Binding

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Silence filled the space between the mage and his client. Alden knew his craft well, so it was very rare that he had repeat customers, and neither he nor Perin felt comfortable navigating the situation. He moved to the northeastern corner of the house, knelt at the base of the corner post and began carving the rune of binding in the freshly sawed boards.

“It’s a good house,” Alden offered over his shoulder. “Well built. The carpenters outdid themselves. I don’t know if you’ll even need magic to keep this house standing.” Receiving no response, Alden bent back over the rune to begin his spell.

“You said that last time,” Perin commented. It was true of course. Alden made that remark to most of the new homeowners who hired him. It usually made them smile. But Perin was frowning deeper than ever. “The old house is still standing,” he said. “The carpenters did their job well and so did you. I’m the one who ruined everything.”

Alden hesitated, “What’s broken can be mended. It’s not my magic, but maybe it’s yours.

Perin’s eyes shone, but he answered, “No. She deserves that house. Maybe now it can finally be a home.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Mess

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

* * *

Mack was sitting quietly on the couch, sipping a glass of ice water in which the ice had already become tiny boats skimming the surface.  The couch leather stuck to his legs as he shifted.

He heard footsteps in the next room halt.  Then a shriek.

“What did you do?” Denise burst in shouting.

“Nothing”

 “That mess in the kitchen is not nothing, Mackenzie Quigley.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes.  It was too hot to worry about something like this.  “It didn’t get on the carpet,” he said.

Denise was getting irritated.  She was a kettle on the stove getting ready to scream.  “That’s not the point.  It needs to be cleaned up.”

“I’ll do it later.”

“But how long’s it been there?”

“I don’t know … a couple hours maybe”

“And you just decided to leave it there?  Dripping and everything?”

He shrugged.  “I’ll clean it later.  I didn’t expect it to bother you this much.”

The kettle boiled.  “HOW COULD THIS NOT BOTHER ME?”

“Don’t worry.  I checked his pockets—found a fifty.  I figured dinner and a movie are on me.  Well, on him, I suppose.”

“Oh,” she said, suddenly becoming very calm.  “Where are we going?”

* * *

originally published December 23, 2010

Lines

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I almost didn’t see it, a thin, blue line peaking out of your shirt sleeve just above your wrist. “What’s this?”

“What? Oh, just a tattoo.” Your voice was nonchalant, but your hand still crept away from mine.

“Can I see it?”

You were tense, reflexively twisting to hide the telltale mark. But you nodded, surrendering your arm to my eager exploration.

I pulled back the cuff of your sleeve to chart the curving path of that blue line and found it joined by several others: blue, green, lavender, orange. “What is this?” I asked again, shoving your sleeve up to the elbow. You didn’t answer, nor did you object to the migration of my fingers across your supple skin. The lines grew bolder, curved, branched, interlaced in a complex pattern that covered your entire arm up to the shoulder and beyond. “Where does it end?” I asked, when I finally managed to pull my eyes away from the mesmerizing lattice of color.

Blushing, eyes shining, you were already unbuttoning your shirt. “I haven’t let anyone see the whole thing yet,” you explained, smiling at my sudden silence. “I’m still nervous, but I’m also glad that you’ll be the first.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Canoe

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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

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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

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“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

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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

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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

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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

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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