Fred Aiken Writing

Category: Short Story

July 28, 2023

COFFEE PICKER

Eos blinks again. A pink and yellow hue blankets the sky.

In the soft, dew-mist hours of morning, a hushed urgency stirred him awake. Raul, the seasoned picker with calloused hands and a tired smile, emerged from the tattered canvas tent he called home. The aroma of jasmine and grass filled the air. While the world savored the drink of gods, Raul toiled for its creation, destined to remain anonymous.

The sun broke through the dense foliage, casting a mandala of shadows over the wild fields that seemed to go on forever. Raul joined the steady rhythm of his fellow laborers, each step a choreographed dance between tree and basket. A determined, practiced rhythm developed between the trees as he picked the coffee cherries. A song he heard each morning. The foliage loomed above, casting a perpetual twilight on the workers below.

Through the monotony, Raul’s mind wandered. He dreamed of a life beyond the fields, a life where the toil of harvest was replaced by the joys of harvest. Looking down at his basket of wild rouge, he wondered what the end result would taste like. He contemplated pocketing a few cherries himself, but quickly pushed the thought away since he was paid by the weight of his basket at the end of the day. He could not afford even one cherry to be missing, despite his curiosity.

As the day wore on, Raul’s fingers moved with practiced ease. He moved up the hill, past the mist, further and further into the wild foliage. And then he smiled.

July 20, 2023

BARD OF BANDITS//THE TIME A MUGGER QUOTED SHAKESPEARE WHILE ROBBING ME

The strange man came out of nowhere. 

Though that’s not entirely true. To be honest, I wasn’t paying attention. I was engrossed in The Paris Review’s podcast, and was listening to the languid, though sultry, voice actors read an interview between Joan Didion and Linda Kuehl talking about fiction or nonfiction. Either way, I’m probably the worst podcast listener. It all sounds like white noise to me and helps me relax. Podcasts make me feel as if I’m socializing with people I’ve never met, even though I’m not part of the conversation, and if I started talking, then it might be something within me finally snapped.

The strange man, whom I now refer to as a Stranger, had wild brown hair with specks of distinguished gray peppered randomly. His facial hair looked unkempt, I noticed, before then noticing the rest of his appearance was also unkempt. As first impressions go, I have to say I got the impression the Stranger was homeless, or home deprived. 

His voice was rather mellifluous. He enunciated each syllable, each breathtaking word that he openly admitted was not his own but rather of another. No other than the Bard of Bandits himself, the Stranger quoted Shakespeare.

How delightful, I thought.

Not really. Not at the time. I thought the Stranger was putting on an impromptu show on the sidewalk in the middle of the night and just for my eyes and ears only, which, now that I spell it all out, sounds rather silly. But I figured he would perform his Shakespearean scene, I would hand him a small portion of loose change and bills I kept in my pocket, and the transaction would be finished.

Also, I know this might be a bit of heresy, but I’m not a fan of Shakespeare.

My dislike of Shakespeare, though, was soon reaffirmed, as it was soon disclosed that the Stranger was not performing a quick poetic scene from the Bard’s many plays. But rather, he was robbing me…while quoting Shakespeare.

I could not tell if quoting Shakespeare while mugging someone made the act better or worse, but then decided on the latter, since now not only were my pockets lighter, but my senses were also then offended by the plucky iambic pentameter of the Stranger’s crime rhythmically ingrained into my head.

All that glitters is not gold.

June 17, 2023

FRIENDS FIENDS

THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT, one friend says to another.
I THINK THAT’S A GROSS MISCLASSIFICATION. I THINK WE’RE BOTH AT FAULT.
OF COURSE YOU’D SAY THAT. IT’S YOUR FAULT, AND SO YOU WANT TO SPREAD THE FAULT AROUND LIKE IT’S NUTELLA OR SOME SHIT.
WHAT? DO YOU LISTEN TO YOURSELF? YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE.
One of the friends shoved the other. Not a hard shove. But forceful, nonetheless. Neither of them would claim responsibility for who initiated the physicality of the dispute. When the police arrived, they each pointed the finger at the other.
The officer did not care.
ARE YOU TWO GOING TO BE ABLE TO RESOLVE YOUR ISSUES OR AM I GOING TO HAVE TO ARREST YOU BOTH FOR DISTURBING THE PEACE?
WHAT PEACE? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT OFFICER?
I, TOO, AM A BIT CONFUSED AS TO WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT.
I’M TALKING ABOUT PUTTING THE BOTH OF YOUSE INTO MY SHOP AND CARRYING YOU BACK TO THE STATION IN A BRAND NEW PAIR OF JEWELRY, AKA MY HANDCUFFS.
Predictably, though without much pause, a fist connected with a cheekbone, and the friends’ fight brought them to a police station at 3am on a weekday, slightly tipsy, though the effects of the alcohol wore off quicker with the smell of urine and antiseptic cleaner that engulfed their cell.
The officer told them each, repeatedly, that they were to remain in their cells until they learned to act civilly, at which point one of the friends spat at the other, though neither would admit who did it.
When the sun peaked over the covers of the horizon, painting a sickly orange and pink sky, they were both fast asleep snoring and the officer briefly thought about their unborn child and whether or not they would inherit the traits of their mother’s side of the family. But then the officer figured it probably didn’t matter one way or the other.