Late

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There you were. Your back was to me, but I would have recognized you anywhere. Something about the set of your shoulders, the texture of your hair, the shade of green you always wear. It all added up to you.

The store was busy. Someone bumped into me from behind, apologized, and moved on. Even before spotting you, I had been distracted; groceries had taken too long, and I was late for my appointment. But I would make the time. I hadn’t seen you in years, not since that concert in the park. Back then, I had almost told you everything. Why didn’t I?

And what if I told you now?

I took three steps in your direction. I staggered to a stop as the world shifted around me. Because of course, it couldn’t be you.

You’re dead.

At your funeral, I watched the slideshow as it looped over and over, but couldn’t watch them lower your coffin into the ground. How could you be gone?

The person at the counter turned around, looked past me, and walked away. I stood in the front of the store, gripping my shopping cart with white knuckles.

I was late for my appointment.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Communion

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“Excuse me,” Father Pete called out, waving nervously to the passing clerk. “Why is there a . . . a cage here?”

The clerk’s eyes drifted down to Father Pete’s collar then over to the caged off alcohol aisle. “It’s a Sunday morning,” the kid said flatly.

“Yes,” Father Pete said, nodding rapidly. “The thing is, I just need to buy some wine. Is it possible for you to open this or . . .” he seemed to hesitate seeing refusal hardening on the clerk’s face. “Or maybe you could just pull some out?”

The groggy worker could not even be bothered enough to roll his eyes. “That would be illegal sir.”

“But I’m not going to drink it.”

An arched eyebrow

“It’s for communion,” Father Pete tried to explain. “For the church.”

“You want wine, you’ll have to wait till noon,” the clerk explained, then turned and began walking away.

“But Mass starts at 6:00.”

With nothing more than a shrug, he replied “Grape juice in aisle three. Wine is across the state line.”

* * *

The pale light of dawn was creeping into the eastern sky as Father Pete crossed from Indiana into Michigan. A single illuminated sign waited just beyond that invisible border: “Cross the Line Liquor.” The sight of it was such a relief that Pete nearly said a prayer of thanks to God. Suddenly realizing why this store would have been placed here and who its usual clientele would be on a Sunday morning. “Lord,” he muttered instead, “have mercy.”

* * *

“We ran out of wine,” Father Pete said nervously.

“Uh huh.” The cashier moved with excruciating lethargy, picking up one large bottle at a time, scanning it, and sliding it into a brown paper bag.

“Very embarrassing.”

“Sure.”

An electronic tone sounded from the door, and Father Pete turned abruptly to avoid any further risk of being recognized as a priest buying bulk alcohol early in the morning. “Communion,” he mumbled. “Gotta have wine.” A grunt came in answer. “It’s an important ritual. All about sharing in the death of Christ.” This time the cashier didn’t even bother responding. “Do you go to church?”

“That’s $116.58.”

“Right, yes.” Father Pete began fishing bills out of his wallet. The cashier opened the register, and suddenly shouting erupted.

“Hands above your head!”

Pete’s spine went cold. The other person who had entered the liquor store, the person whom Father Pete had made every effort to avoid looking at was now immediately behind him. The indolent cashier was now wide-eyed with arms raised. Pete mirrored the posture and slowly turned to face the would-be robber.

A stocky figure with a hat pulled low and a scarf over his mouth held a gun in an outstretched hand. Though the weapon was pointed at the cashier, it was inches from Father Pete’s head. For a moment, it was the only thing he could see. Then the gun began to shake. Pete focused on the attacker’s face and saw the wide, panicked eyes. “Father Pete?” the gunman said.

Recognition like sunlight breaking the horizon. “Billy?”

Quick breaths. Darting eyes. The scarf fell away from the young man’s mouth as he stammered, “Forgive me father!” And then he was sprinting out the door.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Notions

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While she was filling up the tank, Monica had heard the other car door slam, but she assumed Fatima was just heading into the gas station to pee. So, she was very perplexed to see her friend tromping out of the ditch by the highway instead. “What were you doing down there?”

Fatima’s face was all summer breeze and sunshine. “Picking wildflowers,” she answered.

But she had done more than that. What Fatima held up was a woven crown of small blue and purple and white blossoms. “It’s lovely,” Monica said.

“Then it’s perfect for you.” Fatima stepped behind Monica. Close behind. She began gathering up Monica’s long auburn hair and pulling out through the wreath she had made.

Monica’s heartbeat had quickened. “I hope you’re not getting notions,” she said.

A smile shaped Fatima’s words as she asked, “What sort of notions?”

Monica fought to keep her voice casual. “This has been a fun trip, but . . .”

“But?”

Monica sighed. “I don’t really do . . . relationships.”

It felt strangely painful to say those words, a pain that sharpened when Fatima’s answered simply, “I know.”

Was that regret in Fatima’s voice? Monica could feel that breath of that answer on her neck and the gentle rug of Fatima’s fingers running through her hair. “So what are you doing?” Monica asked.

Fatima walked back around to face Monica. She shrugged and answered, “I’m crowning a beautiful woman with summer.” A wide, glowing smile, deep, generous eyes looking over her handiwork. As simple as the answer was, Monica realized it was genuine. Fatima was asking for nothing, and Monica suddenly wanted to give her everything. She leaned forward and found Fatima’s lips with hers.

A gust of summer wind. A sudden eruption of birdsong. The softness of fluffy white clouds. Heat and flowers and blazing sunsets.

Their lips parted.

Fatima arched an eyebrow as her mouth curved into a smile. “Notions?” she asked.

Monica’s cheeks were flushed red. “Maybe I could make an exception.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Blunder

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Wally was walking into the kitchen with an empty cup just as Carrie was walking out with a grin. “Hey, what are you drinking?” he asked, eyeing her full beverage.

Carrie’s smile went coy as she answered, “Oh ya know, a bit of this, a bit of that.”

He scanned the assortment of bottles and mixers their friends had brought, then cocked an eyebrow. “You improvised?”

She winked. “You want to try?”

One sip. Wally dove into a carnival of flavors: sweet, sour, and bitter blazing with a high proof burn. “Oh wow!” he exclaimed, eyes going wide.

“Yeah? What do you think?”

“Carrie,” he said, looking down at the cocktail in his hand, “do you realize what you’ve made?

“Oh, I know,” she said. “It’s a masterpiece.”

“Carrie, you’ve committed one of the classic blunders.”

“Scuse me,” she said, words slurring slightly. “Blunder? Does this look like a land war in Asia?”

“No, I’m talking about the other one: Never free mix alcohol in a red solo cup.”

“Pfff, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Oh, it’s delicious,” he said handing back the cup, “but you’re gonna be drunk off your ass.”

“So you want me to make one for you?”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Crown

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“You broke the crown?” Domh asked, incredulous.

Tirwyn pursed her lips. “I didn’t break it,” she told her fellow attendant. “One of the gemstones fell off that’s all.”

“What’s going on?” a severe voice asked from behind them. Hanag, the master servant of the hall, was the last person Tirwyn wanted getting involved.

Domh didn’t want to be involved at all. “Tirwyn broke the crown,” he said flatly.

Tirwyn fired a glare at Domh before turning penitently to her boss. “I didn’t break it,” she insisted

But Hanag’s face had gone white. “Why is a gemstone missing?”

Tirwyn held out an open hand. A small ruby glinted in her palm like a drop of blood. “It was already loose.”

“We can’t do a coronation with a broken crown,” Hanag said, her voice growing higher with every word. “The barons are already anxious, and the symbolism alone-

“What’s the problem?” a low voice asked from behind Hanag.

“I didn’t break it!” Tirwyn shouted. Her voice echoed off the vaulted stones of the suddenly silent chapel.

The king looked down at her. Amused and surprised, he said, “I need no crown to rule, especially one so showy. Why don’t you keep it?”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Setup

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She collapsed into the booth like a hunted beast, dirty, feral, skittish, and dangerous. “You promised an explanation,” he said. Instead of answering, she picked up the by now lukewarm coffee he’d ordered for her and drained the whole thing. “Well?” he continued. “Can you tell me why I’m sitting in this crappy diner instead of booking James Moore up at county?”

She shook her head. “It was a setup. They were gonna kill you.”

“And why didn’t this come from Les?”

Low voice, eyes scanning the room warily. “I met with an old contact from the Syndicate, someone who was actually able to ID Moore.”

“And?”

No answer. She simply slide a manila envelope across the table.

He opened it.

“Why are you showing me photos of Lester Collins?”

“Why do you think?”

He could feel heat across his face. “This man is a Lieutenant,” he growled. “He’s a hero, not to mention my boss.”

“And my contact said he could get at least four more guys to confirm. Right before someone shot him.”

And he finally realized it wasn’t dirt spattering her face and clothes.

