Abyss

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“Welcome to the Abyss,” Clyde chimed. “Care to make a donation?”

The young woman blinked several times, eyes adjusting to the lighting of the sparsely furnished lobby. “You . . . have to pay?” she said at last.

Clyde gestured to a jar labelled Tips. It was empty “Never hurts to ask. You ready?”

“I guess so?”

An unusually insouciant response. “Right,” Clyde said, hoisting himself up. “Through here.” He opened the door at the back of the room and gestured for the visitor to enter.

She stepped into the large empty room, saw the Abyss at its center. “This is it?”

Clyde nodded. “Enjoy,” he said, letting the door shut behind her.”

He returned to the desk shaking his head. Maybe he should have tried to warn the kid what she was in for. Maybe a decade ago, he would have. But no one who came to the Abyss was really prepared. There was a reason repeat visitors were so rare. Sometimes it was better just to let people have the experience.

The girl emerged ten minutes later wearing an expression Clyde knew well. Trembling, eyes wide, she crossed to the desk and dropped a handful of bills into the tip jar.

* * *

Photo by Adrien Olichon on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Pear

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Story by Gregory M. Fox
from A Breath of Fiction’s archives
originally published November 28, 2010

* * *

Dear Isabella,

I hear my buddy Chris decided to pay you a visit.  After the laugh we had with him, I’m surprised he was even brave enough to show his face in public.  But the really astonishing part is that I heard you’re actually going along with his crazy idea.  Is this for real?  I mean, did he show you that lame bit with the pear?  I told everybody you must be playing a practical joke on him or something.  He’s calling himself the “Great Admiral of the Ocean” for crying out loud.  How could anyone take a guy like that seriously?  But everyone tells me you’re sincere.  Do you actually think he’ll make it?

If all I’ve heard is true, then I have to let you know I’m a little concerned.  I mean, what are you and Ferdinand smoking over there?  First it was the Inquisition, then the Granada War, now this.  I think you guys need to rethink some life choices.  Everyone knows Chris is a crackpot who wants to kill all the Indians ever.  And besides, Africa is where the real action is.  Cape of Good Hope, here we come!

Yours,

King John II of Portugal

1492

* * *

Photo by Sheila Joy on Unsplash

Wolf

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The wolf was hungry. That was why it had come to the village. The blood of lambs was dripping from its jaws when the men found it. “Horrible,” they said, “monstrous, repulsive.” Razor sharp teeth cut through flesh.

“Perhaps,” one among them whispered, “we could use this beast.” The men were hungry too.

A wolf is an excellent hunter, savage and relentless. With this beast at their side, the men brought home wild boars and mighty stags. The village held bounteous feasts with these spoils, though the best portion always went to the wolf first. The wolf was hungry.

And winter came. The wild game grew scarce, and the wolf grew lean. The wolf grew vicious. They slaughtered livestock to keep the hungry beast from turning on them, but they couldn’t sacrifice it all. “Perhaps,” one among them whispered, “the village across the river.”

No one in the other town was prepared for an attack. For the wolf. Beasts don’t fight like men. A wolf goes for the throat. The men returned home victorious. They came home scared. They led the captured herds before them, following a hungry wolf – a beast with the blood of men dripping from its jaws.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Photo by Chris Ensminger on Unsplash

Procession

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All through town doors are shut and lights extinguished. The pale procession is coming. Everyone can see them, but you only hear the song if they’ve claimed you. If they have, it’s already too late.

I’ve been waiting for this night with dread, with curiosity, wondering what I would hear.

White shadows. Empty eyes. Silent steps. They move toward the river, writhing in slow motion. Tattered dresses eddy and pool in the moonlight. Mouths open to sing. And oh god, I already know the song.

Barefoot, bareheaded, I walk out into the night. None of the ghosts look at me, but I find an opening in the line for me. I walk. My lips part. The song wells up, spills out, erupts. I wonder if the people watching through their shudders can hear my cries of anguish. I wonder if anyone cares.

I follow the women to the river, to the bridge, where the pale procession always ends. From that vantage, I can see his house, the house where it happened. I wonder if he is watching. The song swells behind me, sorrowful, angry, and desperate.

But I refuse to let him win.

I walk on, and my sisters follow.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Photo by Kenrick Mills on Unsplash

Promised

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Lucy used the spare key hidden on the porch light to get into his house. What she found was a disaster. Smashed furniture, the smell of rot, a shape curled up in the darkness. A long, low moan. “Nooooo.” As she swung the door open, that shape began trying to drag itself away. Away from the light.

Away from her.

“William?” Lucy said, afraid of the answer.

“Go,” the voice hissed. Then, in a pitiable whisper, “Just . . . just go.”

She looked at the debris scattered around her, saw the broken chair leg with its jagged point next to where she had first seen him. He had stopped trying to crawl away. Instead, from that misshapen mass, two eyes stared back at her. Dark and beady, Lucy could only catch the smallest glint of light reflected in them. Gradually, as her eyes adjusted, she began to make out more details: bony hands, clawed fingers, back twisted into a hunch, papery skin, sparse white hair in lank clumps. Fangs. They caught the light too, vicious, dangerous things.

“What . . . happened to you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

The vampire answered anyway. “No blood,” he said. “I promised . . . for you. No more blood.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Hungry

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Shana was reaching for her keys when the voice slithered out of the darkness. “Hungry,” it groaned. She paused, hand on the knob, and tried to ignore the void in the corner of her eye. “Huuuungryyy.” 

She sighed. “I already fed you this morning.”  

A thin, boney limb reached out of the shadows, clawing vaguely in Shana’s direction. “Hungry,” the creature growled again, more insistently. She could see the glint of jagged teeth and six glowering eyes reflected out of the darkness. 

Shana folded her arms. “This is getting out of hand. I can’t keep going back and forth every time you want a snack.” 

She wasn’t sure if the sound that came next was a growl or a hiss, but it made her flinch in spite of herself. Perhaps the creature could sense fear, or perhaps it finally lost its temper. Either way, it began thrashing wildly, beating against the furniture and walls, shouting “Hungry! Hungry! Huuuungrrrrryyyyy!”  

But the fit was short-lived, soon replaced by a soft, pathetic whimper. Shana softened. “Wow. You really are hungry, aren’t you?” 

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up to the drive through. “Yeah, I’m going to need a dozen pumpkin spice lattes please.” 

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Scrape

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Story by Gregory M. Fox
from A Breath of Fiction’s archives
originally published November 21, 2010

* * *

Scrape … 

They would never think to look here, he thought.  And he was right.  None of them would ever stumble across the hiding place.  In fact, no one would lay eyes on the box for the next century and a half until it would be discovered by some kids who had never heard of Flint McGee.

Scrape …

The sound of metal against stones clawed at his ears.  It was annoyances like that which drove him to these extremes.  Some of them could be put up with.  Some, like this sound, had to be put up with.  But others needed to be taken care of.

Scrape …

Just a little farther … it will be perfect.  He was right.  It would be ten feet by ten feet by ten feet.  Overkill, certainly.  But some efforts are necessary, he thought.  Some things must be done properly. 

Scrape …

It was that sound again.  He was glad it would stop soon.  Just like the other: that incessant whine he had silenced.  But this one would stop more simply and gently than the last. 

Scrape …

Finished.  It was perfect.  He climbed the ladder, pulling it up behind him and said his last farewell to Flint McGee.

Scrape …

* * *

Photo by Paolo Chiabrando on Unsplash

Worse

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They tell me this is nothing new.  They tell me, “There have always been fires, but you were just too small to see them.” They tell me, “It will all blow over, just like the storm that strengthens your roots.” 

I would like to believe them. 

They have stood tall for centuries, patient and steady while the beasts of the earth dart around their trunks worrying through brief lives. “We grow from their graves,” they tell me, “and our roots are tangled in their bones. But we shall persist. We always persist.”

The air is dry. There is smoke on the horizon. Surely this is not normal. Surely this is worse than usual. 

But they tell me it will pass. “There are bad times, yes. So grow your roots deep and your bark thick, and drink in the sun while you can. Soon the rain will come.” 

I would like to believe them. I do not wish to burn. 

The sun is dim. The sky is red. All around me, smoke billows. Wood splinters. The trees in whose shade I grew as a sapling writhe and burn and fall. All around me is the sound of splintering wood.  

All falls. 

Photo by Matt Howard on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Flash

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The wind was so strong.  It reminded Tom of kite-flying as a boy with a kite as red as Rachel’s lips on their wedding day.  They had met the summer he broke his arm.  He had broken six bones in his life; the worst was his femur.  He broke it falling off the roof while replacing shingles one summer.

A fall of all things …

Fall was his favourite season.  It made him think of apple cider and the smoke of leaf burnings.  He had burned his tongue drinking his coffee too quickly this morning.  That always happened when he was running late for work.  In high school, he prided himself on his speed.  He even went to state for the 110 hurdles one year, but he fell and broke his ankle.

Tom Jr had broken his ankle at seven jumping off a swing.  Rachel had been terrified.  She blamed Tom for not watching closely enough.  His watch—he should have taken it off.

The lights of the building were flying past like the shooting stars he and his first love saw that night in the mountains.

The wind was so strong.  In a moment, he would never feel it again.

* * *

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox
from A Breath of Fiction’s archives
originally published November 14, 2010

Seeds

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Sara’s fingers worked quickly, plucking the clusters of dark shapes from Maggie’s sweatshirt. “You’re sure there aren’t any ticks or anything, right?” Maggie asked.

“No, just some beggar’s lice.”

“Lice?” Maggie said in a panic, “Are you serious?”

“Oh—no it’s not—” Sara laughed. “They’re just stickseeds.”

“What?”

“Seeds.” Sara held up a cluster of spikey brown kernels and leaned closer to Maggie. “They’ve got these little barbs that stick to clothes and hair and stuff. Pretty annoying.”

Maggie’s eyes darted distractedly between the seeds and Sara’s face, but all she said was, “Oh.”

“Yeah, you must’ve really charged right through them.”

“I guess so,” Maggie said with a brief, uncertain smile.

“You’ve never spent much time in nature, have you?” Sara asked.  Maggie shook her head, but didn’t speak. Sara felt her smile fading. This wasn’t working. Better to cut things off, to tear away the barbs of hope she had let accumulate. “I guess you probably aren’t interested in any more hikes then.”

Maggie was picking absently at a line of seeds stuck to her jeans. “Actually,” she said, looking away as a blush rose to her cheeks. “I think I’d like to do it again some time.”