Scouts

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“We should go back,” Lobu said, trying to sound decisive instead of scared, “fetch the warriors.”

“And attack travelers unprovoked?” Tayin replied, “You would break the second directive?”

“N-no,” Lobu stammered. “I . . . it’s just—”

“Those aren’t simple travelers,” Akiley interjected. She perched on a rock as still as a warding stone, watching the shapes moving below. “They’re monsters.”

“The look like people to me,” Tayin said, unable to keep the derision out of her voice.

“But their hall,” Lobu said uncertainly. “It—it flew! And it’s shaped just like . . .”

“Like Casket,” Tayin admitted. She had been as scared as anyone when that gleaming metallic form crashed through the sky with fire in its wake. But unlike most in her village, Tayin had actually visited Casket. All she had found there was a ruin. Now she knew what it had once been.

“They came from the darkness above,” Akiley spat. “What else could they be but monsters? Emissaries of the evil stars come to poison the Promised Land.”

Lobu was backing away, eyes wide. Akiley glared from her disdainful perch. Tayin shrugged. “Our ancestors came from the stars too.” she said. And she climbed down the ridge to greet her kin.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Puzzles

Posted on by gmfx

I never understood how you could just walk away from an unfinished puzzle. You never understood how I could keep staring at one for hours, even when I was barely making progress.

“You’re rushing me.”

“No, I’m saying come back to it later. That’s like the complete opposite of rushing you.”

“Let me just put in this one piece.”

Sometimes, I look at you and see an unfinished puzzle. It’s the moments when you catch me staring and ask if you’ve got something on your face. I always answer, “No, you’re perfect,” and you smile back. A sweet, sad smile. And I think, What am I missing?

“There’s always one more piece.”

“Well at least I care enough to actually try.”

“Stop acting like it’s a crime for me to have my own opinion.”

Sometimes, in the middle of an ugly fight, I look at you and see a jumbled mess: pieces missing, pieces hidden, pieces that don’t fit together the way I thought they did. And I think, How did I get it so wrong?

Some of our worst fights have started with puzzles. We keep doing them together anyway. And together we fill in each other’s missing pieces.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (X)

Posted on by gmfx

Sam hadn’t thought this through. There was more he wanted to ask his ex-wife – there had always been more that he wanted to say to her – but like so many conversations before, he floundered. A familiar feeling of shame choked him as he imagined the face Angela was probably making on the other end of the call, waiting impatiently for him to say something. To say anything. He had to say something.

“Who are you talking to?” Kit had flung the door open with her usual gusto and was now shoving a cup of steaming hot coffee into Sam’s face.

“Hey, I gotta go,” Sam said hurriedly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“You really don’t have to,” Angela replied.

“Sam,” Kit growled still holding the coffee right in front of his face.

“Yeah. Bye,” Sam said before dropping the phone and taking the coffee from Kit.

“What’s up?” she asked as she pulled on her seatbelt.

“Nothing.” Kit threw a suspicious glance at her partner. She had already put the keys in the ignition, but she didn’t start the car. Sam looked her direction, but was unable to maintain eye contact. “What?” he asked.

“What’s up?” she repeated more slowly.

“I had to make a phone call.” Sam knew he was being awkward, and he knew what Kit would say if he mentioned Angela. And he really didn’t want to think about the teasing that would follow if he explained why he had called his ex. So, to avoid the conversation, he took a nice casual swig of coffee. “Mmmfffg, ahh!” he choked.

“Yeah,” Kit said. “It’s hot.” She maintained a level gaze of scrutiny as Sam recovered and fished for napkins to clean up the coffee he had managed to spit onto the dashboard.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, still avoiding eye contact.

Kit just sighed. “It was her, wasn’t it?” Sam didn’t say anything, just directed a particularly intense focus on the little tasks of wadding up the napkins, shoving them into a cup holder, and blowing on his coffee. His face was red, and his mouth was drawn into a thin line. Kit wasn’t going to let him get away with anything though “I thought you weren’t going to talk to her anymore.”

“You say that like it’s easy,” Sam grunted into his coffee.

“Didn’t you delete her number?”

“Yes.”

“So she called you?”

“I . . . had her number memorized.”

