Fred Aiken Writing

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.