The writings of Hunter Coch

Short Stories

A Game

 

A dim light shines through,

Illuminating her curves

On burgundy sheets.

 

Nude upon the Egyptian cotton, her breasts exposed. The air moves gently across her nipples and along her dew dropped curves. She shivers at the sensation. She knows she’s watching.

 

Life, you twisted thing,

New adventures in the night,

Under watchful eyes.

 

She stands by the bed watching her nakedness in motion. Her hand move across the body’s contours, stopping at the mounds of flesh topped by light brown nipples, circling, playing with the silken skin, then moving down to the deep places where she blooms in damp delight.

 

On a bed she’s watched,

Woman looking on woman,

Game of desire.

 

She’s watching her perform. She stands, she quivers. Her eyes follow her hands. Her hands follow her eyes. The watcher is being watched and in time her hands move down to bring herself in tune with the laying beauty.

 

She stands by the bed,

Nude in the soft yellow light.

Above watchful eyes.

 

They gaze. They touch without touching. They love. They make love through thought and inaction. When their minds meet, a climax of infinite lust erupts into a fluidic waking dream. Infinite desire, infinite lust. Beautiful tension.

 

And then, with a kiss

Begins a bodies bonding.

And then, with a touch . . .

 

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Its Eyes Looked Beyond

Forest of twilight,

With trees thick, the path’s overgrown

To the hidden grove.

 

What light shines through the canopy leaves comes only in small rays that highlight the vibrant hues and make shine the tiny particles trapped within its beam. Small beasts scurry unseen in the dense foliage. Dead leaves crackle underfoot.

 

Vines crawl its stone face

Through lycan and moss of greens,

This ancient form stands.

 

The air is thick and heavy. Shadows move in unnatural ways and it feels like insects are following. The knowledge of time is gone. We walk the way disoriented, searching for the ancient rumor as the birds call from above.

 

The ancient idol

From beyond man’s memory

Waits for those who come.

 

What will we find? What lies at the end of our paths? What people would come to this hellish place to build in such a hostile environment? Do we seek a sacred grove of ancient wonders? What will we learn of this ancient people?

 

Into the distance,

It sees in shade and shadow,

It knows who’s coming.

 

The past is gone, the way is lost. We know neither direction nor distance. But we hear a call from afar, the distance song that sings to our dreams. We see a light in our mind’s eye. I fear, but we must move forward.

 

Light through broken leaves

Shines light on forgotten stone.

The way is open.

 

We stand up on a hilltop clear but for tall grass and a single stone idol, large and imposing. The sky is a light was fire; as the sun descends the stars flicker into existence. Filled with excitement, anticipation, and fear, he approached unwillingly.

 

Eyes of stone look deep,

From a time beyond knowledge

And civilized man.

 

My friends are gone. Hope is gone. We came in search of lost civilizations. We came to understand our own past. But this was not of human hands. I now know what lies within stone. I am gone.

 

Alone in the woods,

Stands an ancient stone idol,

Its eyes look beyond.

 


Short Story: Pecos Bill: The Birth (Part #1) . . . #WesternWednesday

Pecos Bill: The Birth
Part #1

The story begins at his birth, the last of nineteen. The trail was hard and the desert wanted its toll. Mother screamed and cursed at the birthing pains, but  let out a smile as father came into the light. Father sat and mother leaned against him. She cried with resolution as father sent us away.

Father was a pillar of hope and strength, though the only help he could offer was support and compassion and a guiding hand bringing the tequila to her lips.

“I’m ready”‘ she said, tear falling.

The knife was pulled from his belt and placed mothers sweaty hand. Another drink to calm the pain and harden the spirit . . .

A deep slice from left to right, giving light to the unborn, and from the wound came Bill, on his own, just a smiling and laughing as the happiest child could possibly be.

Never was such a child seen.

“You are born to do great things Bill”, mother said while bleeding from the heroic wound. She held him and simply looked. Love and adoration filled her eyes. Mother then died.

Bill, sat in the comfort of the dead mothers arms, chewing fathers Bowie knife; and father sat with death and new life both looking for support. He weeped for joy and sorrow looking at the desert dawn.