audio, blog, creative writing, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 3 – Bait

ancient antique armor armour
Photo by Maria Pop on Pexels.com

listen:

The knight braved many tests and hardships to claim his prize. He vanquished the many-headed giant lizard of Hothe, played dice with Death and won, and escaped the siren singers of Warne. Every night he opened the locket he wore close to his heart and sighed again at the portrait of a raven-haired beauty with lips of pink like the dawn sky.

One last climb, and he stood at last at the top of the highest tower in all the nine kingdoms. He knocked on the balcony window.

“Arla, light of my life, loveliest of all, I have proved myself worthy,” he declared. “Let me in, I beg you.”

She opened the window. “Yes, you are indeed worthy. But soon you will be begging me to let you go.”

The knight jumped inside and shook his head. “Never, for I have travelled far to…”

He trailed off, watching Arla’s smile stretch until it split her face, revealing curved yellow fangs stained with red. Smoke curled from her nostrils and she laughed, her voice turned deep and wrong.

“They all do.”


Tell me what you think!

blog, creative writing, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 2 – Mindless

a black notice board with the words ‘insert something clever’ and a pair of black glasses and a plant
Photo by Olivia Bauso on Unsplash

listen:

Professor Martin might be one of the cleverest people who ever lived, but even he didn’t know for certain how the process would work. And I guess he expected his body would die. I barely managed to get out and lock the lab door before he attacked me. Well, it’s not really him, I remind myself. The frothing, feral creature rampaging through the lab and wrecking the equipment is what was left after he uploaded his mind to the cloud drive. I can hear screaming, but it’s not that animal. It only grunts.

It’s coming from the computer speakers.


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audio, blog, creative writing, Pat Aitcheson writes

Inktober 1. Ring

affection close up elegant flower
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

listen:

She was a beautiful bride.

When she promised to love him until death do us part, she meant it.

When he slipped the ring on her finger, his gaze never leaving hers, she thought he was so romantic.

When she felt the gold band warm on her skin, she thought he’d been carrying it close to his heart.

When a hundred tiny teeth sank deep into her flesh, she looked up into unblinking eyes that reflected her gasp of pain.

“Mine,” he whispered.

And when she cried, everyone thought they were tears of joy.

blog, creative writing, creativity, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober Challenge 2019

 

Inktober prompts 2019
Inktober 2019 prompts from @Inktober 

Inktober is an annual art challenge in which artists make a drawing in response to a daily prompt.

Use prompts when you want to create something but you’re short on ideas. They’re a good way to overcome writer’s block. Once you get started, you’re far more likely to keep going rather than stare at an empty page.

Prompts ignite your creativity by taking the decision of what to write about out of your hands. All you have to do is respond.

I’ve been on a semi-hiatus and this seems like a good way to get back into writing. So I’m going to do this for flash fiction rather than pictures, up to 250 words. I’ll also add audio if possible.

Why don’t you join in for any or all of the prompts? Let’s go!

 

creative writing, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

With A Kiss

a very short story

Photo by Rémi Walle on Unsplash

listen to this story here: 

People watching kept me entertained while I sipped fragrant apple and elderflower tea. I always preferred observing real life to endless scrolling or playing pointless games on my phone. Most likely I’d finish before Karen turned up and bought me something sweet to make up for her perennial lateness. Carrot cake would make a delicious apology.

The loud slam of a car door startled me as the coffee shop doors opened wide. Outside a dark haired woman strode along the footpath, her frown obvious as she approached the window where I sat.

Her companion caught up in a few long strides and grabbed her wrist. She spun around and shook her hand free. She waved her hands, stabbed a finger at his chest in accusation. He shook his head, fists clenched at his sides. One or two passers-by glanced at them but they paid no attention, fully absorbed in their moment of crisis.

He opened his palms in a placatory gesture while she slumped, eyes downcast. I took another sip of tea. Only a pane of glass separated me from the drama unfolding almost within touching distance. In movies, that would be the pivotal moment. He’d beg forgiveness, she’d realise what she was losing, and they would fall into each other’s arms.

She walked away. But when he called out, she hesitated and stopped. This was it; I held my breath, ready to cheer for the triumph of love and a happy ending.

She turned around and went back to him. The wind tugged at his hair as she cupped his face between her hands. He relaxed into her kiss and reached for her at the exact moment she let go. She gave him a small, sad smile before walking away, out of sight.

The man stood rooted to the spot, touching his lips as if to hold on to her final message. He returned to his car and sat for a while before driving away.

I wondered about them even after Karen rushed in, describing her own little drama of lost keys and a broken heel that could easily be repaired. My carrot cake was too sweet, a consolation prize that left a bitter aftertaste.

Love is no fairytale. Sometimes it ends with a kiss.


first published 13.4.19 by PS I Love You on Medium

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