Effervescence came rushing past her, airy and prismatic.

It burst.

Martina stopped short on the park sidewalk, uncertain whether she had even seen the bubble. She was just about to give up and continue on her way when another of the delicate spheres drifted past.

Silly little things, Martina thought to herself. She looked in the direction from which it had come, over a low, grassy hill. As she did, she saw several more bubbles drift over the top of the hill, though they popped before reaching. Silly old woman. She left the path and began climbing the small slope.

Over and down into a small cluster of trees. Bubbles were thick there, radiant with captured sunset and reflected green. She descended,. The bubbles rushed to meet her, then burst like kisses on her hand, like tears on her cheek, like whispered wishes.

“Hello Mom.”

She had stumbled out of the cloud of bubbles beside a young woman who had her same eyes.

Martina smiled. “I thought I’d find you if I just followed the—”

The bubble burst.

“Oh, but you’re . . . does that mean I’m . . . ?”

A somber nod. “I’m sorry.”

“No, darling,” Martina answered, eyes glistening with captured sunset, “I’m ready.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox


Jane rushed down the apartment steps, tense and flustered. “I don’t want to hear it,” she announced without even looking toward the man from apartment G.

Heavily lidded eyes glanced at her sidelong. An eyebrow rose with exaggerated slowness. “So you do know that it’s my month,” he said dryly.

Lights flashed as Jane unlocked her car. “It was an emergency,” she explained.

Ned’s expression and voice remained flat as he lingered outside. “There’s a schedule for a reason,” he remarked

She flung her purse into the car. “I know, I know. It won’t happen again.”

“That’s what you said last time,” he called out as his neighbor dove into the shelter of her car. With the door firmly shut and Ned’s lazy admonitions muffled, Jane let out a tense sigh. She started her car, glanced in the rearview mirror, and then—


“Yes?” Was that a grin on his dour features?

“What the hell is this?” she asked gesturing at the Saab parked directly behind her car.

“Chaos, Jane,” he said. “That’s what you get when you abandon the system.”

Though both residents apologized for what happened next, neither was ever allowed to use the reserved parking space again.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox


I used to marvel at the way stars passed. Then galaxies began to fade into the distance. The universe, vast as it is, can still become tedium when I have to watch it pass alone.

I keep moving. I try to keep my promise

There are moments of brilliance of course. Not all wonder has been lost. Stars burst and are reborn. Nebulae swirl. Color and light. Void. Dust, debris, and emptiness.

Sometimes the darkness seems endless. Distant pinpricks of light offer little comfort, no matter what worlds may orbit around them. Still I move forward – until I reach new lands. Ground beneath my feet, air to breathe, a sky. A place where I can plant the seeds and try to keep my promise.

For all that I have seen, a sky can still be a vast and wondrous thing. In such moments of solidity, I can find myself. I can even begin to find meaning. I forget which stars I have visited, which galaxies I have abandoned. I see only a sea of new constellations that yet have no names. As life takes root, I write our story in the stars. I let myself remember.

I let myself hope.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox


I know this beach. The thought strikes suddenly, and I pause my steps to look about. Don’t I?

“Something wrong?” you ask.

The waves sweep in, tumble over themselves and slip away. I try to find a landmark. Sea-foam surges; pebbles scramble around our feet, then fall still. I can’t find anything I can recognize or latch onto.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just déjà vu.”

We keep moving.

The wind whistles, rumbles, howls. It dances, it dies, it whips and thrashes. You move close enough that we bump and jostle each other as we walk. Waves come and go. Rolling, churning, crashing. My hand finds yours.

Then I remember.

Sand shifts. Waves throw detritus at the land and drag away whatever they can grab. Wind blasts away stick and stone and piles up slow, lumbering hills of grit. People build, abandon, tear down, start again.

I have been here before, I realize, Just not with you.

It roars in my ears. The endless advance and retreat, the constant change, always and never the same.

Our footsteps have already vanished behind us, and I feel the waves pulling sand from beneath my feet.

I grip your hand as tightly as I can.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox


He approached the fire cautiously, homemade spear outstretched. You never knew who you might come across in the bombed out streets. “Who’s there?” he called.

The bony figure was hunched over the dancing yellow flames suddenly unfolded itself, straightening up into the shape of a woman who turned to face him. “Tea?” she offered.

. . . . . . . .

“I thought it was the end.”

“Must have been quite embarrassing to realize your mistake,” she replied. They sat on opposite sides of the fire. She stirred sugar into her cup while he stared blankly into the fire.

“We all did,” he said. “Apocalypse. That’s what everyone said.”

“Frightfully overused word.” She took a careful sip and sighted contentedly. “Not a very helpful one either.”

“Not like it matters,” he grunted. “Nothing matters now. Everything’s gone.”

She shrugged. “You’re not gone. More importantly, I’m not gone. Though the tea soon will be, so you better drink some before I finish off the whole pot.”

His gaze drifted to the cast iron pot. “What’s the point?”

“Same as it was before, I imagine.”

