Cooking

Posted on by gmfx

“What are you doing?”

He lifted the long-handled wooden spoon from the pan and set it in the spoon rest by the stove. “Cooking,” he said plainly.

“I . . .” she looked around the apartment as if expecting to see someone or something other than a normal, slightly untidy apartment. “I can see that.”

“Mhm,” he said, wafting the steam toward his nose, breathing in the aroma. “I’m glad you’re home.”

She finally crossed the room and set the paper bags on the table.  Stepping fully into the kitchen she discovered an array of dishes and foods. “You cooked all this?” He nodded, pinching some spices into the pan. She watched him stirring vigorously. “I brought takeout. I thought you’d be . . .”

His stirring slowed. “Because I was fired?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged. “That job was . . .” she trailed off.

He nodded, but didn’t say anything else.

“Are you okay?”

He sighed, looked around the kitchen, looked out the window, looked at his partner. “My fingers smell like garlic. This afternoon, I got to watch the clouds part after a thunderstorm. I’m pretty sure I burned the bread. I can hear swing music from our neighbor’s apartment. I’m here with you. I’m . . . I’m alive.”

Photo by Harry Grout on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Adored

Posted on by gmfx

“Who do you think she was?”

Marie was photographing the spiraling volutes of a broken column. She straightened to look back at Tess, then joined her before the enormous sculpted head resting on the ground. “She’s lovely.”

Tess nodded, dark curls bouncing. “It’s her eyes. She looks like she’s surprised she’s being worshipped.”

“The guidebook says this temple was dedicated to a goddess named—”

“Not the goddess,” Tess interrupted. She took a step forward, leaned across the velvet rope and rested a hand on the statue’s forehead. “Her.”

“The . . . model?” Marie stammered. She started flipping through her guidebook, though she knew it would be useless. “I don’t . . . I’m not sure,” she trailed off. Tess wasn’t really expecting an answer anyway. Marie felt a familiar heartache, wishing that her friend’s expression of wonder might be directed at her instead of a statue.

“Who were you looking at?” Tess asked the marble.

“You,” Marie whispered. “It’s always been you.”

Tess turned sharply, “Did you—”

“I—I wasn’t . . .”

But in that brief moment, with Marie’s guard down, Tess had glimpsed love. It filled her: radiant, expansive, beautiful. She gasped. Anyone looking at Tess at that moment might have believed they witnessed the divine.

* * *

Photo by Jiannis Tsiliakis on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Shoes

Posted on by gmfx

It shouldn’t have taken so long for her to get someone’s attention. Finally, she caught a clerk’s eye. “Is there . . . something I can help you with?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said with a bright smile. “Those.”

His eyes followed her pointing finger to a shoe perched on the highest display shelf. The double take was unmistakable. “I can show you something a little more . . .” she saw the hesitation as he glanced at her chair, then said, “practical. If you want.”

“No,” she answered. “I want these. Size eight.”

She sat with the box in her lap, surprised by her own giddiness. Despite already knowing exactly what the box contained, she couldn’t resist feeling elated when she lifted the lid and saw the shoes there, nestled in the folds of parcel paper. They were perfect. Bright red, thin, elegant straps, a spiked heel. She lifted first her left foot, then her right to put them on and swiveled to face the mirror. They were perfect.

She rushed to answer the doorbell’s chime. Turning the knob, then rolling back, she opened the door to admit her date. He stepped in, smiling.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hi. You . . .” his grin widened, “you look great.”

Photo by Castorly Stock

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Cave

Posted on by gmfx

I
I’ve found a cave I can use for shelter. It’s dry and surprisingly warm, and I’m alone here. There’s enough light to write at the moment, but darkness is coming. I’ll make a fire soon. Maybe tomorrow I’ll move on.

II
Yesterday wasn’t my first day here, but it was the first day I wrote something down.  I think it’s been a couple weeks now. I didn’t think it would be this long.

V
This journal was a dumb idea. I have nothing to say.

VI
I should leave. I can’t stay here forever.

VIII
Something came into the cave today. It stayed at the entrance, but I think it knew I was here. I’m not sure what it was. I was too afraid to move. But what if it was a person? 

XI
It was back today. I called out this time, but there was no response. I’m sure something was in the cave though, even if there were no footprints outside.

XVII
It comes into the cave every night.  It might be in here right now. I should leave.

XXV
It’s waiting for me. The dark. It is the dark. The end. It won’t let me go.

Photo by Alessio Zaccaria on Unsplash 

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Fart

Posted on by gmfx

They were together at the table, just finishing their meal when it happened. “What the—” Andrew started. “Did you just . . . fart?”

“What . . . ?” Sara replied still looking at her food. “I—maybe. Yeah, I guess so.” She stabbed fiercely at the last baby corn in her stir fry. “Everyone farts. Why are you making such a big deal about it?”

“Because until today,” Andrew said, “you had never farted in front of me.”

Cheeks flushed, still avoiding eye contact, Sara said. “You’re being gross, and super awkward. It was just a fart. Can’t you let it go?”

Andrew shook his head slowly, deliberately. “I will never let it go.”

“Fine,” Sara shouted, slamming her fork down on the table. “Sorry for ruining our relationship with my flatulence. I guess you’ll just have to dump me and keep looking for that fairy tale woman with no bodily functions to date.” She pushed away from the table, but Andrew grabbed her hand.

“Wait,” he said. “You don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?” Looking at him for the first time, she saw his eyes wide, brow furrowed, jaws tense. “What is that face?”

Pthhhppuuuurbbbbt, he farted. “I love you too.”