It was blood.

“So you’re saying . . .”

“Yes,” she answered gravely. “Les is Moore.”

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Invasive

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Qitzo drifted into the depot and took form at the counter. “I need to order an asteroid,” they said.

Xarm, the attendant phased a hospitable color. “Are you looking for any special materials or are you more interested in spectacle?”

Qitzo sighed. “I need something cataclysmic.”

Xarm phased a murky red. “That’s a serious order.”

“I’ve got a pest problem on one of my planets,” Qitzo explained. “Humans.”

Another customer who had been drifting nearby took form with interest. “I thought humans were decorative?” they said.

Xarm gestured uncertainty with three appendages. “They always transform the landscape in interesting ways, but they’re definitely considered invasive.”
“Really?”

The clerk swelled authoritatively, “A buddy of mine got humans in a system. One planet went from 4 million unique species to a hundred in less than six alignments.”

“That must be an exaggeration,” the passerby exclaimed.

Qitzo gestured a negative. “The atmosphere’s already degrading. I know an asteroid won’t help with that, but at least I can do a reset. No more life forms for me. Just cool rocks.

“Even that might not be safe,” Xarm cautioned.

“What do you mean?”

They laid a consoling appendage on Qitzo’s carapace. “Humans love cool rocks.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Position

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Ben’s leg bounced nervously as he waited for the bad news. He knew he didn’t belong here, and now they surely knew it too.

Finally the facilitator entered with her artificial smile. But she sat across from him and said, “Congratulations, Mr. Holban! You’ve tested in the highest aptitude.”

“I did?” Ben gaped, all his anxiety evaporating. “Really?”

“Yes!” the facilitator replied, her smile suddenly seeming much more genuine. “And in order to make sure your intellect is utilized to the fullest potential, we are offering you a position with our organization.”

“A position,” Ben repeated, so giddy he might hyperventilate. “What—how . . . What kind of position?”

“Our most generous contact,” she said magnanimously. “All your needs will be met, so long as you are able to continue making contributions.”

“When can I start?” Ben asked, still grinning.

The facilitator smiled back. “Immediately.”

And it was true. There was a flurry of paperwork; then they took him to medical for a couple injections. And then it was too late. Ben’s world went hazy. There were tubes and wires and a tank. The corporation provided everything he needed to live. The only thing he had to give them was his life.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Instant

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The snow was falling.

Jess stood in the yard, breath a fog in the cold night air. “Why?” she muttered. “Why why why why why.”

Rocky looked up at Jess, cocked his head, and barked. He wasn’t moving.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Jess declared. “We were supposed to get a cat.”

The dog just barked, unmoving.

What could she do?

Jess got out a bag of treats, fumbled with gloved fingers and dropped them in snow.

It happened in an instant.

The leash slipped.

Rocky ran.

“Get out of the road!” Jess shouted. She was running.

Ice and headlights.

Arthur was driving. He shouted, “Get out of the road!”

Jess fell

The car slid.

It was over in an instant.

Arthur got out of the car, fumbled with his phone and dropped it in the street.

What could he do?

The dog barked, approaching slowly.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he declared. “I was supposed to be at home.”

She wasn’t moving.

Rocky looked down at Jess, cocked his head, and whimpered.

“Why?” Arthur sobbed. “Why why why why why?” He knelt in the street, breath a mist in the cold night air.

The snow was falling.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Show

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“It sounded good tonight,” Matt called.

The figure loading gear into van froze. An over the shoulder glare. Foster hopped out of the back and hefted another speaker. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good crowd too.”

Foster set the speaker down roughly. “Look,” he said, “if you’re trying to rub it in, you’ve made your point.”

“I’m not,” Matt insisted, bending down to pick up the amp. “I mean it. It was a good show.”

“Give me that,” Foster grunted, sagging as he snatched the amp away. Matt backed off, arms raised. Foster almost rented, but his pride wouldn’t let him. “It is possible to play good music in a bar or at a house show.”

“I know that,” Matt said. “I know.”

Foster slammed the van doors and turned to face his former band-mate. “Just not good enough for you.”

Matt’s voice faltered. “I never said – I wasn’t trying to…” Foster just folded his arms and waited. “I miss it, you know?”

“Yeah,” Foster said. “Me too.”

Matt shrugged, nearly ready to give up. But he stayed. “I thought, maybe we could…”

The two young men stood in silence behind the bar, wounded, wary, waiting.

“Maybe we could play together sometime?”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox