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

Serve

Posted on by gmfx

His name was Laurentius, and he served the emperor.

“Wine!” a voice echoed across the marble floors. “Wine, you useless son of a barbarian whore.” A milder insult than usual. The ruler of the world was not that drunk. Not yet, at least.

Laurentius moved swiftly, but not to the cellar. Instead, he scooped an ember from the central fire, carried it out to the balcony, and lit a brazier. Light blossomed invitingly in the cold night.

Was this how he served his emperor?

No time to contemplate. Laurentius descended to the cellar, retrieved a wineskin and carried it to the bath chamber. He poured it into the emperor’s cup himself and took the first sip.

“Some nights I wish it was poisoned,” the emperor declared, “and then I’d finally be rid of you.” Laurentius inclined his head politely and exited.

The general was waiting in the hall with a detachment of soldiers. At a nod from their commander, the men moved swiftly into the bath chamber.

Screams in the night.

Meanwhile, general appraised servant. “So, you’re the traitor?”

A bow. “My name is Laurentius, and I serve the emperor.”

The general smiled grimly and drew his sword. “Not anymore.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Climb

Posted on by gmfx

WHY do you climb?

What sort of a question was that? John huffed as he drove a piton into the rock face, and not just because of the exertion. He hadn’t even wanted to do the stupid interview, but his friends had convinced him that it would “inspire people.”

Why DO you climb?

The question echoed in the vacuous space where his answer should have been. How could he articulate something so basic? Why does he breath? Why does he eat? Of course, those were things everyone did. Very few other people climbed mountains on multiple continents. So shouldn’t he have an answer?

Why do YOU climb?

The question stung like an accusation. Why must he justify his past time. Who cared? Certainly not the reporter. She seemed even less interested in the interview than he did. And in her blank, dispassionate stare, John had finally seen the pointlessness of his entire life.

Wind buffeted him on the rock face, howling:

Why do you CLIMB?

Cheek pressed against stone, John looked down. How insignificant he was to that wide world below him. How extraordinary that he should get to see it.

And because the alternative would be falling, he climbed.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Promotion

Posted on by gmfx

“Sorry you didn’t get the promotion,” Lara said. She and Ronni were the only two in the breakroom, but she had still approached both Ronni and the conversation topic furtively.

“Oh, it’s alright,” Ronni answered.

Lara shook her head. “Bastards.”

“It’s fine, really,” Ronni insisted. “I don’t even care.” It was a lie that Lara could see through easily, even though they weren’t that close. But then, Lara wasn’t the one Ronnie was trying to convince. Perhaps it was the very fact that Lara had spotted the attempted self-deception and didn’t call her on it that allowed Ronni to finally admit the truth. “I shouldn’t care, right?”

“You . . . shouldn’t?”

“I hate this job!” she declared. Lara’s eyes widened, which somehow encouraged Ronni. “I hate the people I work for. I hate the way this company treats its customers. Why do I even care what any of those . . . those . . . those bastards think?”

“Yeah, screw ‘em!” Lara suggested.

“Screw ‘em!” Ronni echoed. “Wait—no.”

“No?”

Ronni sighed. “No . . .”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . I do care, dammit.” She looked around, took in the dingy, depressing breakroom and considered her place in it. “I guess . . . I guess I just wanted it all to mean something.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

A Lot

Posted on by gmfx

“Oh, oh hey!” Juliet said, spinning Bianca around and pointing. “This brewery does carryout. We could totally buy a pack and take them up to the roof of my apartment. You’ve gotta see the view!” But when Juliet looked over to see if Bianca was bouncing with excitement too, she instead saw a nervous, wide-eyed face that looked even paler than usual. “Sorry,” Juliet said. “Never mind.”

“What?” Bianca asked. “I didn’t—”

“You don’t have to say anything. I saw your reaction.”
“I’m sorry,” Bianca said, blushing, “it was just . . . a lot.”

Juliet swallowed hard. The words reverberated in her mind, adding to the echoes of all the other times she had heard that same phrase. Next would be the part where the person fled. She forced herself to smile. “People say I’m best in small doses. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

“But . . . the roof?”

“I was kidding,” Juliet shrugged. “You can forget about it.”

But Bianca was rooted in place. “I said it was a lot. I didn’t say that was bad.”

“You mean . . .”

Bianca hooked her arm through Juliet’s and pulled her toward the brewery. “You move fast,” she said, “but you’re always worth catching up to.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Crazy

Posted on by gmfx

They’re going to tell you that I’m crazy, and you’re probably going to believe them because I sound crazy, and there’s nothing I can do to persuade you that I’m not, even if everything I say is true, because the lies will have such pleasing colors and smooth shapes, and the truth will cut you open with its jagged edges and uncomfortable barbs, and I can’t blame you for wanting to avoid the same pain that makes me howl like a beast into the chaos of humanity, and I can’t blame you for ignoring my screams when they have told you I am crazy just because they’re scared of what I’ve seen and what I know and what I might reveal about the way they control us like viruses that creep in and become a part of the body even as they weaken it, and more than anything they are afraid that I might tell you how to remove their influence for good, but even if I told you what had to be done, you would say that I’m crazy, and I would answer that the whole world is insane, so the mad are the only ones you can trust.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Trust

Posted on by gmfx

Cyan wrapped their arms tightly around Kevin’s broad chest, nuzzled the back of his neck, and whispered, “I love you.” To Cyan’s surprise, they felt Kevin’s body tense abruptly.

“Oh my god,” Kevin muttered.

“What?” Cyan asked tersely, anger swooping in to mask a sudden swell of anxiety as they drew back.

Kevin turned, unable to meet his fiance’s eyes. “I . . . I just farted.”

“You just . . .” Reflexively, Cyan sniffed, and then immediately regretted it. “Like right now?”

Kevin’s face had gone bright red, and he could barely meet Cyan’s eyes. “Right when you grabbed me.”

“So . . . right into my crotch,” Cyan said, nose now wrinkling involuntarily for multiple reasons.

As the fart cloud lingered around them, Kevin’s embarrassment only grew. He was just as revolted by the smell, but felt he just had to endure it as a sort of penance. “I’m so, so sorry,” he said.

Cyan folded their arms, giving their fiance a calm, appraising stare. Then a shrug. “That’s alright,” they said. “I’ll just fart in the bed tonight.”

“You’ll—” Kevin blinked rapidly, too surprised to be embarrassed. Then he saw the wide grin spreading across Cyan’s face.

Laughter, sudden, hearty, and pure.

“I love you too.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Thread

Posted on by gmfx

Round and round Ana wound the thread, bright turquoise running between her fingers. “If you would just let me explain…” she tried to say.

“You’re not going,” the older woman announced, not even glancing away from her work on the loom. “There’s no point discussing it.” Her fingers danced like a harpist plucking the strings, but hers was a song of color and patterns that would take weeks to complete. Ana marveled, not for the first time, how someone as severe as her mother was capable of creating such beauty.

Every thread in its place.

Round and round, Ana spun the thread, her grip on the shuttle so tight her fingers started to hurt. Her mother continued weaving. “You don’t really need me here, Ana remarked.

The answer came automatically. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I do.”

No thread out of place, Ana thought. The last of the turquoise thread slipped through her fingers. The shuttle was ready. But instead of handing it to her mother, Ana slipped it into her pocket and said, “Mother, I think this will be your finest work yet.”

Ana meant what she said, but her mother simply scoffed. Ana didn’t care. She was leaving.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Leaving

Posted on by gmfx

She should have been mad, but she just felt tired. So very tired. Much too tired to spend another night fighting, especially since she no longer knew what she was fighting for.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” she repeated. “I’m leaving.”

“What? Hold on; you can’t just leave.” She didn’t answer. She just walked to the closet and pulled out her coat and a pair of shoes. “Where are you going?”

She shrugged. “Away.”

“Well stop,” he growled. “I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry.”

A vague nod as she walked to the door. “You told me.”

Helpless with fury, he cried, “Why are you punishing me?”

She stopped, hand on the nob, and turned. Her eyes crashed through him like a brick through glass. Nights of rage, nights of grief, nights of wondering and of regret had condensed into a dense, dark abyss that sucked all further words from his throat. “Punishing you?” she echoed softly. “Believe me, I’m not doing this for you.”

And then she was gone.

The night was cold, her feet ached, and she had no idea where she was going. She should have been scared. Instead she felt the wind stirring.

She followed it.