Canoe

Posted on by gmfx

Inside the shed, he found mostly what he expected: rotting wood, cobwebs, dust-covered tools, and in the middle of it all, a patched up, rusty canoe. “Hello, ugly. Ready for one more trip?”

It was a four hour drive up to the lake. He made only one stop, just like when he was a kid, at the combination gas station and soda parlor that still smelled like stale cigarettes. Despite the October chill, he left the windows of his Ford Tempo cracked so that the bungee cords and twine could loop through and keep the canoe secure on the roof until he arrived.

Frosted fallen leaves crunched beneath his feet as he dragged the boat to the water’s edge. On its surface was reflected a blaze of orange, brown and yellow leaves. By the time he reached the middle of the lake, there were a couple inches of water in the bottom of the canoe. He opened the cooler beside him, no bait, no fish, no beer, not even ice. Instead, he withdrew an urn. “Shoulda just dumped you in the boat and let the whole thing sink,” he muttered. Then with shaking hands, he lifted the lid. “Goodbye, dad.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox
Photo by Hasan Albari from Pexels

Dune

Posted on by gmfx

Tori sat on a sun-bleached log, staring back down the dune the way we had come. “I just need a minute,” she said. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

I shrugged, dropped my backpack in the sand, and sat beside her. We were quiet. Gulls cawed overhead. The wind whisked away our sweat. Finally, I asked, “What are you thinking about?”

Tori’s eyes fell, and I saw her jaw tighten. I had pushed, perhaps too hard. She lifted her head, but deliberately looked away from me.

“I’m trying, June.”

It pained her to say those words, and I felt the pain echoed in my own breast. “I know you are.” I promised, instinctively placing a hand on her knee, desperate to comfort, to reassure, to protect.

“I am,” Tori insisted. Her hands remained in her lap, fidgeting. “I want to get over it. I just . . .”
“I know.” I could feel her withdrawing despite all my attempts to hold her. So, I let go.

I stood, looked up at the crest of the next dune, and said, “We should keep moving. I bet the view’s even better from up there.” Then I held out my hand.

And she took it.

Story by Gregory M. Fox
Photo by Elvira Blumfelde on Unsplash

Jello

Posted on by gmfx

“You can keep playing outside while I make the Jello, but you have to stay on the porch, okay?” The three-year-old’s face broke into a wide grin as he nodded. It wasn’t fair for a kid to have such cute dimples.

Kelsey went inside and set a kettle on the stove. She took a quick peek at the front window and saw her son pushing a rock across the porch rail like a race car. It’s fine, she thought. He’s fine. It’s good for both of us to practice a little independence.

Moments later the kettle whistled. She turned off the stove, poured the boiling water into the glass dish with the gelatin mix, began stirring absentmindedly until another tone caught her attention.

A car horn.

Panic rising in her chest, Kelsey ran to the front door, terrified of what she would find outside. A car was stopped right in front of their house. The driver was standing outside the vehicle, looking at something in the street.

Her son. Where was her son?

A dark shape on the ground shifted.

“Mommy?”

A small scream. Kelsey’s son stood beside her on the porch.

“Jello time, mommy?”

Kelsey sniffled, “Not yet, baby.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox
Image by Lynn Greyling from Pixabay

Eleven

Posted on by gmfx

The poor guy needed a distraction, so I approached table eleven with my most reassuring smile. “Would you like to put in an order for an appetizer while you wait?”

“What? Uh, no. Thanks.”

“Well hang in there,” I offered. “And just flag me down if you need anything.”

A vacant nod. Eyes drifted back to his phone. A frown. He’d been waiting nearly 45 minutes for his date. I wondered what it was like to be that infatuated.

A gust of wintry air entered the restaurant. At the door, a bright, rosy-cheeked woman scanned the room. I felt a strong surge of relief when this newcomer scurried directly for table eleven.

I gave them a few minutes to get settled, then once more approached the table. The girl was chatty and upbeat, asking a whole stream of questions about the menu. But whenever she tried to pull her date into the discussion, he responded with a flat one or two word answer.

Another surge of relief when I could finally walk away with their drink orders. Table eleven was now tense and silent. I wondered if either of them could tell how much they both wanted to be together.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox
Photo by Jessie McCall on Unsplash

Destiny

Posted on by gmfx

This is it, Magda thought as she nervously approached the visitor standing before the altar, it’s meant to be. “Have you come to the goddess seeking love?” she asked.

“Wha—” the young man jumped. Recovering, he noted her acolyte’s robes and answered, “Oh, uh . . . yeah. I’ve heard that on her feast day—”

“She guides an earnest heart to its ideal partner,” Magda said excitedly, “Yes!” Steady, she thought. Don’t rush.

The man smiled—a beautiful smile. “So, how does it work. Does she just . . . appear in front of me?”

Destiny, Magda thought, a hopeful smile plastered on her face. “Perhaps,” she said, “your heart’s perfect match has already appeared before you.”

His eyes went wide. “You think so?” And like an untrained horse, he swung his neck from side to side, looking every direction except for straight ahead. “Where is she? Is she hot?”

Magda blinked. She blinked again. She looked up at the statue of the goddess which dominated the space beyond the altar. It loomed shadowy and silent. The young man, apparently disappointed by his prospects, turned back to Magda. “How do I know if I’ve found the one?”

Magda sighed. “I guess, sometimes you don’t.”

Story by Gregory M. Fox
Photo by Natalie Breeze on Unsplash

Road

Posted on by gmfx

The stranger climbs into my truck holding a bag tight against her belly. “I saw your coming foretold in the entrails of roadside carrion,” she announces as I shift into first. “Thank you for heeding the call.”

You never know what you’re going to get with hitchhikers. I’ve learned it’s safer to just roll with it. “Of course,” I reply casually. “I’m a vessel for the higher power.”

A quick nod, approving my response.

“How long you been traveling?” I ask. It’s usually a safe question.

“I heard my call on the sacred dawn of the equinox. I must travel eastward until the long night when evil seeks to take dominion over the earth.”

“That’s a long time on the road.” Always acknowledge the heart of what they’re saying; don’t feed into the delusions.

“I am grateful,” she answers, “to be considered worthy of this ordeal.” Then those large sunken eyes turn toward me. “You must have a great destiny to have been bequeathed so much suffering.”

Don’t feed the delusions… “What do you know about my suffering?”

“None can outrun the long night,” she says soberly, “but when it passes, the world will be reborn. So too shall you.”

* * *

Story by Gregory Fox
Photo by Adil from Pexels

Distance

Posted on by gmfx

Jace felt oddly discontent. Kyle was in the bed beside him staring up at the ceiling, perfectly still aside from the slow rise and fall of his chest. “I don’t really know anything about you,” Jace remarked.

Kyle’s head turned slightly, eyes drifted toward Jace like they were searching for him through a fog. A slight shrug. “There’s not much to know.”

“I doubt it,” Jace said. He curled into Kyle’s warm body and let his hand trace the contours of his skin, the lines of his tattoo, the faint scars the marked him. “How long have you lived in the city?”

Kyle sighed heavily, but not exasperated. “About five years.”

Jace smiled. “Where did you live before that?”

“Nebraska.”

A slight giggle, “Really?”

Kyle’s jaw tensed. He turned back to look at the ceiling. “This is a bad idea.”

“No,” Jace said, pulling closer, stroking Kyle’s cheek. “I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just hard to picture. I don’t think I’ve ever even meet someone from Nebraska before. It’s like the middle of nowhere, right?”

Kyle was still tense, but didn’t pull away. “Kinda.”

“What’s it like?”

That rigid body relaxed, turned slightly toward Jace. “Not like here,” Kyle answered.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox
Photo by Ketut Subiyanto from Pexels

Help

Posted on by gmfx

Story by Gregory M. Fox
from A Breath of Fiction’s archives

* * *

“Tell me, do you believe in God, John?”

“Yes.”

“And do you believe in his son?  That Jesus died for our sins?”

“I do.”

“God bless you, John.  God bless you for doing his will.”

John checked his watch.  This tiny Hispanic woman had latched onto him after he gave her a five.  In his heart, he believed this God’s will, but he was beginning to think that she had a different idea of what that meant.  Now he found himself putting ten dollars on her gas card.

As they walked out she said, “Don’t worry, the grocery store is close.”

He paused.  “I’m sorry, but I have to go.  I’ve done all I can.”

“John … think of God John.”

He couldn’t bear those eyes.  Beneath her look of confusion, there was something else.  Disappointment?  Certainly.  Anger?  Possibly.  But what frightened him most was the subtle disdain that glistened just beneath her gaze.  She thought herself more holy, and perhaps she was.  “I’m sorry,” John said, “I wish I could do more, but I just can’t.”

“John …” she trailed off.

For a moment there was silence.  “I—I’ll pray for you,” he said quietly, then slowly turned and walked away. 

* * *

Photo by Jaee Kim on Unsplash

Vulnerable

Posted on by gmfx

Mara’s jaw dropped. “You’re seriously breaking up with Ally because you think she’s a vampire?”

“I mean not really,” Dillon answered. “It’s just an idea that got stuck in my head, but it’s ruining the whole relationship.”

Arms folded and eyes narrow, Mara asked, “What about her is so vampiric?”

“Well, she hates garlic.”

A shrug. “So do I. Lots of people don’t like garlic.”

“But my family’s Italian. All my favorite foods have garlic. Oh!” he added, growing animated, “She wouldn’t go into my family’s church at Christmas either.”

“Do you even go to that church anymore?”

“But think about it,” he insisted, “holy water… crucifixes…”

“And have you tried talking to her about her own beliefs?”

“Fine,” Dillon grunted, “but what sort of woman doesn’t carry a mirror in her purse?”

“A confident woman with relationships built on trust.”

“Huh?”

Mara rolled her eyes. “My point is that you have a habit of sabotaging relationships once they get to a point where you might actually have to be vulnerable.”

Dillon winced. “Harsh… but maybe you’re right. I… should probably give her a call.”

Mara smiled encouragingly, revealing sharp fangs, then lunged forward and bit Dillon in the neck.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Wool

Posted on by gmfx

On their third date, Candace and Michael were still getting used to seeing each other without masks. They grinned at each other constantly all through dinner until Candace pointed out a seed stuck in Michael’s teeth. She laughed so hard at his panicked expression that water squirted out of her nose.

Michael had been mortified, but Candace still invited him back to her apartment for drinks. “You look warm,” she remarked. “Why don’t you take off that sweater?” She indulged herself in a quick peek at his narrow hips and flat stomach as his undershirt pulled up with the sweater, but then he started writhing awkwardly, stuck halfway with the sweater covering his head. With one forceful tug, Candace freed him from his woolen constraint, but the static electricity left tufts of his hair standing on end.

“What is it?” he asked as Candace stifled a giggle.

“Nothing,” she insisted, leaning forward to kiss him. A bolt of static electricity crackled between their puckered lips and both jumped, clutching their mouths.

Then Candace started giggling.

Michael’s shoulders slumped. “I guess I should go,” he sighed.

“No!” Candace said. “Stay! This is the best date I’ve had in a long time.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox
Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay