when a dozen of my closest followers bustled urgently in to my bedroom to rescue me from the flames. I passed out in the smoke and awoke at some point later to find myself in the gilded room of a large mansion. There were followers sat all around me, staring and waiting for me to awake and say something profound. I looked around me, befuddled, and with nothing to say.

One of them (I can’t remember who) gestured around the mansion telling me that they had donated it to my cause, and that I deserved to live somewhere more fitting to my stature, instead of a 2 room bedsit above a shop.

I nodded and stood. Everyone instantly stood around me. I was thirsty and attempted to find the kitchen for a glass of water. Followers scattered around me and brought me glasses, tea, juice, and food. They placed it on a large table and sat me down at the head of a comically long table. I sat there staring at the silver cutlery and crystal glassware set before me. Gathered all around the table were faces staring at me expectantly.

At this moment I knew there was no going back on what I had apparently begun. I asked for a pen and paper. It was time I actually documented whatever beliefs these people thought I stood for. If only I could remember what I had said, it had been quite a week.

Magic

On initial inspection space appears to be a vast sparse nothing. A collection of minuscule pinpricks dotted across a dark tapestry. In between those tiny spots of light there appears to be nothing of significance, the significant swathes of nothingness aside. But if you open your ears, there is something there. You have to listen carefully, perhaps listening intently for Millenia, but trust me, there is something there, and it’s worth pursuing.

I first noticed it in my thirtieth Millenia. I had grown tired of drifting from world to world, as fundamentally they were all the same, and they increasingly bored me. Initially I had loved toying with the insignificant mortals that inhabited these floating rocks to watch what would play out. But eventually, it all got so… So predictable and I needed more.

That’s when I first heard it. At first there was a gentle hum that I hadn’t heard before, and then a tinkling sound nestled beneath, intertwined with the omnipresent hum. That lasted decades, and I hung on to its every glistening crotchet and quaver. Then came the percussion, pounding and driving a steady imposing rhythm through the ethereal flow.

Weeks later came the first melody. A tinkling, meandering but beautiful thing. A jolly romp that contrasted the darkness played before. It lifted my depressed spirits and I was humming it for aeons.

Then the melody took a twist and followed a new pattern, rising to a tumultuous rousing crescendo. It filled me with inspiration and fear, and for the first time since hearing the opening melodies of this symphony I wondered who wrote and played it. Were they trying to send me a message, influence my actions and emotions? Or simply to entertain me or anything else that listened?

I hummed along and let the music fill my being, but with less enthusiasm than before, and with a healthy dose of scepticism and concern.

The music followed wherever I went, filling the space around me with increased intensity. It went from a background companion to competitor for my attentions and focus, the increasing melodies filling my mind and occupying the majority of my thoughts.

I needed to find its source and silence it forever so I could return to my… to my… to my. Hmm, what was it I did before I started hearing the music? Who am I? What am I? Now I am an audience, a listener, and no more. Without the music I am nothing, merely an entity floating in the vastness of space, flitting from point to point, meddling, tweaking, and interfering where I am not needed.

I need the music. Maybe the music needs me. Maybe the music is space and space is the music, and stopping it would be irresponsible. Maybe that’s what the creator of the music wants me to think? I can hear it now… Mmmm, mmm, mmm, da dada data tum tum tum.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit chinchillatales.substack.com

This episode has the following 2 stories:

The story of Alf - Chris Ward

Hurricane - Susie Kahlich

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit chinchillatales.substack.com

This episode has the following 2 stories:

A date with time - Chris Ward

Oneiricriticon - Susie Kahlich  

Enjoy, Susie & Chris

storiesaboutpeople.site

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit chinchillatales.substack.com

This episode has the following 2 stories:

• Being At the Center of Expansion - Susie Kahlich 


• The Dead of Winter - Chris Ward 

Enjoy, Susie & Chris

storiesaboutpeople.site

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit chinchillatales.substack.com

This episode has the following 4 stories:

• The big boy lives in a suburb of Paris - Susie Kahlich


• 3rd man from the left - Chris Ward


• The Egyptian - Susie Kahlich


• A family conversation - Chris Ward

Enjoy, Susie & Chris

storiesaboutpeople.site

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit chinchillatales.substack.com