Short Story | Fred Aiken Writing

July 10, 2024

Sir Cyrius of the Serious Sort and the Corporate Meeting

Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort stood before the full-length mirror in his office, meticulously adjusting his tie. The room around him was a veritable fortress of modern corporate paraphernalia: framed motivational posters adorned the walls, their platitudes masked as wisdom; the desk, a monolithic slab of mahogany, bore the scars of countless meetings, each nick and scratch a testament to battles fought and won. He waited patiently in stoic silence by the desk, sitting in his ergonomic office chair.

Ready to fight. Ready to conquer, he told himself.

Today held the weight of destiny. The meeting that loomed ahead was no ordinary gathering of minds; it was a council of war, a confluence of critical decision-makers whose decrees would shape the very future of the company. Or so Sir Cyrius believed.

He donned his helmet, its visor clanging shut with a decisive finality. The faint scent of polished metal and old leather filled his nostrils, grounding him in the gravity of the moment. He picked up his leather-bound notebook—a tome of strategies and counter-strategies, of financial forecasts and market analyses. Each page was meticulously annotated in his precise, angular handwriting.

He strode to the door, the click of his polished loafers echoing in the silent corridor. As he approached the conference room, he could hear the murmur of voices within, a low hum of anticipation. The door, a barrier between the mundane and the monumental, swung open with a creak. He stepped inside.

The room was a stark contrast to his expectations. His colleagues—Diane from HR, Steve from Marketing, and Hilda from IT—sat around the table, their postures relaxed, their expressions betraying no hint of the import of the occasion. They exchanged pleasantries, sipped coffee from disposable cups, and shuffled papers with an air of casual disinterest.

Sir Cyrius took his seat at the head of the table, his notebook thudding onto the polished surface. He cleared his throat, a sound that reverberated through the room like the tolling of a distant bell. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice a measured blend of authority and gravitas, as if he were talking to an auditorium of thousands rather than a party of three barely awake coworkers, “we are gathered here to discuss matters of utmost importance. The future of our company hinges on the decisions we make today.”

Diane glanced up from her phone, her brow furrowed in mild confusion. “Right, Cyrius,” she said, her tone placating, “but first, can we go over the quarterly team-building budget?”

“It is Sir…Sir Cyrius,” he corrected.

“Yes, well, can we please get on with the meeting without too much interruption?”

Unperturbed, Sir Cyrius pressed on. “Indeed, Diane, but let us not lose sight of the larger battle at hand. Our market position is under siege. We must fortify our defenses and launch a decisive counteroffensive.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, a bemused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Sure thing, Sir Cyrius. But before we dive into that, we really need to finalize the plans for the company picnic.”

Sir Cyrius nodded, his visor dipping in solemn agreement. “Very well. But remember, every move we make, no matter how small, contributes to the greater strategy. The picnic, too, must be seen as a maneuver in our campaign to strengthen company morale and solidarity.”

Hilda, adjusting her glasses, chimed in. “I’ve got the IT report ready. No major issues, just a few updates needed. Should take ten minutes tops.”

Sir Cyrius listened intently, his mind whirring with the possibilities. Each report, each budget item, was a piece of the grander puzzle. “Excellent. Ensure those updates are implemented posthaste. We cannot afford any vulnerabilities.”

As the meeting wore on, it became clear that the gravity Sir Cyrius attributed to the proceedings was not universally shared. His colleagues, while diligent and professional, treated the agenda with a level of casual detachment that belied the stakes he perceived. They discussed the minutiae of office life—supply orders, upcoming birthdays, and parking space allocations—with a lightness that seemed almost heretical to Sir Cyrius’s serious sensibilities, especially since he was of a Serious Sort.

Yet, as the hour drew to a close and his colleagues began to disperse, Sir Cyrius remained undaunted. For in his mind, every decision, every action, was part of a grander narrative, a tale of corporate valor and strategic brilliance. He rose from his seat, gathered his notebook, and nodded to his departing comrades.

“Remember,” he intoned, “we are the guardians of this company’s future. Let us conduct ourselves with the seriousness our mission demands.”

As the door swung shut behind him, Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort felt a surge of resolve. The battle, as he saw it, was far from over. And he, its steadfast knight, would continue to fight with every ounce of his considerable seriousness and valor.

Onward, Sir Cyrius recited. For the future. As bright and serious as it shall be!

July 9, 2024

Sir Cyrius’ Commute

Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort found himself ensnared in the labyrinthine clutches of the city’s morning traffic. The clatter of honking horns and the ceaseless hum of engines surrounded him, a cacophony of the modern world’s unending hurry. His steed, a sleek black sedan with the nobility of German engineering, idled impatiently beneath him. Cyrius’s grip on the steering wheel was firm, his gloved fingers drumming a steady, measured beat to a song he did not know he knew.

Through the narrow slit of his helmet’s visor, he surveyed the scene before him: an endless queue of vehicles stretching into the horizon, a serpentine beast of steel and rubber. To his right, a minivan emblazoned with a gaudy decal advertising a local pest control service. To his left, a diminutive hatchback, its rear plastered with bumper stickers proclaiming a hodgepodge of political allegiances and half-baked witticisms. Cyrius’s jaw tightened beneath his visor. Sweat began to pool around the neck of his knight’s helmet.

With a measured exhalation, he addressed his steed, “We shall advance, noble friend, and reclaim our rightful place upon this thoroughfare.” He pressed down on the accelerator, nudging the sedan forward by mere inches, a knight’s charge stymied by the ignoble realities of urban gridlock.

