blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, short story

The Last Piece – pt 2

rainbow landscape edit
k_r_craft (edited) via pixabay

part one here

“Bedtime stories are the best kind. Some of them are even true. What would you say if I told you that my life is a kind of story, a search for something most do not believe in and have never seen?”

I sat up. “I would say, tell me more.”

“I found the end of the rainbow.” He glanced at me and went on.

“It happened many years ago. I was a poor farmer’s son then. I thought I saw it touch down in the next field, brilliant and about a yard wide. I dropped my tools and ran, but to my horror there was another man running for the same thing. He was weighed down by saddlebags, but he got there first.’ Gavin’s tale had my complete attention and I nodded at him, fascinated.

“Oh. And what happened next?”

“I was prepared to fight him for the gold, but to my surprise he dumped the saddlebags as soon as he reached the rainbow. Gold spilled all over the grass. I thought he was crazy, and I ran faster than I ever had in my life. As I drew closer, I saw his hair turn white. He aged in front of me, becoming bent and wrinkled, but he continued to smile. The yellow band of the rainbow widened and grew bright like sunlight, and he stepped into it and vanished.

Continue reading “The Last Piece – pt 2”

Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

Skin

woman-red-paint_splitshire
SplitShire via pixabay

Skin, warm and smooth.

Tiny hairs clothe the inside of your arm, pale and velvet soft. Purple veins sit under the surface, tracing jagged patterns wrapped around your fingers. My fingertips brush yours. Trail fingers upwards to the soft curve of your shoulder, brush my lips against your collarbone and follow it, swooping down, up. Your throat pulses against my mouth as goosebumps stand to attention, your hair a waving cornfield. You tremble and I inhale softness, musk and vanilla, peach fuzz. When you speak, I do not hear. I absorb your words, transmuted in vibration. I feel sound, rest my ear against your heart to understand life, strength, constancy. I am drowning, cocooned by memory, caught by anticipation, hypnotised, ensnared by the possibility of you.

Skin, taut and strong.

Long glossy hairs clothe the hills and valleys of muscles restrained and defined. Soft, corded veins contain the heat of blood and life. Your flesh retreats beneath my hand, then rises up to meet me, first shy, then bold. I map these contours of a strange and well remembered land. Your breath holds steady; mine catches in my throat. On a journey of discovery, I travel these many roads, to find and lose myself. I search this country of you, in the light and dark, on the wide plains and ridged fields, for the particular place that smells like home.


This piece is one of three poems and two short stories that I contributed to the anthology While glancing out of a window, now available on Amazon UK.