Fred Aiken Writing

Category: Short Story

June 3, 2024

Sir Cyrius the Serious Makes Pancakes

Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort woke with a singular mission rattling in his knight’s helmet. He told himself he would make pancakes. He went through his usual routine and put on his heirloom of polished steel, which sat atop a crisply tailored suit and tie and went down into the kitchen to begin his batter.

Elara, an artist and occasional poet, slept in as he began to cook breakfast. She barely stirred, but her subconscious, sleeping mind still registered that her knightly boyfriend was no longer in bed. Sir Cyrius and Elara had only begun dating in the past two months, but they already felt like they knew each other for a lifetime.

He stood at the stove, helmet glinting in the morning light, moving with the precision of a knight before a holy relic. Flour, eggs, and milk transformed under his hands, the ingredients coming together like the components of an ancient spell.

Elara, wrapped in a robe of soft indigo, awakened and came down to watch him from the kitchen island. Her laughter, a melody of affection, danced through the air. She adored this man of contradictions, his solemn demeanor paired with his anachronistic armor.

“Sir Cyrius, you know you can take off the helmet,” she teased gently, her voice like a warm breeze. But she knew what his response would be. In the two months that they had been together, Sir Cyrius had never removed his helmet in front of her.

“Duty does not permit such liberties,” he replied, his voice resonating within the helmet. “Even in the making of pancakes.”

Her laughter was like a gentle chime, filling the loft with lightness. She stepped closer, her bare feet whispering against the concrete, and stood beside him. He measured flour with the precision of a scholar, cracked eggs with the deliberation of a surgeon, and whisked the batter with the rhythm of a maestro.

The batter sizzled on the griddle, releasing the aroma of vanilla and promise. Sir Cyrius flipped each pancake with a flourish, the golden discs stacking up like small victories.

Elara, with her artist’s touch, set the table with a flourish. A vase of fresh wildflowers—daisies and lavender—stood at the center, flanked by glasses of orange juice that glowed like captured sunlight. Berries, whipped cream, and syrup waited in anticipation.

When the last pancake was placed on the stack, Sir Cyrius removed his apron and saluted Elara with the spatula still clad in his hand, a knight’s gesture of completion of his noble task. He carried the plate to the table with a reverence that turned the mundane into the sacred.

They sat across from each other, the armored knight and the artist in her robe, a portrait of harmonious contrasts. As they began to eat, Elara reached out, her fingers brushing the cold steel of his gauntlet, a touch that bridged their worlds.

“Thank you, Cyrius. For the pancakes.”

He nodded, the helmet inclining slightly. “It is my honor, Elara.”

She caught a glimpse of Sir Cyrius’ five-o-clock shadow, despite the early hours.

The two shared a quiet moment as they masticated on Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort’s pancakes. Sir Cyrius ate his stacks without any syrup, while Elara poured a generous serving of blueberry flavored syrup on hers.

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June 2, 2024

Not All Fears Fit in Your Pocket

Daily writing prompt
What fears have you overcome and how?
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Leo wakes to the soft chime of his alarm, a sound that blends seamlessly with the gentle rustle of leaves outside his window. The day is charged with a subtle electricity, as if the air itself is holding its breath.

For as long as Leo can remember, spiders had been his constant dread, weaving webs of fear in the corners of his mind. The fear of real spiders, with their many legs and quick movements, and the fear of imagined ones, lurking in the shadows of his thoughts—all intertwining to form an invisible web around him. But today, he senses a shift, a readiness to face the shadows that have haunted his dreams.

Yet still, he must confront his fear. In the attic of his house, where boxes of forgotten memories gather dust, lies the heart of his fear. He approaches the narrow staircase, feeling the cool wooden banister under his fingertips, and takes a deep breath. Each step upward is a challenge, the air growing thicker, the light dimmer. The higher he climbs, the more the familiar world below becomes a distant memory, a surreal landscape that blurs the lines between reality and imagination.

At the top, he finds himself facing the darkened attic door. A tight knot in his stomach forms, but he knows he must continue. He closes his eyes and lets the darkness envelop him, realizing that the shadows, while real, do not have to control him.

Pushing the door open, Leo steps into the attic, his flashlight piercing the gloom. The first spider he sees is small, hanging delicately in its web. His instinct is to recoil, but he forces himself to stay. He watches it, studying its movements, understanding its place in the world. The fear remains, but it is tempered by curiosity, by the realization that this small creature has no power over him.

As Leo continues to explore the attic, he finds more spiders, each one a little larger and more intimidating than the last. He encounters a tarantula, its hairy legs moving slowly across the floor, and a black widow, its red hourglass glinting ominously in the light. He feels his pulse quicken, but he takes deep breaths, reminding himself that he is in control.

Descending the stairs, Leo feels lighter, as if he has shed an invisible weight. The next challenge lies in the foyer, where spiders spin their webs since he could remember. Not allowing him to pass. A silky barrier to the outside.