With a roll of her eyes, Kit finally started the car. “For god’s sake, Sam. Get your shit together.”

“My shit’s my own business,” he answered gruffly. “Just because you’ve never . . .”

Jaw set tight, but otherwise unmoved, Kit waited. “Well?” she said at last. “Just because I’ve never what?”

“No,” Sam said, feeling a fresh shame rising around him, “Nothing.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Evangelical

Posted on by gmfx

“Wait, you never threw your secular music in a bonfire?” Ash asked in exaggerated shock. “Are you sure you grew up evangelical?”

“Please,” McKenzie replied. “I was wearing WWJD bracelets before and after they were cool.”

“Are we competing for something?” Ryan asked, looking around the circle at his friends.

“It’s easy,” Ash explained. “Since we all met at a Christian college, that means we’ve had some very niche experiences. Like, how many of you went to that Acquire the Fire rally?”

Groans and cheers in equal measure as more than half the group raised their hands.

“Weak,” said Hope.

“Excuse me?”

“This is all casual stuff,” she said. “I was getting into religious debates in my public high school.”

“Oh no,” McKenzie said. “What class?”

“Biology of course. Someone had to inform the teacher that the textbook was wrong about evolution.”

“You got me,” Ash admitted. “I was never that intense.”

“Alright, your turn, Ryan,” McKenzie said, “you were a pastor’s kid. You’ve gotta have something that can beat Hope”

“Oh. I . . . uh,” Ryan floundered. “I’m gay.”

. . .

“Wait, what are we competing for?”

“Honestly,” Ash said, “growing up evangelical and then coming out as an adult: pretty legit.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (IX)

Posted on by gmfx

“Get the coffee, alright?” Sam said.
“No way,” Kit shot back, “it’s your turn. Shotgun always makes the run.”
“Can you just get it?” he growled in a tone he generally reserved for scaring youths off of private property. Kit’s face soured, but she relented. With a disdainful shake of her head, she climbed out of the squad car and slammed the door. “I’m sorry,” he called after her. “I just need a minute.” Kit just blew a raspberry over her shoulder as she marched into the coffee shop. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sam opened his phone and made a call.
There were four painstaking rings before a woman answered in a harsh voice saying, “What do you want, Sam?”
“Hi, Angela,” he said with a passable attempt at genuine enthusiasm. “How are you?”
The enthusiasm was neither believed nor returned. “Why are you calling,” she asked.
“Alright, listen,” he said with a sigh, “I know this is kind of coming out of nowhere, but I need to ask you something.”
“What, Sam,” she asked in the tone of a brusque goodbye.
Like ripping off a band-aide, Sam hesitated, and then rushed all at once, saying, “What do you think my underwear says about me?”
A pause. Sam wondered if Angela actually had hung up the phone. Then with almost a hint of a laugh, she said, “Excuse me?”
“Look I know it’s a weird question, but . . . it’s kind of important,” he mumbled.
“Are you drunk?”
“Am I—it’s the middle of the day,” Sam said, raising his voice even more. “Why would you think I’m drunk?”
“Are you?” she asked with probing sharply.
“No,” he retorted. “I’m not drunk. I’m on the job.”
“Did you just say you’re drunk on the job?”
“I—what?” Sam said, growing more flustered. “Angela, I’m a cop.”
Her shrug was practically audible. “You hear a lot of different things about cops these days.”
“Will you just answer the question?”
Having been annoyed by the conversation since the moment she answered the phone, Angela sighed and said, “I don’t know, Sam.”
“Okay, but one year, for my birthday,” he said hurriedly, “you gave me a pair of silk briefs. Did that mean something?”
The next sigh was much louder and more pointed. “It meant I thought you would look good in them.”
Sam watched the coffee shop door anxiously, knowing that his partner would return at any moment. “Alright, but then one Christmas you gave me a pair of boxers with footballs on them,” he said, still speaking quickly. “What about that?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever,” Angela answered. “I guess I thought they would be fun. Football was one of the only things I ever saw you get really excited about, so I thought you might like some boxers with footballs on them.”
“But I always wore boxer briefs,” Sam said anxiously, “not boxers.”
“Well the store only had that pattern on boxers. Would you have worn them even if they were the right style of underwear?” Sam made several noises like he was trying to speak, but no answer ever came. “I thought so,” Angela said at last.
“So what does that say about me?” Sam asked, exasperated that Angela couldn’t answer some simple questions about the significance of his undergarments. Her icy attitude was also frustrating. Obviously, their history made things complicated, but she was the only person who had ever been able to offer him comfort on the rare occasions that he reached this level of emotional distress. It seemed reasonable to Sam that a dead real estate tycoon wearing his style of boxer briefs was significant enough to warrant a breach of their usual silence.
Of course, he hadn’t explained any of that to her. So when Angela’s answer came, it had an air of calm finality. “I think you lost the right to ask me questions about your underwear when we got divorced.”

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Gravity

Posted on by gmfx

“What do you mean, no?” Denise couldn’t quite keep the panic out of her voice as she asked the question. Alarms for two different patients chimed loudly, the phone she carried was ringing again, and she still hadn’t had a chance to clean the puke off her shoe.

Monica, meanwhile, remained unmoved by the chaos of the busy surgical unit. “That’s Dr. Melnik’s patient, right? The kid with the double mastectomy?”

“Right,” Denise said. Her eyes flitted toward the bed just a few feet away from them where the patient slept. “They’re ready up on the floor, and we’ve got another—”

“Yeah, someone else can take her,” Monica said, turning away.

“You have to,” Denise insisted, voice growing almost as shrill as the chimes that surrounded them. “Just because you’re uncomfortable with—”

“I’m not taking her,” Monica announced with a glare of finality over her shoulder.

“Him,” a soft voice replied. The patient’s eyes were open, staring fixedly at Monica. No animosity. No challenge. Just a calm demand for dignity. One word spoken with a gravity that could change orbits. Monica realized this sixteen year-old understood himself better than she had ever known herself. Face red, eyes wet, she fled.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Betrayal

Posted on by gmfx

Late night was turning into early morning when something inside her finally broke. She couldn’t deny what was happening, even though she would like to. “So this is it?” she asked, giving in to pain and exhaustion. “After all this time?” Her throat spasmed, voice cracked. “Do . . . do you have any idea how much I loved you?”

No answer of course. She felt the knot tightening around her belly again. Another up-welling of agony. Another spiral into the abyss.

It had all started with a date at a trendy brew-pub all those years ago. They had split an order of parmesan truffle fries. That’s when she knew—from the first taste of those crisp, tangy fries—she was in love. And over all these years, she had been faithful, ordering the same fries almost every time she visited that brewery, each experience as satisfying as that first.

And now this. Betrayal of the most visceral kind.

Had she been stress eating? Of course. Was the high ABV pint she’d ordered a part of this too? Undoubtedly. But there was only one thing she could blame for the chunks floating in her toilet bowl.

“Alright,” she muttered in resignation. “It’s over.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Newt

Posted on by gmfx

“Cohen!” 

Not today, the boy thought. He knew the tone in his mother’s voice meant a bath. But he was ready. He had been practicing. “Abra ka-dabra, zala-ka-zoot!” Cohen said. “Turn this boy into a newt!” A spark, a pop, a puff, and he had transformed. 

Newt-Cohen peered between the leaves of the shrub he had been hiding behind. On the porch, his mother scanned the property with predatory keenness, but passed right over his hiding spot without even a pause. 

He was free!

Through the garden, out the gate, down the hill to the creek. It was one of Cohen’s favorite places to play. Fresh, cool water, soft, squishy mud, and somehow Cohen knew instinctively that the river bank was a variable candy store of yummy bugs and worms. 

Cohen froze. The shadows at the base of a nearby bush emanated a primal menace. 

He should flee. He should change back. He just needed to remember the words. 

A serpentine head emerged from the undergrowth. Dark, beady eyes and violent green scales.

Cohen was panicking, but still couldn’t find the words. 

The snake opened its mouth.

“Cohen Eidelberg!” It shrieked in his mother’s voice. “You come home this instant!”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Blizzard

Posted on by gmfx

Frost and steam.

Snowflakes glinting in the streetlamps. Breath on cold glass. Fingers tracing pictures; hands closing around ceramic that’s almost too hot to touch.

But only almost.

Mismatched mugs. Faded paint, familiar chips worn smooth. Marshmallows, plump and sticky, squishing together. Lips, stretching in smiles. Smiles tinted by chocolate and tinged with laughter.

Ice at the corners the window frame. Beads of water gathering, trickling down.

Comfort.

Curiosity.

Curtains.

Small explosions. Butter and salt. One big bowl. A blanket not quite big enough for two. Two bodies beneath it anyway. Darkened lamps and LCD glow. Static sparks jumping between hands.

Wind whistling down empty streets. Snow drifts like frozen waves, slowly swallowing the whole world.

Touch.

Tension.

Trust.

Mouths opened for laughter, for popcorn, for words unspoken, unutterable, and unnecessary. Shoulders, elbows, knees, hips.

Belts and buttons.

Couch and carpet.

The sudden darkness and silence of a blackout.

Fumbling hands, groping, seeking. Dancing flashlights. Shy matches and eager sparks. A constellation of candles. More blankets. Wine and skin. Heat.

Desire.

Delight.

Dreams.

The gentle approach of a winter dawn on a soft, white world. Shapes blurred, sound muffled, movement stilled.

Waking. Whispers. Eyes full of wonder. Full of light.

Underwear (VIII)

Posted on by gmfx

She was smirking. He was sure of it. And it was driving Sam crazy.

Kit had been walking with a mirthful spring in her step when they left the station, and Sam had gotten the distinct impression that it was due to some joke at his expense. Now he was trapped behind the wheel of the squad car, that feeling had only grown. His eyes flicked toward his partner and sure enough, she was smirking. Sam sighed. “Something you want to say?”

“Who, me?” she replied. “Nothing to say. I’m just curious about something.”

“Go on then?” Sam said. He was determined to keep his eyes on the road now, but he still new that Kit’s smirk had widened into a grin.

“Boxers or briefs?”

Sam clenched his jaw. He’d known something like this was coming. Kit was not the sort to let a joke die. “Why are you so curious?” he asked with a thin hope of turning the teasing back on her.

Kit was completely unfazed. “You’re wearing briefs aren’t you?”

Sam had the distinct impression that she was examining his pants, looking for some sort of tell. “You think I care about your opinion on my underwear?” He shot back.

Y”ou should! Everyone knows I have impeccable taste.” Sam shook his head, but didn’t say anything further. This seemed to be the same as an answer for Kit. “Sooooo…” she began, intonation dripping with implication, “classic tighty-whities, or did you go for a more daring shade? Every man should have a pair of black—”

“Gray,” Sam cut in.

“Gray? Well it’s pretty boring, but—”

“Boxer-briefs.”

“You’re still wearing the dead guy underwear?” she exploded. “After all your brooding yesterday, you still—”

“I was not brooding.”

“You’re doing it right now!” she said, almost delighted. “You look like you’re trying to get your eyebrows to touch your lips.”

It was such a startling comment that Sam momentarily took his eyes off the road to glance at his own reflection in the mirror. Dammit, she had a point. Kit must have seen the realization hit because she immediately started cackling.

“It’s just underwear!” he exclaimed. But the mantra was no more convincing to Kit than it had been any of the times he had repeated it to himself over the last 24 hours.

“A deeeeead man’s undearweeeeear! Spoooooky!” she said before bursting into a fresh bout of giggles.

Sam’s face was hot. His hands grew sweaty on the wheel. “I have the underwear I have,” he said. It came out softly, not forceful, not a shout. Just a helpless declaration. But something about it must have made an impression on Kit, because her laughter trailed off almost immediately.

They drove in silence for a full minute, both of them staring straight ahead. Then Kit finally spoke. “Boxers.”

“What?”

“Orange, with little dinosaurs on them.”

“Are you…?”

Kit shrugged. “Now you know what sort of underwear I’m wearing too.”

Another moment of silence as the statement settled in. “You wear boxers?” Sam asked.

Kit shrugged. “They’re comfy.” She was smirking again, but this time Sam was included. “There’s a whole world of underwear options out there, Sam. You’ve just gotta think outside the boxer-briefs.”

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox