Category: short story

audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 26 – Dark

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Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash

He stood at the water’s edge poised between day and night, and pondered the meaning of his existence. He’d never been one to hesitate. He greeted everyone, young or old, with a quiet tap on the shoulder and let them gaze into his bottomless eyes. They always went with him. But the last one had made him pause.

When their eyes met, she pulled him into a world of laughter and pain, sunshine and storms. Quiet peace and gratitude radiated from her and bathed him in calm. Hers was a hard-won contentment, wrestled from the jaws of disappointment to be sheltered among tender moments. She had embraced life and followed her nature, never fighting her path.

She showed him how dark let her appreciate the light, how darkness could illuminate and refine, and how graceful endings crowned all that had gone before.

The sun slid from sight and Death took up his cloak and scythe once again. Understanding at last that his curse was also his gift, he moved on to his next encounter as stars revealed themselves in the indigo sky.

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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 25 – Tasty

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Illustration of a slice of cherry pie
Image by OpenClipart-Vectors via pixabay

There’s nothing like a home cooked pie, is there? It could be sweet or savoury; that’s not important. Glossy brown crust, fragrant steam, and delicious filling combine to create a flavour unlike any other.

You might try to recreate it in your own kitchen years later. But even though you follow the recipe to the letter, you’ll never get the balance of sweet memories and bitter regrets just right. Accept that and know that nonetheless, it’s still the taste of home.

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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 24 – Dizzy

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spiral_ArtZone
Image by ArtZone (edited) via pixabay 

He was a big man, my father, larger than life it seemed to me. He crawled into my blanket forts, built me a tree house and let me sleep in it, and always smiled at my silly jokes.

I think of him chasing me around the house, roaring like a bear or maybe a tiger. I’d scream in fake fear and run until he caught me. Then he’d throw me in the air and swing me around until I was dizzy, the world spinning past in a bright, breathless whirl of colours. I laughed until I could hardly breathe.

They were good days. But in the end nobody is larger than life.

I slide off the bar stool still wearing my black suit and my head spins. I can hardly breathe and I’m dizzy. But it’s not the same.

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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 22 – Ghost

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washington-dc_David Mark
Image by David Mark via pixabay

listen:

I walked down a street that seemed much bigger in my memory. Where were the dangers our mothers warned us about? It was a perfectly ordinary row of houses. Small front gardens were tucked behind hedges in every stage of growth from tight restriction to careless abandon.

I stopped outside the wildest hedge of all, overgrown and formless. Branches glossy with recent rain reached damp fingers towards me. A faint scent of unseen roses blew past. The pale green front door was peeling and the windows were blank. Still, your voice drifted down to me.

“You’re early!”

“You’re late.” I tapped my watch in mock anger but my lips betrayed me. “As usual.”

“Sorry, wait for me.” You flashed that unforgettably brilliant smile, and vanished.

Alone again, I turned my collar up against light but persistent drizzle. Suddenly colder, I wished past and present would unite into the future you promised before we slipped through each other’s fingers, and were lost.

Wait for me.

That’s what you always said. And I did.

I came back, but all I found were ghosts whispering in the wind.

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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 21 – Treasure

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rose-treasure chest_Pezibear
Image by Pezibear via pixabay

listen:

“Are we in the right place?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Am I getting close yet?”

“Go a little further north… and you’re nearly there.”

“How about…here?”

Her back arched. “Oh yes,” she sighed. “You found the spot.”

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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 20 – Tread

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hide_Sandra Karuna
Image by Sandra Karuna via pixabay

listen:

I can hear them downstairs, but I don’t think they’ll find me.

Daddy and me played hide and seek a lot. At first he would stamp on every stair so I could hear him coming, but later on he’d sneak so, so quietly. When I found this spot and stayed hidden for ages, he was very proud. He hugged me and gave me chocolate. He said I was his good boy, his clever boy.

So when he shouted Danny run and hide right now I did. My nose itches but I mustn’t sneeze or give myself away. It’s dark and too small in here but it’s not time to come out, not yet.

