audio, blog, creative writing, Pat Aitcheson writes

Forever summer

a short story

deckchairs_Stevebidmead
Stevebidmead via pixabay

Listen to this story:

 

(A video uploaded to YouTube shows a woman, her face in shadow, speaking directly to camera. A soundtrack of wave sounds accompanies her words.)

Curfew has been in effect for some time. We didn’t think it could happen here and many people openly flouted the rules. Until James Beck vanished and never came back. He was the first. We were all more careful after that.

The news is always cheerful, telling us things are getting better and our leaders are making great progress with diplomatic approaches. Just carry on with your lives. Be sure to be indoors by ten o’clock. Everything will be just fine.

The dream came occasionally at first. I thought I was just pining for old times, wind in my hair, sand in my shoes, melting ice-cream licked from my fingers. Nostalgia for a rose tinted past in a grey present and uncertain future. It was always summer, warm but not too hot, the sea rippling deep blue under azure sky. There were no clouds.

Upbeat news fills monotonous days, yet my night world sparkles with sunbeams on gentle waves and the drowsy heat of midday. They tell us not to worry. We don’t worry; we lie alone in bed staring at the dark and hope it hides the monsters.

I must go down to the sea again. My sister used to recite that poem over and over until the words lost all meaning. It comes back to me now, the soundtrack for my wide-eyed nights and my eventual dreams of summer. They are long in coming, but now they come most nights.

I asked Daniel to come with me, but he said he was too busy and anyway, we’d risk being out after curfew. It’s just one time, I said. I won’t ask you to go again. He said he’d think about it.

Once I upload this message, I’m going back to the beach. I know what I will find.

The sky will be a hard, pitiless blue. The sea will darken, and pause for a moment before a brilliant flash. And the sky will flower with a thousand suns, and the last cloud will rise.

If anything remains of us, know that some remembered summer.

(Film ends)

blog, creative writing, Pat Aitcheson writes

Gone

a science fiction story

rusting cars_forest
Metallic structures found by Bard Loren on Earth

 

Captain’s note: 147.29.1

These entries were made by Bard Loren, and discovered after her disappearance. In addition to the journal, she uploaded over 15 dozettabytes of data, which will greatly offset her tragic loss on this unsuccessful mission. This is her legacy. May she walk with two shadows.

 

Journal entry: 147.15.1

This is a place more wondrous than I ever thought to see with my own eyes. Everywhere is green.

Bright colours flash and call above me, I think they are called ‘birds’. All around are things I cannot name. But I must try to name them, for that is why I was chosen. I am the foremost Bard of Novaterra, and I swear on the twin suns this is no idle boast. I store the images in my digicodex for later analysis back on board. All those nights in the archives, imprinting lost languages and reading the history of the Founders have come to this.

I have my epicsongs composed and ready, to share with the good people here. This is the greatest honour, to see our origin planet, and save any who wish to leave it.

I confess I hardly recognised this place from the files. The Founders recorded how their home stagnated, torn apart by war that followed desperation when the skies turned grey, the waters rose and land became scarce. That is why they turned to space. We have made the journey of these few light years much quicker than they.

But I did not say it was easy. It is cold in the space between stars, and no place for humankind. We were relieved when the planetary beacon guided us safely to the docking station. Although it was entirely unmanned, this did not surprise us. It is hardly necessary to waste human toil on such a routine task.

I must rest. Solar days are shorter here, and there is only 0.2095 oxygen in the air. No doubt a good 18 hours of true sleep will help wash away the lingering effects of hypersleep.

Journal entry: 147.15.2

This place is magical. Despite the warnings of the cyberdoc, I removed my helmet today. The air is quite breathable although I am gasping and sweating as I press on through green vegetation, towards the last recorded location of a sizeable humankind settlement. I am both excited and apprehensive. Will they understand me, and I them? Do they have their own, ancient culture to share with me? Will they understand the concept of a Bard?

I carry our history, our thoughts and ideas coded in organic memory storage. Perhaps they do not have the necessary interface and holo-display, but we carry these on the ship. The rest of the crew have stayed on board, broadcasting on all frequencies, but I wanted to experience this world first hand. Darkness caught me unawares and I had to return to the ship. More tomorrow.

