blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

In the eye of the beholder

mask-woman-wall_kellepics
kellepic via pixabay

 

I replayed that disastrous meeting in my head all the way home. Kim was perfectly made up, her lipstick red enough to command attention, but not so red that it was an outright invitation. When she started to explain the concept that we’d developed together, the shock of betrayal jolted through me.

I gaped, probably looking foolish, then clamped my mouth shut and fixed my gaze on the treacherous mouth taking credit for my idea. She was all surface gloss with a concealed weapon. No-one else saw through it. Continue reading “In the eye of the beholder”

blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

15.07

child holding toy car
venturaartist via pixabay

I don’t remember when I first saw him, although my life divides into before and after. It’s a simple fact that he wasn’t there, and then he was. I have a lot of time to think these days, so I might as well write those thoughts down. Maybe it will make sense one day, if not to me then someone else. Nobody believed me then, but it’s still true. I’m so very sorry.

He was around four years old, or so I thought. I found out later he was nearly five, about to go to school that September. I can see him now. He had a mop of curly brown hair, the kind that aunties would love to ruffle while exclaiming how big he’d grown. At first he smiled, showing little white teeth and a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. He always wore the same green jacket, jeans and black trainers, clutching something in his left hand. I never liked children really, I preferred dogs. Continue reading “15.07”

blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Chasing the horizon pt 2

part 2

oil paints_PublicDomainPictures
PublicDomainPictures via pixabay

part one here

“It is done.” The demon vanished, leaving a faint acrid smell of smoke and scorch marks on the ceiling.

Xander rubbed his eyes. Did that really happen? Maybe it was a dream. But the sandwich was gone. He made some toast, and wondered.

In the middle of the night he sat bolt upright. He knew what to paint. He ran downstairs, set up a new canvas, and set to work.

A few days later there was a knock at the door. Xander was loath to stop, he was on a roll, but the knocking continued. He snatched the door open.

“I’m working, Fabian,” he yelled and went back inside.

Fabian strolled in. “That’s good, because otherwise I’d have to ask for the advance back. My little gallery can’t afford – what’s that?”

Xander continued to paint. “Just something from my imagination.”

“It’s very striking. How long till it’s finished?”

“I don’t know, but longer if you don’t leave me alone.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll pop back next week.”

Continue reading “Chasing the horizon pt 2”

blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Chasing the horizon

part 1

oil paints_PublicDomainPictures
PublicDomainPictures via pixabay

 

Xander watched the bacon bits sizzling in the pan and sighed. He had to cut off the mouldy parts, since there was little else in the fridge. If he didn’t sell a painting soon, he’d be on the street. It had all been so different years ago, when he was the toast of the art world. He specialised in disturbing dreamscapes that recalled Dali but were even more fantastical. Monstrous creatures roamed his canvases, and critics loved his ‘glimpse into the eerie world of the grotesque’ as The Times put it.

Lately he sold hardly anything. The world had moved on, and it was harder to surprise the modern generation.

The ketchup bottle was almost empty too. He squeezed the last few drops onto stale bread. He spread it out in a pleasing pattern with his finger, thinking it looked like an ancient sign of some kind.

“Hmm, what was it he said on Demon Hunter? Something like congregandum eos coram me? Not that you can believe a TV programme.

He turned to get the bacon and almost screamed at the apparition in the corner.

“No, you’re not going mad, yes, I am real, yes, you did summon me. By accident, apparently.” The creature spoke with a weary inflection to its deep, rumbling voice. It folded its huge, leathery wings with a dry, crackling sound.

Continue reading “Chasing the horizon”