Short Story | Fred Aiken Writing

June 6, 2024

A Retreat

Samuel Tierney had meticulously crafted plans for his escape. Not ordinary plans, mind you, but the kind of plans that involved layers of confirmations and contingencies, an overnight bag with clothes neatly rolled, and an itinerary that balanced spontaneity with precision. His destination was a lakeside cabin, a retreat whispered about in the office corridors, promising solitude and rejuvenation.

He had been looking forward to the retreat all summer long. He never liked going to the cabin during tourism season, so he specifically chose the first week of fall when the trees shed their leaves and the locals started making apple cider to sell at random corners of the town’s intersections.

It was a Friday morning, the sky overcast and heavy with the threat of rain. Samuel, sipping his single-origin coffee, navigated the morning’s emails with practiced efficiency. His gaze settled on an email from the weather service, its subject line unremarkable but foreboding: Severe Weather Alert. He clicked it open, scanning the forecast for the area he intended to visit—thunderstorms, possible flooding. He read it twice, hoping for a different outcome on the second pass, but the words remained stubbornly the same.

His bag sat by the door like an abandoned, injured animal, a silent testament to his thwarted plans. Each item carefully chosen, each fold in his clothes a small act of hope. The weather report sat in his mind like a stone, heavy and immovable. He called the cabin’s owner, Marjorie, a woman with a voice as warm as the cabin’s hearth. She confirmed the forecast, her tone carrying a weight of caution. “We don’t want anyone getting stuck out here,” she said, the practicality in her voice smoothing over any disappointment.

Samuel hung up and stood in his living room, the silence pressing in around him. His apartment, usually a sanctuary of order and control, felt suddenly small and stifling. The decision to cancel the trip settled on him like the gray clouds outside. He could see himself at the cabin, wrapped in a blanket, watching the storm rage over the lake, feeling a kind of clarity and solitude that seemed just out of reach now.

He drafted a quick email to his colleague, the one who had extolled the virtues of the cabin. “Looks like the universe had other plans,” he wrote, trying to find humor in the mundane act of canceling. The reply came swiftly, a mix of sympathy and understanding that did little to lighten the weight of his thwarted intentions.

Samuel returned his bag to the closet, the paperback novel he had intended to read slipping back onto the shelf with a whisper of regret. He sank onto his couch, the remote heavy in his hand as he contemplated the empty hours ahead. The apartment felt too still, the usual hum of city life outside muted by the impending storm.

He made himself a cup of tea, the ritual calming in its familiarity. The rain began to patter against the windows, a gentle, insistent reminder of the plans he had made and unmade. He opened his laptop, the screen casting a soft glow in the dim room. Words began to flow, haltingly at first, then with more certainty. It wasn’t the lakeside cabin, but it was a kind of solitude nonetheless. He wrote a note that he intended to send to the office letting them know that he would no longer be coming into work. He did not clarify.

The storm outside picked up, the rain a steady drumming that filled the quiet. Samuel found a small comfort in its rhythm.

June 5, 2024

I Dream of Chocolate

Daily writing prompt

Describe your dream chocolate bar.

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When I was eight, I had a vivid dream, perhaps a lucid dream, that has stayed with me ever since, a dream that sparked an unending quest for the perfect, most peculiar chocolate bar. It was a rainy autumn evening, and I was tucked in bed, the patter of rain on the window lulling me to sleep. In my dream, I found myself in a magical candy shop, where the air was thick with the scent of cocoa and an unexpected hint of elusive ingredients my mind was too inexperienced to fully comprehend.

The shopkeeper, a kindly old man with twinkling eyes, beckoned me forward. He handed me a bar wrapped in iridescent foil, its weight heavy and promising in my small hands. “This,” he said, his voice a warm whisper, “is the Chocolate of Dreams.”

I unwrapped it slowly, the foil crinkling under my fingers, revealing a rich, dark chocolate that glistened in the soft light of the shop. As I took a bite, the world around me seemed to transform. The chocolate was unlike anything I had ever tasted—it was as if the essence of every happy memory and comforting moment had been distilled into this single bar, but with an eccentric twist.

The first layer was a smooth, dark chocolate, but infused with the unexpected flavor of bergamot and sea salt. It melted on my tongue, releasing a burst of flavors that reminded me of breezy summer afternoons spent by the sea, the salt air mingling with the aroma of blooming citrus trees.

As I bit deeper, I encountered a layer of creamy avocado mousse, its rich, buttery texture blending seamlessly with the dark chocolate. It was reminiscent of lazy Sunday lunches after church, where the smoothness of ripe avocados met the savory satisfaction of freshly baked bread.

And as I kept eating I discovered more and more flavors. Hidden within the mousse were tiny, crunchy bits of candied lavender petals, adding a delightful crunch that evoked memories of walking through fields of wildflowers, each step releasing a fragrant symphony underfoot.

The very center of the bar held the most surprising element—a smooth, velvety ganache infused with the subtle warmth of saffron and the unexpected zest of wasabi. It was a gentle heat that spread through me, like the excitement of a new adventure, or the thrill of an unexpected discovery.

As I finished the last bite, the dream began to fade, but the taste and the feeling of that chocolate bar stayed with me. I woke up with a sense of longing and wonder, and an insatiable desire to find that perfect, peculiar confection. For a brief moment, my young mind thought the Chocolate of Dreams could be real. But I also had a fever of one hundred and six, so it could have been a hallucination.

Though despite knowing that it was all a dream, and one that I had as a child and with a fever, I still hold out a small inkling of hope that one day I’ll find that perfect, indescribable, sugary-delight that I know as the Chocolate of Dreams.

June 3, 2024

Sir Cyrius the Serious Makes Pancakes

Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort woke with a singular mission rattling in his knight’s helmet. He told himself he would make pancakes. He went through his usual routine and put on his heirloom of polished steel, which sat atop a crisply tailored suit and tie and went down into the kitchen to begin his batter.

Elara, an artist and occasional poet, slept in as he began to cook breakfast. She barely stirred, but her subconscious, sleeping mind still registered that her knightly boyfriend was no longer in bed. Sir Cyrius and Elara had only begun dating in the past two months, but they already felt like they knew each other for a lifetime.

He stood at the stove, helmet glinting in the morning light, moving with the precision of a knight before a holy relic. Flour, eggs, and milk transformed under his hands, the ingredients coming together like the components of an ancient spell.

Elara, wrapped in a robe of soft indigo, awakened and came down to watch him from the kitchen island. Her laughter, a melody of affection, danced through the air. She adored this man of contradictions, his solemn demeanor paired with his anachronistic armor.

“Sir Cyrius, you know you can take off the helmet,” she teased gently, her voice like a warm breeze. But she knew what his response would be. In the two months that they had been together, Sir Cyrius had never removed his helmet in front of her.

“Duty does not permit such liberties,” he replied, his voice resonating within the helmet. “Even in the making of pancakes.”

Her laughter was like a gentle chime, filling the loft with lightness. She stepped closer, her bare feet whispering against the concrete, and stood beside him. He measured flour with the precision of a scholar, cracked eggs with the deliberation of a surgeon, and whisked the batter with the rhythm of a maestro.

The batter sizzled on the griddle, releasing the aroma of vanilla and promise. Sir Cyrius flipped each pancake with a flourish, the golden discs stacking up like small victories.

Elara, with her artist’s touch, set the table with a flourish. A vase of fresh wildflowers—daisies and lavender—stood at the center, flanked by glasses of orange juice that glowed like captured sunlight. Berries, whipped cream, and syrup waited in anticipation.

When the last pancake was placed on the stack, Sir Cyrius removed his apron and saluted Elara with the spatula still clad in his hand, a knight’s gesture of completion of his noble task. He carried the plate to the table with a reverence that turned the mundane into the sacred.

They sat across from each other, the armored knight and the artist in her robe, a portrait of harmonious contrasts. As they began to eat, Elara reached out, her fingers brushing the cold steel of his gauntlet, a touch that bridged their worlds.

“Thank you, Cyrius. For the pancakes.”

He nodded, the helmet inclining slightly. “It is my honor, Elara.”

She caught a glimpse of Sir Cyrius’ five-o-clock shadow, despite the early hours.

The two shared a quiet moment as they masticated on Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort’s pancakes. Sir Cyrius ate his stacks without any syrup, while Elara poured a generous serving of blueberry flavored syrup on hers.