Journal entry: 147.15.3

I asked the cyberdoc to enhance my performance, and grudgingly it performed a small gene splice. Now my oxycytes are more suited to the stronger, bluer sunlight here. Sol is much closer to Earth than our twins Novasol 1+2, and we have adapted over the generations. Oxygen is abundant at 0.2547 on Novaterra, and I really feel the difference. It was predicted of course, but to actually feel it- that is another thing altogether.

Captain Marish does not like my wandering. She only tolerates it because I am a Bard, and therefore expendable. But I am bringing back valuable data, and I upload my digicodex each night before sleep.

Journal entry: 147.15.9

I discovered today that my blood is dark red now. Maybe this is unwise, but I have discarded my Exosuit. I found liquid water running on the surface! This I know is a key characteristic of Earth, but to see it, feel it, taste it. I walked into the water to understand it better, but slipped and fell. I cut my hand on a mineral formation beside the water, and watched in wonder as dark drops welled from the cut and dispersed into the liquid water. I keep saying this, but you have to see it to believe it. No mining, people can actually live on the surface here! Amazing.

Journal entry: 147.16.3

I have not encountered any humans, but have recorded many types of lower animals. Marish tells me that all is in the archives, but what does she know? The Academy does not encourage questioning, and after all I am the one who has spent more than fifteen twin-sols studying Earth.

I find myself out of step with the crew. They refuse to come out of the ship, and my sleep cycle seems to be related to Sol’s movements.

But the things that are not in the archives are marvellous. Where the trees thin out, Sol’s yellow rays are warm on my skin. My breathing is easier now, and I carry skinbond for minor injuries. At night, I see unfamiliar stars that do not appear on my maps, and there is a single moon.

How could the Founders have considered this place so terrible that they journeyed across the stars to find Novaterra? It seems utterly beautiful to me. Oh, the epicsongs I will compose when I return! They will be the stuff of legend.

Journal entry: Sol 16

I have decided to use solar dates from now on. It makes more sense, and when I stay out overnight in a pod I get a little disoriented keeping to Standard Time. I came across the strangest thing today. (Image attached). I will research these metallic structures in the database.

Journal entry: Sol 21

There has been no response to broadcast and the Captain wants to move on. The metallic structures are manmade, and they were some kind of primitive transportation. They all point away from the settlement co-ordinates in a long, unbroken procession. There are no humans, anywhere. Are they hiding? Did they flee, and if so from what?

Journal entry: Sol 35

I have uploaded all my data. I cannot find the settlement; it is as though the earth has swallowed it in green. But I have Sol warm on my skin, rich scents as yet unnamed and the taste of liquid water on my lips. My skin grows pinker each day, and the only grey is beneath my unisuit. I feel strong and I am happy. I cannot convey to you the joy I feel when I hear the birds sing, and I leave that to another, better Bard than I.

Meantime, I have taken the interface and holodisplay, and some supplies. When I succeed I will activate my beacon. I am sure that no one would willingly leave a place like this, that the Founders would surely have called “Eden”. My search for humans goes on, for I must find them.

~journal ends~

blog, creative writing, Pat Aitcheson writes

The Blue Box

a ten minute tale*

blue box ribbon_Schwarzenarzisse
Schwarzenarzisse via pixabay

 

She tried to forget about the box. Really she kept herself so very busy, that she almost truly forgot about it. But it was always there, catching her step when she walked past, whispering into her ears when she wasn’t listening.

A box could contain everything and nothing. But she didn’t look because she didn’t care to find out.

She found it one warm summer afternoon, long after the funeral. She had been stiff and dignified, accepting the mourners’ murmured words of condolence. But she felt nothing. Those words rang hollow after all the sniping and criticism. Her mother had ground her down for years until there was nothing left. Or so she thought.

It was so unfair that there was nobody else to help. Her beloved father had gone years before. She imagined him apologising to the paramedic.

“Sorry to cause all this fuss,” he would have said as they bundled him off to the hospital. There, he had held her hand as she wept real tears.

“Really, Theresa, you’re making an exhibition of yourself.” Her mother’s scold bit deep.

