Fred Aiken Writing

Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort found himself ensnared in the labyrinthine clutches of the city’s morning traffic. The clatter of honking horns and the ceaseless hum of engines surrounded him, a cacophony of the modern world’s unending hurry. His steed, a sleek black sedan with the nobility of German engineering, idled impatiently beneath him. Cyrius’s grip on the steering wheel was firm, his gloved fingers drumming a steady, measured beat to a song he did not know he knew.

Through the narrow slit of his helmet’s visor, he surveyed the scene before him: an endless queue of vehicles stretching into the horizon, a serpentine beast of steel and rubber. To his right, a minivan emblazoned with a gaudy decal advertising a local pest control service. To his left, a diminutive hatchback, its rear plastered with bumper stickers proclaiming a hodgepodge of political allegiances and half-baked witticisms. Cyrius’s jaw tightened beneath his visor. Sweat began to pool around the neck of his knight’s helmet.

With a measured exhalation, he addressed his steed, “We shall advance, noble friend, and reclaim our rightful place upon this thoroughfare.” He pressed down on the accelerator, nudging the sedan forward by mere inches, a knight’s charge stymied by the ignoble realities of urban gridlock.

The seconds stretched into minutes, each tick of the clock a reminder of his encroaching tardiness. He felt the stirrings of a battle-hardened resolve; it was time to employ more assertive tactics. With a flick of his wrist, he signaled his intention to change lanes. The hatchback beside him, oblivious or perhaps simply indifferent, remained steadfast in its position. Cyrius’s eyes narrowed to slits behind his visor.

“Very well,” he muttered, “if they will not yield, then we shall force their hand.” He edged his steed forward, the sedan’s bumper mere centimeters from the hatchback’s rear. The driver, a young woman engrossed in her smartphone, remained blissfully unaware of the impending incursion. Cyrius gave a sharp blast of his horn, a call to arms. The woman started, her eyes wide as she glanced in her rearview mirror. With a sigh of resignation, she inched her vehicle forward, granting Cyrius the narrowest of openings.

Triumphant, he eased his steed into the coveted space, a small but significant victory. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before turning his attention to the next obstacle: a hulking SUV directly ahead, its rear window emblazoned with a decal proclaiming the driver’s allegiance to a nearby CrossFit gym. Cyrius regarded the SUV with a mixture of disdain and determination.

Once more, he signaled his intention to overtake. The SUV, however, appeared resolute, its driver a burly man with the neck of a bull and the disposition of an irate badger. Cyrius, undeterred, edged his sedan closer, his horn issuing a peremptory command. The SUV’s driver glanced in his rearview mirror, his expression a mask of incredulity and irritation. For a moment, it seemed as though a confrontation might ensue, a clash of modern-day titans upon the battlefield of the freeway.

But then, with a huff of resignation, the SUV’s driver yielded, granting Cyrius passage. As he surged forward, Cyrius allowed himself a rare smile. He had navigated the perils of the morning commute with skill and determination, his honor intact and his steed unscathed.

As the traffic began to ease and the city skyline loomed ahead, Cyrius pondered the peculiarities of the city’s landscape.

And so, Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort continued on his way, a figure out of time yet undeniably of it. Onward, he mustered his trusty steed of a sedan, onward to work, where there be dragons lurking in corporate offices.