The seconds stretched into minutes, each tick of the clock a reminder of his encroaching tardiness. He felt the stirrings of a battle-hardened resolve; it was time to employ more assertive tactics. With a flick of his wrist, he signaled his intention to change lanes. The hatchback beside him, oblivious or perhaps simply indifferent, remained steadfast in its position. Cyrius’s eyes narrowed to slits behind his visor.

“Very well,” he muttered, “if they will not yield, then we shall force their hand.” He edged his steed forward, the sedan’s bumper mere centimeters from the hatchback’s rear. The driver, a young woman engrossed in her smartphone, remained blissfully unaware of the impending incursion. Cyrius gave a sharp blast of his horn, a call to arms. The woman started, her eyes wide as she glanced in her rearview mirror. With a sigh of resignation, she inched her vehicle forward, granting Cyrius the narrowest of openings.

Triumphant, he eased his steed into the coveted space, a small but significant victory. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before turning his attention to the next obstacle: a hulking SUV directly ahead, its rear window emblazoned with a decal proclaiming the driver’s allegiance to a nearby CrossFit gym. Cyrius regarded the SUV with a mixture of disdain and determination.

Once more, he signaled his intention to overtake. The SUV, however, appeared resolute, its driver a burly man with the neck of a bull and the disposition of an irate badger. Cyrius, undeterred, edged his sedan closer, his horn issuing a peremptory command. The SUV’s driver glanced in his rearview mirror, his expression a mask of incredulity and irritation. For a moment, it seemed as though a confrontation might ensue, a clash of modern-day titans upon the battlefield of the freeway.

But then, with a huff of resignation, the SUV’s driver yielded, granting Cyrius passage. As he surged forward, Cyrius allowed himself a rare smile. He had navigated the perils of the morning commute with skill and determination, his honor intact and his steed unscathed.

As the traffic began to ease and the city skyline loomed ahead, Cyrius pondered the peculiarities of the city’s landscape.

And so, Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort continued on his way, a figure out of time yet undeniably of it. Onward, he mustered his trusty steed of a sedan, onward to work, where there be dragons lurking in corporate offices.

July 5, 2024

flat (as a pancake) destinations

Daily writing prompt

Describe your most memorable vacation.

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The summer I turned twelve, my parents decided we needed an adventure, something off the beaten path. They chose the desolate, windswept expanse of the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah, a place where the earth stretched out like a mirror, reflecting the sky’s endless blue. Most kids at school had gone to Disneyland or tropical beaches, but my parents were artists, of a sort, and their idea of a memorable vacation was more… unconventional.

We arrived in our old, beat-up station wagon that still hadn’t been paid off despite being older than me, packed with camping gear and an assortment of art supplies. The landscape was alien, a vast, shimmering white desert that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. The sun hung high, a merciless overseer, casting long, stark shadows that exaggerated every contour of the terrain.

For the first few hours, I was convinced we were lost. My parents, however, were ecstatic. My mother, a painter, saw the endless white as a canvas, while my father, a sculptor, envisioned grand installations that would interact with the horizon. They set up their easels and tools with the enthusiasm of pioneers discovering a new world.

I wandered away, feeling the crunch of salt under my sneakers, the air crisp and dry. The flatness was deceptive. Occasionally, I stumbled upon small pools of brine, their surfaces smooth and glassy, reflecting the sky perfectly. I imagined they were portals to another dimension, places where reality was bent and reshaped.

The first night, we camped under a sky so clear it felt like we were adrift in space. Stars crowded every inch of the sky, and the Milky Way arched overhead like a cosmic bridge. My parents set up a bonfire, and we huddled around it, the flames casting flickering shadows on our faces. My mother sketched by firelight, capturing the surreal landscape on paper, while my father carved small sculptures from the blocks of salt he had brought along.

The next day, we explored further. My parents had planned a series of art projects, but they encouraged me to find my own way to engage with the land. I took my camera, an old film model my dad had given me, and set off on my own.

I spent hours photographing the subtle variations in the landscape—the ripples in the salt where the wind had blown, the tiny crystals that formed intricate patterns, and the distant mountains that framed the horizon like the edges of a grand painting. There was a stillness to the place, a silence so profound it felt like the world had stopped turning. It was in this silence that I felt something shift within me, a sense of peace and wonder I had never experienced before.

One afternoon, I stumbled upon a patch of earth where the salt had cracked and split, revealing the clay beneath. It was here that I decided to create my own art. I spent hours digging and shaping, using the clay to form small sculptures of animals and mythical creatures. I arranged them in a circle, a tiny community in the middle of the vast expanse. When I was done, I stood back and admired my work, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment.

As the days passed, the Salt Flats became our playground and our studio. My parents created their own masterpieces, but it was my little clay village that captured their attention. My father was particularly impressed, and he spent hours photographing it from different angles, capturing the way the light played on the sculptures at various times of the day.

On our last night, we held an impromptu exhibition. We arranged all our artworks around the campsite, lit by the golden glow of the setting sun. My parents’ paintings and sculptures, my photographs, and my clay figures—each piece told a story of our time in this otherworldly place. We invited the few other campers we had encountered to join us, and they walked among our creations, admiring and asking questions. It was a small, intimate gathering, but it felt significant.

As we packed up to leave the next morning, I took one last look at the Salt Flats. I felt a pang of sadness, but also a deep sense of gratitude. This strange, beautiful place had given me more than just a memorable vacation; it had sparked something within me, a desire to see the world through different eyes, to find beauty in the unexpected.

Years later, when people ask about my most memorable vacation, they expect tales of exotic beaches or bustling cities. Instead, I tell them about the Bonneville Salt Flats, a place where the earth meets the sky in an endless tapestry that seems to encompass infinity. I usually don’t get many follow questions about it, though.