Short Story | Fred Aiken Writing

March 27, 2025

Fear Not the Fitness Influencer

3am and there’s no one else at the gym except for the fitness influencer that’s been up for the past 18hours with the help of fistfuls of creatine and energy drinks injected straight into their blood stream, but no illicit drugs–ALL NATTY, BABY!!!–so don’t even suggest that they’re taking some sort of Kentucky-Derby-style cocktail that may or may not (but probably definitely) responsible for the death of Sea Biscuit, because the fitness influencer doesn’t do drugs, just reps, after reps, after reps, as they get their camera shot at just the right angle, for 4hours straight, for all of their wonderful, beautiful, envious viewers at home wanting to see how they do it, how do they do it?, get their bodies to look like some sort of action figure, gigabytes of data in film content that’s ready to upload and broadcast to their dedicated and loving fan base willing to shell out hard-earned (though barely missed) cash for vitamins made in some sweatshop half-way around the world in a country the fitness influencer couldn’t pronounce, much less tell you what sort of life they live, what sort of issues they face, but that doesn’t matter, there’s no time to sit still and contemplate that sort of negativity, no time for depressing thoughts, need to get up–GET UPP!–and then maybe bend down to touch your toes, because you’re not looking so hot, maybe take another supplement, lift a few more lbs, run a few more miles, down an unholy amount of salt tablets, and GET-BACK-OUT-THERE!!!!!

March 24, 2025

Back in the Day…

Back in my day, well, I’ll tell you. Back when I was younger, things were a helluva lot cheaper than they are now. Everything’s gotten so damn expensive! But back in my day, I never paid a cent. No one finger-lickin’ cent for any goshdarn thing!

Some might call it stealin’, but I say it just made good ole economic sense, if you know what I mean. Not like today. No siree. Nowadays you got all these goobernicks and fidangles and whatchahulahoopin callits. I don’t know. I certainly couldn’t say what the hell it is the youngin’s these days are all hoopla’in about. But people are payin’ whole gobs of moola for these things—always just things!—that make no goshdarn single iota of any good ole sense I was raised with.

I try to tell ‘em. I sit my grandkids down nearly once a week, and I lecture ‘em good, you see. I tell ‘em, nothing’s worth having if you can’t steal it! But their parents don’t want me tellin’ ‘em my life lessons. They think I’m corrupting their children. But I’m only givin’ ‘em the truth. The only truth I know!

But anyway, I guess I’m ramblin’, and I don’t mean to do that. I know I certainly don’t have the time, not with my age. No siree! But if you’d be so kind, dearie, and just hand over whatever’s ya got in your pocket, then I’ll be gettin’ outta your hair. I didn’t mean for this here stick-em-up to become a lecture. I tell myself not to go on any sorts of rants while I’m stealin’. But, you see, that’s easier said than done, since there’s so much gosh darn wrong with society nowadays.

Nothing like it was back in my day. Not a bit.

March 20, 2025

The Tattoo Conversation

Daily writing prompt

What tattoo do you want and where would you put it?

View all responses

“You can’t get a tattoo.”

“What do you mean? I’m my own man. I’ll get a tattoo if I want.”

“Not while you’re married to me, you’re not. You can’t get a tattoo. I didn’t sign up to be married to someone that would defile their body like that.”

“Defile? What are you talking about? It’s a tattoo. It’s art.”

“I don’t like them.”

“I guess we should’ve had this conversation before getting hitched.”

“Don’t say it like that. Getting hitched. We’re not trashy people. We had a ceremony. We had a reception. Our families came. It was a nice, lovely wedding. We didn’t get hitched.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“Stop getting sarcastic with me. I’m being serious. I don’t like tattoos. I don’t want you to get a tattoo. They don’t look good. They especially don’t look good the older you get. You go in for a butterfly, and then twenty years later you have some weird looking figure that looks like a vagina.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from personal experience. Do you have a tattoo that I don’t know about?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what’s your problem with them.”

“I don’t like them. I said that. I find them to be morally reprehensible, and I don’t think you should do that to your body.”

“But it’s my body.”

“That may be, but I’d rather not have to look at a tattoo.”

“You don’t even know what I would get and where I would put it.”

“Alright then, what would you get tattooed? And don’t say anywhere on your face or neck, because I especially hate those.”

“You’re sounding really judgey right now. It’s not a good look on you.”

“Come on. I’m humoring you. What would you get?”

“Well, I would get a coffee plant tattoo.”

“A coffee plant?”

“Yeah, right down my arm, vertical-wise. You know, because I work in the coffee industry.”

“And you think that’s reason enough to get a tattoo. Is it some sort of secret code where all the baristas get tattoos of coffee plants so they know that, what, they work in the coffee industry?”

“Maybe?”

“That’s insane. I don’t want you to get a tattoo. What happens when you regret it?”

“I won’t.”

“What happens when our daughter grows up and asks to get a tattoo?”

“If she’s an adult, I won’t stop her.”

“Even if it’s a tramp stamp?”

“Do people still get those?”

“Yes, now answer the question.”

“I dunno. It’s a mighty big hypothetical. My gut reaction is to say that if Hannah wants to get a tattoo when she gets older then so be it. Who am I to stand in her way?”

“You’re just saying that so I’ll let you get a tattoo. Admit it, you’d be just as appalled if she got a tattoo because her dad got a tattoo and now she thinks it’s acceptable. But it’s not.”

“Maybe, I dunno. Sure, I’m protective of my daughter. What father wouldn’t be? But I think you’re being a little ridiculous about this.”

“I don’t. I think I’m being relatively judicious, all things considered. Rash people get tattoos. Degenerates get tattoos. None of which are you.”

“Can you at least think about it?”

“I don’t know what else I could think about. But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll think about it overnight. If I still have the same reservations in the morning, then you can’t get a tattoo.”

“That doesn’t sound fair. You sound like you’ve already made up your mind.”

“Now you’re getting it. Now stop talking to me about tattoos and coffee plants, and turn off the light and go to bed.”