She tried not to cry at his funeral. At her mother’s funeral, she didn’t. They all said how well she was doing.

Clearing out the house alone, she found the little dusty blue box, tied with navy ribbon. Eventually she gave in. It rattled.

Inside it she found the baby shoe she had once worn. Finally she cried, that her mother had remembered a softer, better time.


*written longhand in ten minutes, from a random word prompt: box

blog, creative writing, Pat Aitcheson writes

Whispers

vortex_photovision
photovision via pixabay

 

I thought I was over you. It’s been a while now, and they say time heals.

They don’t say how much time.

I got a new phone. It was a good opportunity for a clear out, you know, out with the old, all that. Anyway. I should just have hit delete all, but I’m always careful, don’t want to discard something important. So I listened to all the messages, clicking through, delete delete.

Your voice caught me by surprise. Your tone was sad, asking me to call back. I didn’t remember ever getting the message. Listening again, it sounded like you really needed to speak to me. Whatever you had wanted, obviously it could never happen. I’d sat in the front pew, blinded by tears. Grief swallowed my voice and I couldn’t sing for you one last time. That broke me even more.

I deleted that message.

Then the messages started, from an unknown number. They were crackly and unclear, but your voice was always there.

I deleted them all. They kept coming, though I changed my phone again. One day I heard you on the landline answerphone, and my heart stopped, for a panicked moment. I threw out the answerphone.

It felt like going mad.

After a while, I started to wonder. Were you really trying to contact me? Nobody has ever proved communication from the dead, and I certainly didn’t believe in any mumbo-jumbo. But. What if it was you, trying to pierce the veil from the other side?

The idea took root in my mind, and I stopped deleting the messages that popped up on my voicemail. I listened to them over and over, your almost-words teasing me.

I ran them through voice analysis software, trying to make out your words. Sometimes I thought it was just you breathing, but with distant singing and static. Waiting for me to reply.

I have so many things to say to you.

I have a brilliant idea about the source so I bought a ham radio and I’m combing the frequencies. I’m certain that if I tune in right, we can talk again. There’s a lot of wavebands to cover, but nothing is more important than this.

I will devote all the time we didn’t have to finding you. No matter how long it takes. I already know what song I will sing.

Can you hear me?

 

blog, creative writing, Pat Aitcheson writes

All the sands that touch the sea

beach_publicdomainpictures
PublicDomainPictures via pixabay

WINNER OF THE HE BATES SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2016

 

Sean wiggled his toes and felt tiny grains of sand slip between, insinuating themselves under his nails and scouring his skin clean. The familiar sensation calmed his jittery nerves, and he decided to sit and wait. The boat was nowhere in sight yet, but it would soon come. No sense in stressing over it, and who could be stressed under this warm sun, with the sea stretching away to the edge of the sky? Sean placed the heavy rucksack carefully on the sand and sat next to it, creaking a little. He burrowed his feet into pale sand, adjusted his wide brimmed hat and watched waves come and go.

The first day he saw Valerie, she joined his lunch table. She sat opposite and of course didn’t speak to him, chatting to her friends instead. He joined in the conversation but she paid him no mind. No matter, he thought, there will be another day.
Over the course of many lunchtimes, groups of colleagues gradually bonded as their Venn diagrams first overlapped and then coalesced. The bright sun of her smile lit up dark eyes and skin and drew him in, inexorable as gravity. When eventually he asked her out, he held his breath awaiting her answer. Her words sparked a flame in his heart, and her smile was the only thing he saw.

He brought her to the strand where he had grown up, playing fetch with a series of childhood dogs long gone. “I’m going into the water,” he said, stripping as he spoke. Valerie looked doubtfully at the churning blue grey waves, far away over pale sands. “You’re crazy. You’ll die out there, or get exposure or something.” She zipped her jacket right up under her chin. “Don’t think I’m coming with you. I only do warm tropical waters.”
“Oh, I know that. Wish me luck.”

He smiled and kissed her, taking a little sunny warmth with him, and ran headlong into the cold sea. She waved and watched him swim for a few minutes. When he emerged, shrunken and tinged blue, she pulled the blanket from the beach bag and waited.
“You’re an idiot.” She wrapped him up and rubbed his back while his teeth chattered. “Maybe, but I’m your idiot.” He pressed his cold lips to hers, and when he pulled back she watched his face crease in a smile.
“The sea is in your eyes,” she said, but in answer he shook his head.
“No, don’t be silly.” Sean pulled on his shirt and she handed over his sweater. “Tell you what, I need to put some coffee in my stomach. Warm me up a bit.”

They held hands walking back to the car, then found a café on Wexford Main Street where they sat a while over steaming mugs, letting the colour return to Sean’s pale cheeks. Valerie dragged him into the jewellers’ shop after that, where she picked out silver earrings set with deep blue lapis lazuli. She liked to have a souvenir from the places she visited. He stood by, in the shop he had never really noticed on a too familiar street.

Back in the English city where they lived, far from the water, Valerie wore the earrings sometimes and Sean remembered the strand. He had escaped its narrow reach, but now and again he took her back to the cottage where he grew up. His mother cleared the spare bedroom for Valerie, and fed them potatoes, cabbage and corned beef.

On their way back from the pub one night Valerie stopped in the middle of the lane. She squeezed Sean’s hand and looked in amazement at the deep blue sky sprinkled with stars. “Wow. This is too fabulous. No light pollution, and look! You can see the Milky Way here. I love the stars so much.” She gazed into the sky, transfixed, and he saw the wonder of the heavens in her eyes.
He knew, then.

In Tenerife, Valerie and Sean sat on fine sand, the sun warm on their skin. The travel agent had warned them that the beaches were black, but they didn’t care as long as it was hot. “Anyway,” she pointed out, “the sand may be dark but it still sparkles when the sun catches it. You just have to look closely.” She let a handful slip through her fingers and scatter on the wind, and he had to agree. It was easier to spot pale seashells where they nestled among dusky, glittering grains.

She bought silver earrings shaped like crescent moons in a little shop behind the main street. He held her hand tight and gathered her up into a warm embrace that smelled of her rose perfume, of safety and love.

The boat approached, and Sean picked up his rucksack and sandals and waded out to meet it. The boatman chatted about weather over the sound of the engine, and the hurricane that had devastated the neighbouring island the year before. Sean relaxed as they talked about anything and nothing important, and the boat slipped out of the bay.

The sea here was turquoise and blue, and he could see clear to the bottom. It was nothing like the angry, snot green sea that had lashed the strand the day Sean asked Valerie to marry him. The storm came in fast and brooding grey clouds touched the sea. Rain soaked his bare head but he felt only anxious excitement. Down on one knee, yes, all that, the ring in a blue velvet box and their black Labrador frolicking around them.

He was back in Wexford, but he was not yet home. She was what he sought, and his heart swelled again when she rushed into his arms and kissed him over and over. Between each kiss, the word yes.

Later, Valerie sat under a huge umbrella while he went down to the water’s edge. She was careful to keep their daughter in the shade, and the toddler clapped her hands in delight when her Daddy returned. In his hands he bore the seaside in miniature, and he sat Anya down with the bucket. She fished around in the bottom and drew out sand, and a shell. But the shell held a surprise, and she dropped it in shock when a hermit crab popped out. Sean picked it out again and showed her, and Anya forgot her tears in her fascination with its tiny waving claws.

The pale sand of Puerto Pollensa Playa was quite the equal of more exotic beaches, with sun sparkling on the blue sea of the bay. They would return many times, until the children were old enough to let Valerie wander the shore gathering shells, just as she had on a Caribbean beach long before. The children squealed around her as shells grew legs and scampered back to the sea.
Sean watched her emerge from the shallows, his dark Venus, a child on each hip and still, that smile he knew so well. They were both transplanted, yet no place seemed foreign as long as they had each other.

Much later again, Sean and Valerie walked a Norfolk beach in wellies. They buttoned their coats against a cool wind, accompanied by another black dog running in and out of the water and three reluctant children, dragged from their phones and consoles to the outside. Valerie strode ahead, as if wanting to be alone. There were no shells, but in any case he saw her head was up. She was not looking for them. Sean brought up the rear, and the distance stretched between them, filled with children and work and accumulated grievances.

