fiction | Fred Aiken Writing

June 28, 2024

catching up

The Ferris wheel loomed like a giant sentinel against the dusk, its neon lights slicing through the twilight sky. The carnival was alive with a cacophony of sounds: the relentless chatter of families, the clanging of game bells, the shrill laughter of children. Sophie stood on the outskirts, her senses bombarded by the smell of deep-fried dough and the metallic tang of aging rides. She hadn’t been back to this town in a decade, not since the accident that had shattered her youth.

Now, she was here on a mission. As a fugitive recovery agent for a bail bonds agency, Sophie had seen all kinds of people running from their pasts. But this time, it was different. This time, the fugitive was Jake—a ghost from her own past.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for the familiar face she hadn’t seen in years. She adjusted her jacket, feeling the comforting weight of her badge and gun. Tonight, she was here to bring someone in, not to reminisce.

The crowd’s noise grew louder near the old roller coaster, the one they used to call the “Bone Rattler.” A group of teenagers clustered around a makeshift boxing ring, where a bare-knuckle fight was underway. The crowd’s roars of approval and dismay filled the air, thick with anticipation and sweat.

Sophie pushed her way through the throng, her eyes locked on the ring. In the center, two fighters circled each other, fists up and eyes locked in a primal dance. One of them, a tall, lean figure, moved with a familiar fluidity. Her heart skipped a beat—it was Jake. He hadn’t changed much, just older, more hardened. The last person she expected to find here, but exactly the person she was looking for.

A fist connected with Jake’s jaw, snapping his head back. The crowd erupted, and Sophie moved closer, her hand instinctively going to her hip where her gun rested. Jake staggered but didn’t fall, his eyes fierce as he launched a counter-attack. The scene played out like a gritty drama, each punch a beat in a violent symphony.

The fight ended abruptly when Jake’s opponent hit the ground and didn’t get up. The referee, a burly man with a beer-stained shirt, called the match. Jake stood there, chest heaving, sweat glistening under the harsh lights. The crowd began to disperse, the thrill of the fight giving way to the next spectacle.

Sophie pushed her way to the front, her eyes locked on Jake.

“Sophie,” he said, his voice rough from exertion. “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t waste any time. “Jake, you know why I’m here. You skipped bail.”

His eyes narrowed, a mix of surprise and defiance. “You’re here to take me in?”

“That’s the job,” she replied, her voice steady. “It doesn’t have to get ugly.”

Jake glanced around, the crowd thinning out, leaving them in a bubble of tension. “You think I’m just gonna go quietly?”

“Depends,” she said, her hand still resting on her gun. “Do you want to make a scene?”

He took a step back, eyes darting, calculating his chances. Sophie tensed, ready for him to bolt. But instead, he laughed, a bitter sound. “Always the tough one, huh, Soph?”

“Always,” she said, taking a step closer. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Your call.”

Jake’s eyes softened for a moment, the defiance fading. “I didn’t do it, you know. The robbery—they’re framing me.”

“Save it for the judge,” she replied, her tone hardening. “I’m not here to debate your innocence.”

He sighed, the fight going out of him. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Sophie nodded, pulling out the handcuffs. She stepped forward, her movements quick and practiced. But just as she reached him, Jake moved. He grabbed her wrist, twisting it, and for a moment, they were locked in a struggle, their past clashing with the present.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” she grunted, trying to free herself.

Jake’s grip tightened, his eyes pleading. “Soph, listen to me. I didn’t do it. You know me.”

Sophie hesitated, the weight of their shared history pressing down on her. In that moment of hesitation, Jake broke free, shoving her back and running into the darkness of the carnival.

“Dammit!” she cursed, taking off after him.

The chase was a blur of flashing lights and dodging bodies. Jake weaved through the crowd with the ease of someone who had been running his whole life. Sophie followed, her determination fueling each step.

They reached the edge of the carnival, where the lights faded and the sounds grew softer. Jake stumbled, his pace slowing, and Sophie tackled him to the ground. They wrestled in the dirt, years of pent-up emotions spilling out in a flurry of fists and shouts.

Finally, Sophie managed to pin him, cuffing his hands behind his back. They both lay there, panting, the night sky stretching endlessly above them.

“Why’d you have to make it so damn difficult?” she muttered, hauling him to his feet.

Jake looked at her, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and resignation. “You wouldn’t have believed me anyway.”

“Maybe not,” she admitted, leading him back towards the carnival lights. “But running didn’t help your case.”

As they walked, the carnival continued its relentless march around them, oblivious to their drama. Sophie felt the weight of her badge and the years of history between them. It wasn’t the reunion she had expected, but it was the one she got.

And as they stepped into the light, Sophie knew that some things would never be the same, but at least they could finally face the future, whatever it might hold.

June 20, 2024

word//of the day

i am subscribed to a word of the day
that gets sent to my email each morning,
but i always forget to use that word
in any context,
so i promptly forget the word of the day 
by the time midnight rolls around

June 19, 2024

Physical Graffiti

Daily writing prompt

Write about your first crush.

View all responses

I told her I liked *NSYNC, but she knew I was lying. Vanessa had this way of seeing through the thin veils people tried to wrap around themselves. It was late spring, and the cicadas were tuning up for their summer symphony, filling the sticky air with their song. We sat on the front porch of my grandparents’ old house, the wooden planks creaking beneath our weight.

Vanessa was my neighbor, two years older and infinitely wiser. She had this cool, detached way about her, like she’d seen everything and judged it all to be mildly amusing at best. Her hair was a tangle of dark curls, always just a little wild, and her eyes were a sharp, piercing blue that seemed to notice everything.

“So, if you don’t like *NSYNC,” she said, smirking as she twisted a lock of hair around her finger, “what do you like?”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I don’t know. A bit of everything, I guess.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied, clearly unimpressed. “You don’t strike me as a boy-band kind of guy.”

She was right, of course. I had a secret stash of old rock CDs I’d borrowed from my dad, a collection of Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and The Doors that I played late at night with the volume turned low. I even had a collection of Jim Morrison’s poems. But I wasn’t about to tell her that.

She leaned back, looking up at the sky. “You know, you don’t have to pretend with me. I’m not like the other girls at school.”

“I know,” I said, and I did know. Vanessa was different, and that was part of why I liked her so much. She was the kind of girl who read thick books in the back of the library and listened to music on vinyl because it sounded better. She was the kind of girl who made you want to be more interesting, more honest.

“So, what are you really into?” she asked again, and this time her voice was softer, more genuine.

I took a deep breath, deciding to take a leap. “Music, mostly. The old stuff. Classic rock.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really? Like what?”

“Led Zeppelin, mostly,” I admitted. “But I like a lot of different bands.”

She smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. “Now we’re talking. Have you ever heard Physical Graffiti on vinyl? It’s like a whole different experience.”

I shook my head. “I’ve only got CDs.”

“Well,” she said, standing up and brushing off her jeans, “come on, then. My dad’s got a record player. Let’s see if we can find some Zeppelin.”

I followed her across the yard to her house, feeling like I was about to step into another world. Inside, her house was cool and dim, the air filled with the scent of old books and something spicy I couldn’t quite place. She led me to the living room, where a vintage turntable sat atop a wooden cabinet.

“Here we go,” she said, flipping through a stack of records. “Found it.” She pulled out a well-worn copy of Physical Graffiti, the cover frayed at the edges but still vibrant.

She placed the record on the turntable with the care of someone handling a rare artifact. The needle dropped, and the room filled with the opening chords of “Custard Pie.” Vanessa flopped down on the couch and patted the spot next to her. I sat, feeling the music wash over me, richer and deeper than I’d ever heard it before.

“This is amazing,” I said, more to myself than to her.

She nodded, eyes closed, lost in the music. “Told you. There’s just something about vinyl.”

I didn’t know enough to know that she was full of it. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have said a word.

We sat there for what felt like hours, listening to the album from start to finish. It was like discovering a new world, one where everything was sharper, more intense. Vanessa didn’t say much, but she didn’t need to. Her presence was enough, a silent confirmation that this moment mattered.

As the final notes of “Sick Again” faded into silence, she turned to me, her eyes serious. “Thanks for being honest with me.”

I shrugged, trying to downplay the significance of it. “No big deal.”

But it was a big deal. It felt like opening a door I hadn’t even known was there, stepping into a place where I could be myself without fear of judgment. Vanessa had given me that, and in return, I’d given her my trust.

We spent the rest of the summer like that, sharing music and secrets, slowly unraveling the layers of who we were. I never told her how I felt—how could I, when she seemed so far out of reach? But in those quiet moments, with the music spinning and the cicadas singing outside, it felt like she understood anyway.

Years later, I would look back on that summer as the one that changed everything. It was the summer I learned to be honest, the summer I discovered the power of music, the summer I fell for a girl who saw right through me. And even though Vanessa eventually moved away, the lessons she taught me stayed.

I still listen to Physical Graffiti, but mostly on Spotify, or whenever I can find the CD that seems to magically transport all over my car. And every time, I think of Vanessa, and the summer we spent spinning wheels and spinning records, learning to see the world—and ourselves—a little more clearly.