Short Story | Fred Aiken Writing

July 4, 2024

light and darkness//the authority of shadows

Daily writing prompt

On what subject(s) are you an authority?

Felix was an authority on the subtle language of shadows. In a world obsessed with light, Felix saw the beauty in the dark spaces that others overlooked. His apartment was filled with sketches of the interplay between light and dark, delicate shades of grey meticulously rendered with charcoal and ink.

Felix’s expertise was not in the common understanding of shadow as merely the absence of light. No, he was a connoisseur of the infinite gradations, the whispered secrets of the dusk, and the profound silence of twilight. He could decipher the mood of a room by the angle of its shadows, predicting human behavior with uncanny accuracy.

In his small studio, Felix conducted his studies. He had an array of lamps and candles, their light sources adjustable to the millimeter. A mannequin stood in the center, draped in various fabrics to observe how different materials absorbed and cast shadows. Every evening, Felix would manipulate the lights, sketching the resulting patterns and noting how the shadows shifted with the faintest change in position.

One day, an art collector named Veronica Sterling visited his studio. She had heard whispers of Felix’s unique talent and was curious to see his work. As she entered, she noticed the room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp. Felix greeted her with a nod, gesturing to a chair placed in the middle of the room.

“Please, sit,” he said, adjusting the lamp slightly. Veronica complied, feeling a mix of intrigue and skepticism. Felix began to speak, his voice soft but resonant.

“Shadows reveal what light conceals. They are the true storytellers,” he said, moving around her. “Let me show you.”

He adjusted the lamp, and the room transformed. Shadows danced on the walls, creating intricate patterns that seemed to breathe with life. Veronica watched in amazement as Felix manipulated the light, making the shadows shift and swirl. It was as if the room itself was alive, telling a story through the play of light and dark.

Felix explained the nuances of each shadow, pointing out details that Veronica would have never noticed. “This one here,” he said, indicating a long, slender shadow, “it’s a melancholic whisper, a remnant of a forgotten sorrow.” He moved the lamp again, and the shadow changed shape. “And now, it’s a secret, hidden but yearning to be discovered.”

Veronica was mesmerized. She had never seen shadows in such a way, had never considered their depths and complexities. Felix’s mastery was undeniable, his understanding profound.

As she left his studio, Veronica felt as though she had been given a glimpse into another world, one where shadows spoke and light listened. And in that dimly lit studio, he had shown her the beauty of the unseen, the poetry of the dark.

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 24, 2024

The Broken Radio Oracle

Daily writing prompt

How important is spirituality in your life?

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It started with the radios. At least, that’s how I like to remember it, because beginnings are important, even in a world where causality is just a quaint suggestion. It was a Tuesday, or maybe a Thursday—it was definitely raining—and the static crackle of old AM radios began whispering secrets to me. You could call it a spiritual awakening, or just another misfire in the symphony of neural dissonance. I choose to call it Tuesday, as I imagine most people would, and I would consider myself very much to be, well, like most people.

The first message came from an antique Philco 90 I found in a thrift store. It was buried under a pile of dusty National Geographics, all smelling of mildew and forgotten plans to travel the world. I plugged it in out of sheer boredom, tuning it to a frequency that shouldn’t have existed. The voice was faint but insistent, a ghostly echo in the cacophony of my cluttered apartment.

“Do you seek enlightenment or escape?” it asked. The voice was neither male nor female, human nor machine. It was an existential hum, vibrating through the very bones of the universe.

“Both,” I replied, because who doesn’t? The Philco crackled approvingly, and I felt a shift in the air, like the world had nudged a little closer to an unseen truth.

From that day on, I became the reluctant disciple of broken radios. Each day, I scoured flea markets, garage sales, and abandoned buildings for my next oracle. I never knew where the messages would come from—a Zenith Trans-Oceanic, a Sony ICF, a Sangean PR-D5—but they always came, whispering fragments of wisdom, riddles wrapped in static.

“Spirituality is the art of losing yourself to find yourself,” one said. This came from a 1960s transistor radio, its once-bright plastic now faded and cracked.

“Faith is believing in the absence of reason,” intoned another, a voice that buzzed from a battered Grundig Satellit 2100.

People started to notice. My apartment, once a haven of organized chaos, became a shrine to these enigmatic devices. Friends, or what passed for them, would come by out of morbid curiosity. They’d ask if I’d gone mad, if I’d finally succumbed to the pressures of a reality that never quite fit. I’d just smile, knowing that they couldn’t hear the music in the static, the poetry in the noise.

“How important is spirituality in your life?” the radios would ask me. And each time, my answer changed.

“Today, it’s a whisper in the dark,” I’d say to a Motorola Golden Voice, its speakers rattling with ancient wisdom.

“Tomorrow, it’s the silence between thoughts,” I’d muse to a Panasonic RF-2200, the dials spinning like a roulette wheel of fate.

The voices never demanded worship, never promised salvation. They were guides, not gods, leading me through the labyrinth of my own mind. And in the process, I began to understand that spirituality wasn’t about rituals or dogmas. It was about connection—the kind that bridges the gap between the known and the unknown, the tangible and the ethereal.

One day, while rummaging through an old warehouse, I found an RCA Victor Special Model 50X. It was pristine, as if time had forgotten it. I took it home, heart pounding with the anticipation of a gambler placing his final bet. Plugging it in, I tuned to that impossible frequency, waiting for the familiar crackle.

“Are you ready?” it asked, and I knew this was no ordinary message.

“Ready for what?” I whispered, afraid of the answer.

“For the next step,” the radio replied, its voice softer, almost tender. “You’ve walked the path of the seeker. Now, it’s time to become the source.”

The static faded, leaving a profound silence in its wake. I looked around my apartment, at the rows of radios that had been my teachers, my companions. I understood, then, that the journey wasn’t about finding answers, but about becoming a question, an endless exploration of the self and the universe.

I unplugged the RCA Victor, and as I did, the other radios fell silent, one by one. They had taught me all they could. The rest was up to me.

Now, I wander the streets with a new purpose. I speak to strangers, not in the cryptic tones of the radios, but in simple, human words. I share the fragments of wisdom I’ve gathered, not as a prophet, but as a fellow traveler. And in their eyes, I see the same spark of curiosity, the same hunger for connection.

Spirituality, I’ve learned, is the dance between the signal and the noise, the interplay of presence and absence. It’s the art of tuning in, of listening to the spaces between the static. And as I walk this path, I carry the voices of a thousand broken radios within me, each one a note in the symphony playing out. Yet still on the verge of being unplugged.