“You’re disgusting,” Sara said smiling.

Photo by Ishan @seefromthesky on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Cold

Posted on by gmfx

It’s cold.

‘Course it’s cold, what’s the point of even commenting on something like that? It’s colder than usual though. And usually I’m not walking around in it. But he took my spot.

So now I’m cold. Cold and scared.

No, I’m not scared. It’s not worth it to be scared. Only thing to be is moving. Keep moving. Just gotta make it to the bridge, then I can rest. It’s dry under there, and no wind.  Not as good as my spot, but better than nothing.

Where’d that guy come from anyway? Never seen him around. He shouldn’t have taken my spot. It was the best spot, especially when it’s this cold. Can’t fight. No sense in fighting a guy like that. No more spot. And I can’t go back to the tents. No more tents either. Just the cold.

Snow’s starting again. Headlights coming fast.  There they go. Almost to the bridge. Lots of folks know the bridge, but maybe some of them are inside tonight. Maybe I’ll be able to stay there. Just for a bit. Then I’ll keep moving.

It’s getting colder. But I’m not afraid anymore. I’m not moving anymore either. When did I stop?

* * *

Photo by Aditya Vyas on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Clinging

Posted on by gmfx

“I can’t do this anymore.”

We were used to shouting at each other. Angry clashes and passionate reconciliation had always been our pattern, but then a simple, calm statement ended everything. I couldn’t even summon a response, just stared blankly, searching her face for some sort of explanation.

She shook her head. “Things were supposed to be different here.” I could hear a deep, searing pain in her voice. “You said they would be different.”

“I thought they were.”

She didn’t respond for a long time, just stood in the doorway. Finally she said, “My sister’s downstairs. She’ll give me a ride. The apartment is yours now.” A pause. “Goodbye.”

She must have shut the door, but I did not, could not watch her go. At some point, night fell.

At some point, I smashed a lamp and toppled a bookshelf. At some point, I ran out of liquor. “This is your fault,” I said at last.

A thin voice replied, “No.”

“We left everything to get away from you. You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“You . . .” the voice creaked, “brought me.”

“Leave me alone,” I pleaded.

“I . . . can’t.” And I sat in the darkness, clinging fiercely to my anger.

Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Reasons

Posted on by gmfx

“Can we talk?”

Leah turned to see Marci on the next stool. “I’d rather not,” she answered flatly and turned away.

“This is uncomfortable for me too,” Marci said, “but we have to talk about this.”

“About how you broke his heart?”

It was what Marci had expected, but it still made her cheeks burn with shame. “Well,” she offered, “if I hadn’t, you never would have gotten together.”

However, Leah’s next reply was entirely unexpected. “We’re not together,” she said, draining the amber liquid from her glass.

“I thought . . .”

Leah turned back, tears glistening in her eyes. “I don’t think he was ever really that interested. Anyway, he’s engaged now or something.”

“Oh,” Marci answered. A pause. “Me too.”

Leah let out a heavy, pained sigh. “Congratulations, I guess.”

The women sat silently in the noisy bar until Marci decided to make one last effort. “You know there’s a reason I left him, right?  There are . . . a lot of reasons.”

“Yeah,” Leah said, “He’s toxic. I get it.”

“If you get it, then why do you still hate me?”

Leah shook her head. “Like you said, if you hadn’t left him, he never would have gotten to hurt me.”

Photo by Austris Augusts on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Radiance

Posted on by gmfx

Saul spotted the faint shape in the shadows. “It’s time,” a voice whispered.

“I know,” Saul answered. “I feel weary. Life here has been hard.”

The shape was clarifying. A head tilted. “Then why cling to this life so fiercely?”

Saul sighed. “It’s been too long since you were among people. You’ve forgotten what they’re like.”

There was a face now, frowning. “I’ve watched them interact with you. Small petty things, easily wounded and readily cruel.”

“You misunderstand.”

“Do I? Have they not been cruel to you?”

Saul coughed. “They are brittle, yes. And their broken edges cut deep. But there is more to them.”

“What?”

Saul looked from the shadowy figure beside him to his family gathered around his hospital bed and now beginning to fade. “Light. They are vessels for it, carrying it inside and shining it into the darkness. Even the broken catch it, glinting radiance like shards of glass. To see a spark of curiosity, to hear music suffused with brilliance, to feel the warmth of a kind touch, these are why I cling to life. Their real tragedy is that they are all so desperate for it, rarely realizing how much they have to give.”

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Bronze

Posted on by gmfx

eye-384512_1920.jpg

Thomas found his name carved into a brass plate.

“Thomas Porter?” Maya asked. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a monument to you in this park?”

The bronze figure stood slightly larger than life in a classical contrapposto, arm extended magnanimously out to the city. A straight, sharp nose, thin lips smiling beneath a curling mustache.

“I try to keep a low profile,” Thomas joked, “that’s why I told them to use a white guy for the statue.”

“And you were city treasurer almost 200 years ago,” Maya said continuing to inspect the monument. “Didn’t know I was dating such a big-shot.”

Thomas just shrugged and continued walking. There was something unnerving about how the statue with his name on it looked down at them.

Maya spent the rest of their walk looking up what the internet could reveal about the other Thomas Porter: an oil painting in the state portrait museum, some mentions in the city’s history, and a “Historical Porter Plantation” just outside of town.

Thomas feigned disinterest, but he couldn’t shake the image of the other Thomas Porter’s imperious smile as he remembered how some slaves were given their masters’ surname to mark them as property.

*     *     *

Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay 

Story by Gregory M. Fox