Slowly, dully, he poured steaming liquid into his cup. He smelled chamomile, mint, orange blossoms, lemon grass. He breathed in, then out. He breathed.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox


“You’re looking for something,” Harry said, both a statement and a question, a lifeline for the newcomer who scanned the rows of shelves without seeming to see them at all.

The man blinked rapidly before focusing on the clerk in front of him. “Hello, yes. I need tubing and some compression fittings.”

Harry gave a confident nod and marched off toward aisle 3. “We’ve got a pretty good selection, all your basics. What’s it for. Air? Water? Gas?”

“Something like that.”

Harry paused mid-stride and spun to face the customer. “Something like that?” he asked arching a bushy gray eyebrow. “It makes a big difference. Are we talking about anything corrosive here? Or any high-pressure flow? Even if it’s just water, it matters whether it’s for drinking or not.”

“I see. Probably something for hydraulics then.”

“Probably.” Harry squinted at the stranger unsure if he was being evasive or just clueless. “Can I ask what exactly your project is?”

“I can show you,” he answered. Harry expected the man to withdraw a cellphone and show pictures or schematics. Instead, he unzipped his jacket. A chrome rib-cage. A tangle of wires, gears, and tubing.

“Oh…” Harry said. “You want Aisle 7.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox


“Are you still alive?”

She watched.

She waited.


“I mean, there’s no way you’re alive, right? He wouldn’t have left you here if you were alive.” She wondered, not for the first time, why her husband did the things he did. She shook her head. “This is silly. I’m being silly. I shouldn’t be this freaked out.” Still she hesitated. Her heartbeat accelerated, a frenetic pounding in her ears. Her breaths grew slow and shallow. This was a deep, primal fear, and logic alone wasn’t enough to overcome it, not when she could see the thing in front of her.

She watched.

She waited.

Would it really be so bad to make it all disappear? Then she could go on with her life without this anguished uncertainty.

“No!” she asserted. “I’m not going to let some silly fear run my life. I’m an adult, and you’re just an insect. A dead one at that.” No reply came from the curled up wasp floating in the toilet bowl. She nodded and began unbuckling her belt. But before sitting, there came one final moment of hesitation. “I know you’re dead, but . . . just don’t sting me down there okay?”

The wasp twitched.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox



The apartment may have been run down, but it was one of the best spots in the city to watch the annual fireworks in Memorial Park.

The kids in 3G held sparklers out into the night, eyes wide with wonder at the dancing lights that bathed their faces with color.

An earsplitting wail filled 2G, and the new parents cursed as they left the window to comfort their newborn baby.

The girl in 5A sat in the dark, watching expressionlessly as color washed over the wall, unsure whether she loved fireworks or hated them or why she should even care.

A dozen people had packed into 1C to watch Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum save the world from aliens.

The man in 4E crushed a can and let it fall to the sidewalk before reaching for another, waving off the girlfriend who encouraged him to take it easy.

They guys in 3A had an honest-to-god charcoal grill in their tiny kitchen, fan blowing greasy burger smoke into the night.

The lady in 1E cried herself to sleep, wondering where her son was and which of the explosions might be a gunshot.




* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox


The feeling that had been tickling my feet, enticing me to go deeper, suddenly withdrew. I was used to the coming and going of these bubbling feelings. It was fun to feel each new surge of excitement. And knowing I could never hold onto them anyway, I let those feelings trickle away without mourning. Whether I waited for it or not, there was always another wave on its way.

I thought I knew what love was.

It’s not like I had never waded out past the shore to immerse myself in that vast mystery. Liberating, exciting, breathtaking – all of it yes. But also exhausting and dangerous. Better to chart my own course than to get lost in the currents, though it’s not like the sea cared at all about my opinion on the matter.

Should I have seen it coming. What would I have done, what could I have done if I did?

It withdrew farther than it ever had before. I only gradually became aware of what I was missing. And by the time I did, nothing could prepare me for what was coming.

I thought I knew what love was.

And then a tidal wave swept me away.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox


She was looking at me and smiling. “What?”

“I tried to explain it to him,” she said.

“Psst,” a small voice hissed beside me. I peered over the arm of the couch to see my five year-old son smiling up at me.

“What’s up, Benji?”

He held up a handful of action figures, each one taped to a popsicle stick held tightly in his small fist. “Mom said it would be fun to get you a bouquet for Flower’s Day.”

“Flowers Day? But it’s—” My wife sushed me from the doorway. “Okay, sure. So these are…?”

“A bouquet of Fathers.”

“Fathers for Flower’s Day” I felt the smile taking over my face. “Ah, Darth Vader, I see. And the Mandalorian too.”

“Adopted dads count too,” Benji said seriously.

“Definitely. Who’s the police officer?”

“Andy Griffith.”

“Sure. And the animals?”

“That’s Mufasa.”

“Very good choice,” I confirmed. “And the gorilla?”

“That’s Mr. Incredible—um, because I lost my actual Mr. Incredible.”

I nodded, holding up the final figure. “James Bond, but you drew a mustache on him. Is this one me?

Benji’s face crinkled up. “Really dad?” he said, “That’s Gomez Addams.”


“Happy Flower’s Day!” he called out prancing away.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox