Worried

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“But, you have kids?”

Scott’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Yeah?”

“Doesn’t it worry you? With all the shootings and . . . everything?”

His jaw tightened. He held out the gun he’d been showing off. “Does it worry you?” Moving with practiced efficiency, he dropped the clip, showing it empty of bullets, opened the chamber, displaying the same. Finally, he pointed to the safety, which was engaged. “Trust me,” he said soberly, “I know what I’m doing. This gun isn’t in danger of killing anyone.”

“But . . . you have kids,” she repeated. “Aren’t you worried about—”

“Of course I am.” Scott spat. He holstered the gun, but kept his hand firmly on the grip. “Connor and Jamie know gun safety. I’ve taken them to the shooting range. They know what they’re doing.”

And they did.

Twelve days later, Connor deliberately unlocked the gun cabinet. He placed the bullets into the magazine one by one, inserted the clip into the gun until it clicked, pulled the slide loading a bullet in the chamber, then carefully released the safety. All was quiet. The gun was heavy and cold in his hand. But it warmed.

“Fuck,” Connor whispered. “Fuck everything.” He pointed the gun at himself.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Curse

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“What just happened?” she asked, rubbing her forehead.

He sighed picking up the golfball that was rolling around at their feet, “It’s the curse.”

“You were serious about that?”

A somber nod. “Every time I sneeze, someone around me gets hurt.”

“But where did the golfball even come from?”

He shrugged, “From a black hole, a magic portal, the universe’s butthole. It’s just my bad luck.”

For a moment they sat in silence. He fiddled with the golfball. She rubbed the growing welt on her forehead.

“So how do you break it?” she asked.

“Well,” he glanced at her nervously. “I’m supposed to,”

“What?”

“A kiss.”

“Oh,” she straightened, “you mean—”

“No, no,” he stammered, “I wasn’t trying to—”

“You mean you don’t want to kiss me?”

“I . . . that’s not . . .” he grinned, then quickly wiped the smile from his face. “I just wouldn’t want you to feel pressured.”

She shifted a little closer. “Well there’s no harm in trying, right?”

He shrugged, nodded, smiled. “Right.”

They leaned in, paused. Their eyes met, then so did their lips.

Magical.

“Did it work?”

“I don’t think so,” he answered. “We better try again.”

She grinned. “You’re full of shit.” They kissed again.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Lucky

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“We’re gonna be lucky,” Hank said. The fields were dotted with white, and his brow was beaded with sweat “It’ll be a good crop.”

“You’ve done me proud, boy,” his father answered. “You’re actually going to save this place.”

“Just a few more weeks till harvest,” he said. “It’ll all be worth it.” And so he headed out to the field east of the creek, continuing his weekly routine of walking the fields, inspecting the cotton from the ground level.

***

“Just a few more weeks,” Hank said to his wife when she met him on the porch.

She replied by holding out her phone, lit up with a picture of spiraling clouds. “You been tracking this storm?”

Hank barely spared a glance. “We’re gonna be lucky,” he said, pulling off his boots “It’s supposed to miss us. We’ll have time to get the harvest in.”

***

They didn’t.

The storm took a sharp turn inland, then stalled. Ravaging winds, torrential downpours, debris, flooding. All Hank’s investments were a loss, his work wasted. But after the winds subsided, he stepped outside to examine the old elm that had fallen just a few feet from the house. “Lucky,” he muttered. “We’re so lucky.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Flashlight

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Quinn knew they couldn’t ignore the flashlight for long. Ignoring footsteps was easy. Ignoring cars was even easier; their rising and falling noise could be almost soothing. Voices were tricky, especially the boisterous ones spilling out of the pub at the other end of the alley. But they always moved on eventually.

The flashlight didn’t move. “You can’t stay here, son,” a gruff voice declared.

Quinn finally opened their eyes, glaring into light. It was impossible to discern any features of the individual, but even so Quinn knew exactly what sort of person was staring down at them. “Fine,” they croaked, and began hauling themself up from the makeshift bed. The spotlight never left. They almost felt like taking a bow.

“You need a place to go?” the officer asked.

Why else do you think I’m sleeping behind the dumpster? Quinn thought. But they simply mumbled, “I’m good,” and began shuffling down the alley. The flashlight followed.

“It’s going to be cold tonight, son” the officer offered. “Better to be somewhere warm, with four walls around you.”

Quinn kept walking. “I’m nobody’s son,” they said without looking back. They followed the shadow ahead of them, moving resolutely into the unknown.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Hot

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“Balls!” Joselyn hissed. She clenched her fist tightly and pounded the counter waiting for the burning to subside.

“Everything okay?” Eddie called.

“Oh yeah,” Joselyn called out wincing, “just dandy.” Moments later she stepped into the room holding two mugs of tea, steam rising in wisps and curls. “Careful,” she said, holding out one of the mugs “it’s really hot.”

“Oh,” he said gingerly accepting the proffered mug. “Thanks.”

Joselyn settled into the couch beside him and blew on her own cup of tea. She glanced over at Eddie to see why he hadn’t pressed play to resume the movie and found that he was staring at her instead, a slight grin tugging at his lips. “What?”

“You sipped my tea,” he said.

Joselyn panicked. “Is that… I thought it would be okay. I mean, we’ve already made out, I figured… but I know it’s different with drinks. I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay.”

“I just thought—”

“No, no,” he insisted. “That’s not,” he paused, gathered his thoughts, looked at her with a tender smile. “You burned your tongue for me.”

Joselyn suddenly felt warm all over, and not from the tea. “I… I guess I did, yeah.”

“I love you too.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox