Fred Aiken Writing

Tag: narrative

June 17, 2024

I Like Being…

Daily writing prompt
What’s your favorite thing about yourself?
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Every day I wake up, I thank God that I’m dumb. That might seem kinda counterintuitive. I’m sure most people would rather be smart than dumb. But I would have to say that I’m the opposite. The expectations on smart people are truly astounding, and I know that I would not be able to live up to the standards that most smart people have to go through.

Also, being dumb allows me to be consistently optimistic despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Global climate change; we might figure it out. Constant threat of nuclear war and annihilation; hasn’t happened yet, so hopefully it never will. Species dying at an exponential rate; I suppose there’s always cloning. We did it with that sheep Dolly, maybe we can do it with other animals too. Companies are hiking prices up, and governments aren’t managing monetary policy correctly; well, I don’t need much to survive. Just a good book and the occasional movie, both of which the library provides for free.

There are any number of catastrophic thoughts and realities that one is confronted with on a given day, and for me, well, I’m able to sort of brush them off with my stupid optimism. It makes living all that much more enjoyable. You see, if I was smart, then I would be expected to help fix whatever issues humanity is causing and/or going through. And, unfortunately, I’m kinda lazy. I figure it’s better to be lazy and dumb, rather than lazy and smart, since the former at least gives me an excuse for not doing anything to improve the human condition.

Also, I’m fairly certain the world will probably experience some sort of cataclysmic, near-extinction event where a majority of people will not survive. Probably not in my life time. But maybe? And if it just so happens to be within the next 50 or so years, then I’m the right level of dumb to where I’ll be wiped out with the majority rather than being left with the unlucky smart ones that happened to live through and have to figure out life after the apocalypse.

I would not do well in a post-apocalyptic world. I do not look back fondly or reminisce about previous times in history prior to electricity. Every point in history prior to the Industrial Revolution, or even the Internet Revolution, seems like it was a small slice of hell. Disease was rampant. Philosophy was built around survivability. Art was usually subpar, and when it wasn’t you more than likely would never see the good stuff because it was being hoarded by rich, incest dicks. There wasn’t too many books, since the printing press is a relatively new invention (at least when considering the entirety of human history), and nowadays printing presses rely heavily on electricity. In fact, everything does. Most every modern convenience relies super heavily on electricity. All of which I do not think would survive an apocalyptic-sort of event.

So yeah, I’m good with being dumb. Bring on the AI that will think for me so I don’t even really need to do that anymore.

I suppose there’s levels of dumb that I could also aspire to, but at the moment I’m content with knowing so little. I wouldn’t say that I’m in the running for the world’s dumbest person alive, but I’m probably closer in intelligence to the world’s dumbest person rather than to the world’s smartest person, and that’s kinda okay by me.

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June 12, 2024

A Musical Note

Daily writing prompt
What are you passionate about?
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Thomas leaned back in his chair, feeling the worn wood beneath his fingers, and closed his eyes. The morning light filtered through the window, casting a warm, golden miasma across the room, as if trying to gild the world in a fleeting moment of perfection.

This was his sanctuary, where the noise of the city and the weight of responsibilities dissolved into the background. He came here not just for the quiet, though it was part of it, but for the rhythm of it all. The tuning of the strings, the waiting for inspiration, the sudden rush when a melody took shape—all of it a dance as old as time itself.

His passion, however, wasn’t just playing music. It was understanding it, feeling it.

Back in his daily life, Thomas was a teacher, his days filled with the clamor of students and the steady rhythm of the mundane. But here, alone with his thoughts, he could hear the music of life, the subtle symphony that played in the background of every breath he took. It was here that he composed, the melodies rising and falling with his thoughts, the harmonies inspired by the whispers of his memories and the silence of the early morning.

He reached for his guitar, its body worn smooth from years of playing, and strummed a chord. The sound mingled with the creak of the old house and the soft rustle of leaves outside, forming an impromptu duet. Thomas closed his eyes again, letting the notes guide him, each one a stepping stone across a river of memories.

His mind wandered back to his childhood, to the small, dimly lit room where he had first picked up a guitar. His father’s instrument, it had been a portal to another world, a place where he could express the emotions that words failed to capture. His fingers had stumbled at first, but the passion was there, igniting a fire that would burn bright through the years.

Music was his language, a way to connect with the world on a deeper level. It was in the lullabies he played for his daughter, each note a promise of love and protection. It was in the songs he wrote for his wife, capturing the essence of their life together in melodies that spoke of joy, sorrow, and everything in between.

As he played, the sun climbed higher, its light sparkling on the polished wood of the floor like a thousand tiny stars. He thought of his students, the way their faces lit up when they finally grasped a new concept, the pride they felt when they played their first song. Teaching was a part of his passion too, a way to pass on the gift of music, to ignite that same fire in another soul.

A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. He set the guitar aside and stood up, feeling the weight of the moment. With practiced ease, he answered, finding a young boy standing there, clutching a sheet of music with eager eyes. Thomas invited him in, guiding him to the chair by the window where the light was best.

They worked through the notes together, the boy’s initial hesitance giving way to confidence as the melody took shape. Thomas watched, a quiet pride swelling within him. This was his passion, not just for music, but for the act of creation itself, for the ability to take the chaos of the world and transform it into something beautiful.

As the lesson ended, the boy packed up his things, his face glowing with a newfound sense of accomplishment. Thomas watched him go, feeling a sense of fulfillment that words could scarcely capture.

Thomas picked up the guitar again, his fingers finding the chords without thought. The song that emerged was one of contentment, of quiet moments and the simple joys of life, notes that filled the air with daydreams. It was a reflection of his passion, not just for music, but for living a life that resonated with meaning, each note a testament to the things he held dear.

And as the day drew to a close, the room bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, Thomas carefully placed his guitar back into its worn case that had been a constant companion to every relationship, every move, every change he had made over the years. He went into the dining room to have dinner with his family.

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June 11, 2024

Blistering Summer Eve

Daily writing prompt
What is your favorite season of year? Why?
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The summer breeze was a lair, warm and honeyed, masking the sorrow it carried from the nearby fields. Eve stood on the porch of her childhood home, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin, her suitcase a sentinel of her return. She hadn’t been back since the funeral three years ago, and now, here she was, summoned by the invisible string of family obligation and the scent of unfinished business.

Spring had always been her favorite season, a time when the world seemed to unfurl with promise, green and tender and full of potential. But summer held its own gravity, the heat binding her to memories that she’d once tried to bury under layers of urbanity and distance. In summer, everything was exposed, raw and unapologetic, like a scar that never wants to heal.

Eve pushed open the screen door, its hinges protesting, and stepped inside. The house smelled the same—faded lilac potpourri mixed with the faint mustiness of age. Her mother’s presence lingered in the air, an old ghost that still haunted the corners and creaked the floorboards. She dropped her suitcase in the hallway and headed to the kitchen, where the afternoon sun filtered through lace curtains, casting delicate shadows that danced like memories on the linoleum floor.

She found the old percolator on the stove, exactly where it had always been. As she waited for the coffee to brew, she wandered to the back porch, overlooking the garden. Weeds had claimed it, wildflowers interspersed with the remnants of her mother’s roses. Eve’s fingers itched to pull the weeds, to restore order, but she knew that some things were beyond repair.

The garden had always been her sanctuary. Spring brought a laughing riot of colors—daffodils, tulips, and crocuses bursting forth in a symphony of renewal. She’d spend hours here as a child, planting, pruning, and daydreaming under the watchful eye of her mother. Spring was a painter, each stroke a new possibility, a reminder that life began again.

The creak of the floorboards interrupted her reverie. Turning, she saw a man standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim light of the kitchen. It took a moment for her to recognize him—Jack, the boy who’d lived next door, now grown into a man with the same soulful eyes and a weathered smile.

“Eve,” he said, his voice a mixture of surprise and nostalgia. “I heard you were back.”

She nodded, words escaping her. Jack stepped onto the porch, the screen door snapping shut behind him. They stood there, the silence between them thick with years of unspoken words and missed opportunities.

“Coffee?” she offered, finally finding her voice.

He smiled, a slow, familiar curve of his lips that sent a jolt of something long-forgotten through her. “Sure, why not?”

They sat on the porch steps, steaming mugs in hand, the summer heat wrapping around them like an old, heavy blanket. They talked about everything and nothing, their conversation weaving through the past and present, laughter mingling with the bittersweet undertones of shared history.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, Eve felt the tightness in her chest begin to ease. The garden, once a symbol of loss and neglect, now seemed like a canvas waiting for a new season of care. She realized that summer, with its relentless exposure and honesty, was not her enemy but a reminder that some truths needed to be faced head-on.

Jack’s presence was like a balm, his easy demeanor and familiar smile a bridge to the girl she once was. She found herself wondering what it would be like to stay, to rebuild the garden and maybe, just maybe, herself in the process.

“You know,” she said, looking out at the twilight-soaked garden, “I used to think spring was my favorite season. Everything felt so new, so full of promise.”

Jack looked at her, his eyes soft with understanding. “And now?”

“Now,” she sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips, “I think I’m starting to see the beauty in summer. It’s honest, demanding. It forces you to face things, to let go and grow.”

He nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “That and they say in a few years we won’t have any seasons. Just one long, interminable summer.” They awkwardly laughed at his apocalyptic climate joke. Though was it even really a joke, she wondered.

As the first stars blinked into existence above them, Eve felt a sense of peace settle in her bones. Summer, with all its brutal clarity, had shown her that coming back didn’t have to mean looking back. It could mean starting over, planting new seeds in the fertile soil of acceptance and moving forward.

And in that moment, with the warmth of the day lingering and the promise of night ahead, Eve knew she was home.

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