I can hear heavy boots on the stairs. My heart beats so, so fast. Tramp, tramp, tramp. Here they come. My eyes are wet. Please go away. I breathe fast, quiet as I can. Please, please.

Yes! The footsteps are leaving but now I can hear Max barking. He doesn’t like strangers. I’ll stay hidden until they’re gone.

Then the barking stops.

“Good boy, clever boy,” a man’s voice says. “Go find Danny.”

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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 19 – Sling

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island heart_Jonny Lindner
Image by Jonny Lindner via pixabay

Aimée hung her head and sighed. Where had it all gone wrong? She’d tried to be a cosmopolitan woman, and when that didn’t work she took refuge in sex on the beach next to a blue lagoon. That was possibly unwise and in any case ultimately unfulfilling. Manhattan was hardly any better.

Damn all men, and damn one man in particular with his easy smile and warm, gentle hands. She couldn’t forget and she refused to cry.

Though a couple of painkillers helped a little, there was one more thing she could try that might cradle her broken body and ease her suffering. She raised a shaky hand.

“Bartender!” Aimée spoke slowly, carefully. “One Singapore Sling, please.”

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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 18 – Misfit

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cocktails_bridgesward
Image by bridgesward via pixabay

listen:

Lovely afternoon, perfect for a garden party don’t you think?

 She nods and smiles, sips her Pimm’s. Strawberry and orange slices are fine, but cucumber doesn’t belong in a cocktail.

Jeremy made partner and our eldest goes up to Oxford this year. Time flies, doesn’t it?

 She wears a new summer dress of fluttering silk with wedge heels. Stilettos and lawns don’t mix, and she won’t make that mistake again. Everything is going well. She talks, smiles, laughs when appropriate, passing among well groomed and apparently happy people.

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Her smile is a rictus grin, concealing scars left by her climb from the grim pits of hell to the favoured, sunny uplands of success. No pain, no gain so they say, but you must hide your wounds under layered politeness so no-one knows.

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 A headache forms, throbbing at her temples. They might be in the same place now, but they’re not the same. All these years she thought this was the pinnacle but now, up close and personal, she’s not sure she can fake it any more.

It’s cold at the top and the air is too thin. Her breathing is rapid, shallow.

And she hates Pimm’s.

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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 17 – Ornament

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girl-figurine_Sofie Zborilova
Image by Sofie Zborilova via pixabay

listen:

I worked my way through each room, bagging things for the trash or for donation. Who knew how much stuff one person could accumulate? Well I did, even then. When I finally escaped that overstuffed space I could finally breathe. My own taste is pretty minimalist. No surprise there.

Now I find myself staring at shelves filled with china ornaments. I always hated those winsome shepherd girls and grinning sailor boys. Mum made me clean them weekly with a feather duster under her eagle-eyed supervision. She said they were Royal Doulton, collector’s items. A collection is pretty meaningless without the one who pulled it together, but maybe she left me something valuable after all.

I check the mark on the base of the nearest one. The words ‘Made in China’ leap out at me. Did she trick me, or did she fool herself? What was it all for?

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry as the figurine slips from my shaky hand and shatters on the floor. The rest make the most satisfying sounds when I hurl them at the wall.

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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 16 – Wild

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boy-attic-blue_Myriam Zilles
Image by Myriam Zilles via pixabay

listen:

I suppose you’d call me soft-hearted. I can’t bear to see any creature suffer. Though I normally keep pretty much to myself, preferring to observe from a distance, something about this one called out to me. He was wary of me at first, and cried but that was to be expected. Distress makes anyone skittish, so I held him tighter to make him feel more secure.

He looked like a Matthew, so that’s what I called him.

I had to quiet him down. It was for his own good and people were staring, judging me. The nice checkout girl understood why I had to rush through buying his things, but once I got him home he was even worse. He kicked and screamed like a wild thing. Those were the difficult days but I knew it would be worth persevering, for both of us.

I’m pleased to say he settled into his new home after a while. Now he sits where I put him and stares at the wall. I’m not sure of his actual birthday, so we’ll celebrate the anniversary of the day he came home with me.

He’s such an obedient, quiet little boy. She didn’t deserve him, but I’m going to give him everything a mother should.

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