From the shadows, a spider of emerges, a creature woven from his deepest fears. It is large, menacing, yet strangely beautiful. He does not recognize this spider. But the spider knows Leo. He stands his ground, his fear palpable, but mixed with a sense of determination. He speaks to it, not with words, but with the strength of his presence. The creature, sensing his resolve, begins to shrink, becoming less monstrous, more manageable.

As Leo stares into the spider’s many eyes, he sees reflections of his own fear, his own vulnerability. He understands that the spider is a part of him, a manifestation of his deepest anxieties. By confronting it, he is confronting himself. He reaches out a hand, and the spider crawls onto it, its movements no longer threatening, but almost gentle. He feels a strange connection to the creature, a sense of empathy and understanding.

Leaving the foyer, Leo walks with newfound confidence. He has confronted his fear for the day. He stared into the many eyes of that fear and not blinked, so to speak.

As he moves forward, the shapes grow clearer—phantoms of dread, shadows of past anxieties, specters of his imagination. But with each step, his confidence fades, unable to withstand the light poking through the front door.

Escape, he tells himself. Walk out the door and face what comes. But a small, invisible hand holds him back. The hand belongs to a specter of his young self pulling him back into the house, back upstairs, back into the comfort of his room.

Leo tells himself he’s done enough for the day. He’s faced enough spiders as is. Perhaps tomorrow he will brave his fears again. Perhaps tomorrow he will open the door and walk out to face the world’s spiders. Perhaps…

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June 2, 2024

Enchanted Image

Daily writing prompt
How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?
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Each morning, Aurora awakens to the faint whisper of wind chimes outside her window, a gentle cue to rise and greet the day. She stretches languidly, savoring the fleeting peace before the world intrudes. Her mornings are a ritual of deliberate actions—slipping into comfortable clothes, brewing a pot of tea, and basking in the quiet glow of dawn.

Aurora is a weaver, her days spent intertwining threads of thought and creativity into tapestries of meaning. Her home, a small but vibrant cottage on the edge of a vast forest, is a sanctuary of colors and textures, where every item tells a story. She prepares a simple breakfast, the scent of freshly baked bread mingling with the earthy aroma of herbs drying by the window. Her enchanted mirror, which reflects the outside world’s clamor, remains dormant by her choice, its surface dark and silent.

Her journey to the loom is a winding path through the forest, each step a meditative exercise in mindfulness. She greets the ancient trees, the birds, and the streams, drawing inspiration from their unspoken wisdom. At the loom, she loses herself in the rhythm of her work, her fingers deftly dancing over the threads. Her fellow weavers often marvel at her ability to maintain such focus, attributing it to her harmonious connection with the natural world.

As the sun climbs higher, Aurora feels the pull of the enchanted mirror, its siren song of distant voices and shifting images tempting her. She knows the cost of its allure—how it can fracture her concentration and drain her spirit. She resists, setting firm boundaries to preserve her creative sanctuary. She understands the importance of solitude, of listening to the quiet whispers of her heart.

By twilight, Aurora returns home, her mind a tapestry of ideas for her latest creation. She prepares an evening meal, each ingredient chosen with care, the act of cooking a soothing ritual that eases the day’s tensions. The enchanted mirror remains untouched, and she basks in the stillness, the only sounds those of chopping vegetables and the gentle crackle of the hearth.

One evening, as she gazes into the darkened window, she sees her reflection framed by the night. Her face bears the marks of exhaustion, shadows beneath her eyes a testament to the ceaseless demands on her attention. She realizes she has allowed the mirror’s call to disrupt her peace, encroaching on her time for introspection and rest.

Determined to reclaim her tranquility, Aurora devises a plan. She places a cover over the mirror after the sun sets, a barrier to protect her evening hours. She sets specific times to engage with the outside world, ensuring these moments do not dominate her day.

The following morning, she awakens feeling more refreshed. Instead of uncovering the mirror, she reaches for her sketchbook, letting her hand roam freely over the paper, capturing the remnants of her dreams. The walk to her loom feels more vivid, each step a reminder of her commitment to stay grounded in the present.

At the loom, she shares her new boundaries with her fellow weavers, who respect her need for balance. She finds herself more productive, her creations infused with renewed energy. She takes frequent pauses to step outside, breathe deeply, and reconnect with the forest, grounding herself in its timeless rhythms.

In the evenings, Aurora immerses herself in her weaving, losing herself in the interplay of colors and textures. She reads ancient texts, visits the village storytellers, and reconnects with friends by the fire, cherishing these tangible interactions. The restlessness that once haunted her begins to fade, replaced by a profound sense of calm and fulfillment.

Aurora learns that knowing when to cover the mirror is about honoring her own rhythms, recognizing when the noise of the outside world drowns out her inner voice. It is about creating space for stillness, for creativity, for true connection. She finds that in shielding herself from the mirror’s pull, she reconnects—with her art, with the world around her, and with herself.

Her reflection in the window changes. The exhaustion fades, replaced by a serene glow. Her eyes shine with inspiration, and a peaceful smile graces her lips. Aurora understands now that the key to her well-being lies in these moments of intentional disconnection, allowing her to truly live and create with her whole heart.

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