They had their house, far from the sea, with her beachcombing finds lined up dusty on a shelf. They had their family, their dog, their shared life. They had all the beaches they had seen together, but Sean felt oddly misplaced again, as though he were once more the immigrant in search of something he could not find at home. Home was slipping away, fading and less substantial the more he tried to grasp it. The sun was permanently obscured by clouds, and a chill fell over them.

One by one, the children left to pursue their own half-seen dreams. The dog and the house grew quieter, and in that space he sought her again. Sean and Valerie went back to Norfolk, and walked side by side this time, talking. He took her to brochure worthy beaches all over the world. On Whitehaven beach she laughed when she heard the brilliant quartz sand actually squeak underfoot. In the Australian desert she gazed with delight at Jupiter’s rings, seen through a telescope. In Mauritius he presented her with the most perfect conch shell he could find, pressing it into her hands and closing her fingers around it with a kiss.

In their white linen bed she sighed when he held her close. Once more she said, “You really do have the sea in your eyes. It’s not a tropical sea, but still lovely to me.”
He did not disagree this time. Instead he smiled and kissed her again, soft and sincere. They crept back towards each other cautiously, remembering all the seas and beaches and storms they had shared, and he was safe again.

Sean asked the boatman to stop his little craft some way from the shore. The  boat bobbed on the surface, and despite his hat Sean felt sweat bead on his forehead. He took off his sunglasses and rubbed one hand down his face. It was so peaceful, he could almost believe he was alone. He missed the sound of waves on the shore, but this was the time and place.

Sean pulled the jar from his rucksack, and then felt around for the blue velvet pouch. He took them out in turn; the lapis earrings, the crescent earrings, the shells and smooth worn pebbles she had picked up, the pretty pieces of broken coral he had gathered for her when snorkelling. Without her, they were random objects, and he cast them into the warm sea in tribute and watched them sink out of sight. Their fate was no longer his to decide.

When he leaned over, her wedding ring swung on a gold chain round his neck. He tucked it back inside his shirt, reassured by its warm weight against his skin. Under the impassive gaze of the boatman, Sean uncapped the jar. He swallowed hard.
“I brought you back to tropical waters, just like I promised.” He turned the jar over and spilt the contents. The ashes drifted away on a warm breeze, and melted into the blue green sea.

He fought the lump that came to his throat, but nothing could hold back the sea of tears that blinded him. The boatman thrust a tissue into Sean’s hand, and he wiped his eyes. He stared out at the sparkling horizon and its promise of adventure in distant lands until his vision cleared, and his heart stopped trying to follow her.
“Take me back,” he said, his tongue thick and dry. “And thank you.” Sean replaced his sunglasses and sat down, clutching the empty jar to his chest.
“No problem, man, no problem at all. We go home now.”

Back in England, Sean sold the big house and named a star for her. Though Valerie would not see it, he knew she would have loved it. She had always said that rituals are for the living, not the dead, and he was both amazed and comforted to find himself smiling at the thought. He had left home, and found a home, and he did not think any beach would feel like home again. But she was in the stars and the oceans, and one day her treasures would wash ashore cleaned and tumbled, waiting to be found.

creative writing, from elsewhere

Long story short

I found this wonderful piece by Jake Lira on Medium. Enjoy.

 

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Life isn’t a fairy tale. Hell it’s not even a book. If it were, the cover would be bent and sentences would run right off the page. Most chapters would wander and fail to pick up where the last left off. The plot? Heartbreakingly thin more often than not. No, life isn’t a book. Much more a collection of short stories fervently scribbled on whatever happens to be on hand. Sometimes a bar room napkin or a stolen post it. Perhaps penciled in a calendar or permanently penned on a bicep. And if we are lucky, from time to time end up etched in kindred spirits.

