Ducks

Posted on by gmfx

Today, a duck reminded me of how the world ended.

I never thought it would be possible for me to forget a single detail of the meteor you sent hurtling into my life. The words you spoke were a life-smothering cataclysm. Blindsided, all I could do was stare straight ahead at the pond, where a family of ducks swam in slow, uneven circles.

I still remember the ducks with perfect clarity, but find I can no longer remember your words. Though I endlessly retraced every syllable, every pause, every shift in intonation, turning the crater into a canyon, I now recall only muffled echoes. The chasms I carved were just scribbling in the sand, and the pain that bored so deeply into my heart is now cold, inert, and surprisingly small.

There are still scars, of course. A few of the joys we shared have fossilized within me, brittle monuments of a different life. Occasionally, one of them turns up. Occasionally, a duck reminds me of incomprehensible sorrow. But life has returned, new and varied and beautiful. The world spins on. And it turns out that the moment I thought was the end of everything was only a fleeting shudder.

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Photo by Bence Balla-Schottner on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Dread (part v)

Posted on by gmfx

A mother waits. Her son has not come home, and there have been no more calls.

A mayor reads the tweets of protesters while the evening news plays in the background. There’s a press conference tomorrow, but how can he possibly justify what’s happening? And what will they say if he backs down now?

An officer sits in his squad car outside the station.  He should go home and recover from the day’s trauma. He should not go to sleep due to his minor concussion. He should say something. He should not rock the boat. He should protect his fellow officers. He should protect the innocent. He should have ignored his orders. He should do something. But what?

A young woman clutches the hands of strangers and tries not to cry. In a darkened room, they wait for the National Guard to move through the neighborhood. The elderly man who opened his home to protesters shuffles among them, handing out water bottles, tissues, encouragement.

The most powerful man in the world rages against what he cannot control.

A young man with cracked ribs and red eyes leans his head against the wall of his jail cell and tries to hope.

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Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox
part i
part ii
part iii
part iv
—
Hope: an Epilogue

Dread (part iv)

Posted on by gmfx

“I’m trying to get out of here, but I don’t know how.”

It was chaos. He’d seen people with upraised hands being pepper sprayed, cars burning, rubber bullets striking fleeing protesters.

“I’m trying, mom,” he said. “I’m trying to come home. I love you.”

Hanging up, he peeked out from between the cars that sheltered him. Groups were fleeing down First Street unimpeded. Walls of police blockaded every other road out of the plaza. He started running.

Shouts. Smashing glass. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a lone police officer crumple after being struck by a brick.

He slowed.

No more fear, he thought. No more hate.

He turned and ran to the injured man’s side. Confused, grateful eyes looked up at him. The man took his hand and rose. “Thank you,” the officer rasped.

Then he was plummeting. The ground slammed into his back, and two helmeted officers stood over him menacingly. He opened his mouth to speak, but then his eyes were burning. With a scream, he turned away from the pepper spray and tried to crawl, but clubs striking his back sent him back to the ground.

Wet asphalt.

Cold handcuffs.

Deep, deep pain.

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Photo by Tom Woodward

Story by Gregory M. Fox
part i
part ii
part iii
—
part v
Hope: an Epilogue

Dread (part iii)

Posted on by gmfx

“We should go,” he said, speaking so low behind his facemask that she could barely hear him above the surrounding crowds.

“What?”

He leaned closer. “We should go.”

Monica’s face twisted in shock and confusion. “What are you talking about? We’re only halfway to the statehouse”

He jerked his head in the direction of two brash, strutting men nearby, both carrying a brick in either hand. “I don’t want to be around if this is going to get ugly.”

“Hey!”

“Monica, don’t—”

Hey, brickheads,” she shouted, drawing eyes all around them, including those of the nearby men. “Yeah you,” she continued.  “You best drop those before any cops see you. We don’t need nobody starting shit today.”

But the men just laughed. “Shit’s gonna go down anyway once the cops start shooting.  Might as well be ready for it.”

“They’re gonna ruin everything,” he said. “We should go.”

She faced him with a dark scowl. “I’m done with living in fear and letting people with hate in they hearts run my life. We gotta hope, or else they win.”

The crowd surged on, billowing and charged like the dark clouds above, and he moved forward as part of it.

pat-farrell-isqz9FtpDbo-unsplashPhoto by Pat Farrell on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox
part i
part ii
—
part iv
part v
Hope: an Epilogue

Dread (part ii)

Posted on by gmfx

“Here they come.”

The plaza had been slowly filling for hours, but now a tidal wave of protesters poured in from main street. He reached under the visor of his riot helmet to wipe the sweat gathered on his forehead.

“Hold this line,” the captain behind him growled.  There were already reports in of property destruction from some of the fringes of the demonstration and the direct command was to put an end to the hostile presence as soon as possible.

So many faces.  So much anger.

Distant thunder.

“Disperse!”

Fingers on triggers. Clouds of gas billowed. People shrieked, ran, fell.

He never saw the brick coming.

His world spun. The surrounding noise rose and fell like crashing waves. Rough stone rushed toward him from above and he lifted his arms to defend himself, gradually realizing he’d fallen to the ground. He lifted his eyes toward heaven.  All was dark and blurry, but his vision was no longer swimming. Raindrops spattered the visor of his helmet.

A single thought: he wanted to feel the rain. His helmet fell to the ground and he looked up into a concerned face. The black man extended a hand, offering support. He took it.

andy-grizzell-zdbvMrmpqIw-unsplash-editPhoto by Andy Grizzell on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox
part i
—
part iii
part iv
part v
Hope: an Epilogue

Dread (part i)

Posted on by gmfx

She waited.

She checked her phone. No missed calls; no new messages.

She watched the news until she couldn’t anymore.  All those faces. All that pain. Strangers who seemed all too familiar but who still couldn’t answer the question she really cared about.

She checked her phone. Nothing.

It got dark early. Severe, dense clouds looked down from the sky, ready to burst like the multitudes marching through the city streets. Watching the sky was as bad as watching the news. The dread, she realized, was inside her so it manifested in whatever she looked at: folded newspapers, cracked paint, sun-faded family photos.

She checked her phone. No calls. No messages.

Fear. Rage. Futility.

She hurled the phone across the room, and before it had even struck the wall, she let out one sharp, agonized sob.

She waited.

No one was coming to check on her; no one would help pick her up. Finally, she rose, retrieved her phone, screen now cracked, and turned the news back on.

Smoke. Scattered figures running. A flash from something off screen. Shouts and screams. A stammering newscaster. It was starting to rain.

Her phone rang. Emblazoned in the cracked glass, her son’s name.

age-barros-fKAjOxgZNPg-unsplash - editPhoto by Agê Barros on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox
part ii
part iii
part iv
part v
Hope: an Epilogue