audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 22 – Ghost

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 20 – Tread

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

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 17 – Ornament

 

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

 

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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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 14 – Overgrown

daffodils_Pezibear
Pezibear via pixabay

listen:

She moved in on a grey, wet October day, carrying what she’d salvaged from the ruins of her life. Her tears were long dried but her heart wept blood tears unseen as she tried to make a new home. She gave up and settled for a place to lick her wounds in private.

She started cutting back the overgrown garden on a cold, clear December day. New Year’s Eve came and went; no kisses for her.

Instead she donned gloves and hacked away at brambles and nettles. With the right protection, she faced thorns and stings without fear. The compost pile grew. Her muscles strengthened. She transformed pain into something good, something that could feed new possibilities.

And one bright April day, once-hidden daffodils greeted the sun in the spaces she created, happy that their time to bloom had come again.


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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 12 – Dragon

dragon-fire_Josch13
Josch13 via pixabay

listen:

The small fishing village of Kasparenya was established generations before I was born. By my time it had grown fat and sprawling, rich in thieves and merchants alike. Like my mother and her mother before her, I led a quiet life in our cave house. The townspeople extracted easy gold from the generous hillsides while mocking our unfashionably modest lifestyle.

For years I lived alone, growing food and herbs by day and feeding my brain with Great Mother’s ancient books by night. Occasionally, people passing my field would taunt me.

“Why don’t you work in the city, earn some coin? Perhaps then you could dress less like an old crone and more like a decent woman.”
I wiped my brow. Digging was hot work on a summer day. “I must tend my garden, and I do not need more coins. Enough is better than riches.”
“Whatever you say, Cassie.” Sarah turned away, but not before tapping her forehead and giggling with her friends.

They always ignored my calls to beware of greed. Old books had nothing to teach the modern world and they stood in the way of progress. Why not have more, if there was more to be had?

Kasparenya’s gilded church spire was a fitting symbol of hard work and enterprise. It showed what a man could do if he worked hard and dug deep. It showed what to aim for when more was never enough.

We should learn from history. But how to learn when history is forgotten and those who remind us are mocked as wrong-headed fools?

News of the gilded spire travelled far and brought even more people to wonder and dream of riches, then buy shovels and buckets. Meanwhile I harvested and stored enough food for a season, oiled my tools, stockpiled candles, and waited.

And one day a shiver started in my bones that grew inexorably. I rolled the stone over the cave entrance and hid.

Above, though I could not see or hear, I knew it was happening just as the visions foretold.

The endless beat of huge, leathery wings.

The stench of sulphur as the ground trembled.

A shriek that split the air when the dragon, drawn by our golden beacon, discovered its plundered hoard.

Fiery vengeance raining down from the sky.

I rocked and chanted as mother and grandmother and all the mothers before had done in their cool, dark sanctuary.

Shackle your greed and curb your desire, lest all be consumed by brimstone and fire.

I tried to warn them.

(to be concluded in Inktober 13)


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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 11 – Snow

snowflake_Free-Photos
Free-Photos via pixabay.com

listen:

There are two kinds of people in this world. Some can’t wait to play in the snow, leaving their tracks all over it, building snowmen and making snow angels. The others prefer to watch from a safe distance, rejoicing in its pristine blankness. All is potential, before you make a mark.

Once upon a time, I watched tiny flakes drift from the sky with joy, maybe while sipping a hot chocolate. Sometimes I stood at the door and tried to catch a snowflake then watched it melt on my palm. Snow covers everything, makes it clean and pure.

These days I wrap up warm against the cold and stay indoors. At the first signs of spring I’ll head north again, seeking higher elevations and staying within the snow line. I can’t be here after the thawing snow uncovers all the bodies.

audio, blog, short story

Inktober 9 – Swing

woman holding brown and black baseball bat
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

They say schooldays are the best days of your life. I really hope they aren’t, because if you peak then, what do you have to look forward to? Real life isn’t like high school. Nobody cares that you were the team captain or homecoming queen.

All that stuff they fill your head with is next to useless. When did you last use calculus or algebra in real life? No, if I have kids I’ll make sure they learn practical skills. Oh and they’ll play sports of course, to foster a competitive spirit and the ability to keep swinging until the game is won.

I broke the record for home runs in my last baseball season. I kept the lucky bat I used, which actually is quite useful now. Turns out school was good for something after all. I take a loose, easy stance and hold the grip firmly but not too tight.

This intruder won’t know what hit him.


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audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

Inktober 8 – Frail

spartan_mohamed_hassan
Image by mohamed_hassan via pixabay

listen:

When they rounded up the young and strong they left us behind to rot, we who had only grey hair and slack bodies to offer. They had no idea who we were. That was their first mistake.

When you’ve been through the mill, walked through the fire, gone under three times and still refused to break, it changes a person. Struggle burns away all that is inessential and leaves only steel.

We appreciate life the most, standing here at its last season. We’ve fought, lost and won our battles, and we know love is the only prize worth the effort.

They think us unworthy of their consideration, too frail to resist, a waste of good bullets. That’s their second mistake.

Now as we gear up for the mother of all fights, we will show them what we are made of. We have everything to fight for and no mercy to spare, and love will guide us true.

They underestimate us. That’s their final mistake.

It will be their epitaph.


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