– Jake Lira

creative writing, Pat Aitcheson writes

The Novice’s Tale

(Prompted by a request for a story about Druids in the time of King Arthur)

oak-tree-winter_bachy
image: Bachy via pixabay

 

It is so very cold these nights, and I wonder whether it will snow. Snow is the last thing I want, when we have so much to do and a journey ahead of us. Last winter there was much snow, and some people lost toes to frostbite. My old shoes will barely last another season, and I don’t know how I will get more. Perhaps my teacher will help me. He seems kind at heart, though he punishes me harshly if I have not learned my lessons well enough. Still my shoes, however tattered, are the least of my worries.

We have been making preparations for weeks, as well as attending lessons and we are all tired. My teacher grows short-tempered and shouts, but I bear it. This is all I have ever wanted. At first I wondered whether to become a Bard, keeping history alive with poetry and song. In the end I decided that the blue robe was not to be mine. I have always enjoyed the natural world around me, and it was but a short step to the role of Ovate.

I will serve as natural philosopher and perhaps as a healer. My teacher tells me I have an affinity with the life force. When life is out of balance I will be able to show the way back to wholeness, which is at the heart of everything. When I have much more learning that is, for many years of diligent study await me.

My teacher wears the white robe of the Druid. Sometimes, he leaves me while he consults with noblemen. He has been known to prevent battles by walking between the warring sides and persuading them to find a peaceful solution. I can’t imagine being so brave, but then he is old and wise. When I left my mother to come and study with him she wept, but she took great comfort from his words, that I would one day serve the world of men with my sacred knowledge.

The wagons are loaded and we start the journey in darkness. After a while the sun rises in a clear sky. I draw my travelling cloak tight, my breath clouding the still air before me. But there is a sense of building excitement as we make our way over ground frosted hard, and the wagon wheels turn easily. Last year it snowed and the journey was drawn out misery. We put our shoulders to bogged down wheels over and over, wet snow freezing inside our clothes.

Today I barely feel the cold as I walk alongside the wagon, my hands warmly wrapped in mittens. The two white bulls are at the back, led by young novices in brown robes. They have only a small cloak each, and I feel sorry for them. But I also know that next year they will have moved on, and a new novice will shiver with the rope held in his freezing hand.

The days have shortened and now the sun pauses in its travels across the sky. This much at least I have learned about the heavenly bodies, and how they define our calendar, and I am proud to have been chosen to assist the elder Druids as they perform the rites. Of course, I soon make out the oak in the distance, standing alone and silhouetted by the morning light. The horizon is dressed in gentle stripes of pink and yellow and orange. I love sunrise, that quiet time with the promise of a new day, but now there is work to be done.

We novices unload the wagons, being careful not to damage anything. We have food for the feasting later; vegetables for broth, fruits that will taste so much sweeter after the recent frosts, bread and milk. We have nuts and berries gathered from the hedgerows. Finally there is the mead, both to assist in visions and to loosen the spirit once the work is over. Someone makes a fire, but I have other things to attend. I take the carved oak box that holds the golden sickle. I dare not look inside. I also take the folded white linen cloth and place them both near to the white robed senior Druids, already standing in a circle and praying.

I go to the sacred oak and touch its massive trunk. I know that oak trees give a hard wood, one of the finest for building, but this tree is one of only a dozen in the whole of England. Each of them is venerated above all, as the place where we make our holiest of rites, that of oak and mistletoe. The ball of green looks out of place, hanging amongst brown branches yet bursting with life and the precious white berries.

mistletoe-in-tree_tintenfieber
image: tintenfieber via pixabay

The gold glitters in the sun as the Chief Druid climbs the oak and we chant the Awen. Then, the flint blade flashes and branches of mistletoe are caught in the linen cloth. The Bards lead the singing while the bulls are sacrificed. Their blood flows away to the earth and we pray she hears our prayers at the solstice, for the gift of the one spirit to flow through us, uniting the three orders in one knowledge, one earth, and one life from each body to the next.

My heart slows and I feel the earth’s pulse, deeper and older than any of us. My skin thins, and it seems that all creation touches me. For a moment I am lost in time. Then someone calls my name, and I return to myself. It is time for the feasting.

After the feast is over, some withdraw to honour the joy of creation. I am not sure what that means. Maybe I’ll learn later in my studies. I steal away in the dark and sit on a fallen bough, wrapping my cloak around me. Broth warms my stomach and the stars wheel above. I am content.