Leaving

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She should have been mad, but she just felt tired. So very tired. Much too tired to spend another night fighting, especially since she no longer knew what she was fighting for.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” she repeated. “I’m leaving.”

“What? Hold on; you can’t just leave.” She didn’t answer. She just walked to the closet and pulled out her coat and a pair of shoes. “Where are you going?”

She shrugged. “Away.”

“Well stop,” he growled. “I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry.”

A vague nod as she walked to the door. “You told me.”

Helpless with fury, he cried, “Why are you punishing me?”

She stopped, hand on the nob, and turned. Her eyes crashed through him like a brick through glass. Nights of rage, nights of grief, nights of wondering and of regret had condensed into a dense, dark abyss that sucked all further words from his throat. “Punishing you?” she echoed softly. “Believe me, I’m not doing this for you.”

And then she was gone.

The night was cold, her feet ached, and she had no idea where she was going. She should have been scared. Instead she felt the wind stirring.

She followed it.

Marble

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Cletus glared up at the young man bouncing at his heels. “You sure are chipper this morning,” he growled. 

Dominic beamed back. “I’m excited to begin work.”

Cletus’s scowl deepened. “You know what kind of work we do here, right?” he asked, gesturing with his crippled hand at another worker, struggling to hoist a large block of stone. 

“I’ve cut stone before,” Dominic replied with all the earnestness of a young man wishing to be taken seriously. Cletus’s face darkened as he recalled the days when he had stood as tall and confident as this boy. Dominic was oblivious, staring in awe at the rocky slope. “I’ve just never had the privilege of cutting sacred marble.”

“Sacred,” Cletus grunted. “Right . . .”

The younger man gasped. “You resent the honor we’ve been given?”

It was too much for Cletus. “You think I don’t know why we’re here, boy? I’ve been working in this pit since I was half your age. Stones don’t care if they’re sacred or profane. They’ll crush you just the same.”

“It would be a blessing to give my strength in offering to the gods.”

Back twisted, hand maimed, arms scared,  Cletus replied, “May their blessings never reach you.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Warmth

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She gave a knowing smile as I studied her. “You’re . . . not what I expected,” I finally admitted.

“People seldom are.” I wasn’t sure that applied in her case, but wasn’t brave enough to say so. “And what was it that surprised you?”

I knew how ridiculous it would sound, but I had no other way to say it. “Your warmth.”

Her laugh was somehow both mirthful and merciless. “Perhaps you don’t know who you’re talking to after all.”

I shrugged. “Christmas lights, coming inside from the cold, the way snow sparkles; all of that is you.”

She grew melancholy, though her smile remained. “I have little to offer that anyone would want,” she said. “But in the cold and the quiet and the long dark, the smallest scrap of color is a treasure, a fountain of life. I may offer my children only the hope of light, but perhaps that is more valuable than light in abundance.”

“Your . . . children?”

She nodded. “All those who have received my gifts are my children, whether loss and loneliness, fear and freezing, or darkness and despair.”

“Isn’t that just . . . everyone?”

Winter’s eyes were sad, dark, and lonely. Still, she smiled. “Yes,” she answered, “everyone.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Hope

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“Are they fresh?” I asked. A colorful flame danced in each vial, but many flickered fitfully in a way that made me nervous

The man at the cart clutched his heart with a practiced gesture that illustrated how wounded he was. What do you take me for? You think I would set up here on the corner to sell delusions or mania, something like that?”

He had named my exact fear, disarming me. Of course Hope could be incredible, exultation tinged with the risk of despair. But everyone has heard stories about what happens to a person with a bad Hope. I fidgeted, not wanting to linger here playing games. So I said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“They’re good, the vendor insisted. “I picked them up from the Dream Docks this morning.”

It was as good a source as you could ask for if it was true. That was where I had sold my last dreams all those years ago. “Fine,” I grunted.

“So you’ll buy?”

I almost walked away then. Maybe I should have. But it had been so long since I had any Hope. Colors danced within the glass, dangerous and inviting.

I picked up a vial.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Chivalry

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“For your great acts of service to the throne, I hereby dub thee—”

Thprrpt.

The flatulence echoed in the soon-to-be knight’s armor and resonated further in the vaulted stonework of the chamber. For a brief moment, the throne room was silent. Then a cough. Then a series of chuckles.

“Laugh not!” the king warned, glaring sternly over the assembled nobles. “For who among us is not made of flesh and blood and thus prone to any and all of its weaknesses. And yet it is by sacrifice of the selfsame flesh and blood that this man has demonstrated that nobility too is woven into the very fabric of his being. And it is for that reason, that I name him—”

Pppbtht.

This time no pause preceded the laughter, but it was once more silenced by the commanding presence of the young king. “Who among us smells ever fragrant? What mortal heart has never been besmirched by some foul thought or deed. Yet by the grace of God are we redeemed. And with that same grace I now elevate this squire to—”

Pffffrbrbrbrrrt.

“Sorry m’lord.”

“I give up,” the king sighed. “Rise, sir Butts, a knight in the name of God.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Knife

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A knife in the dark.

When do you fight?

“Please,” Cori whipered, “we don’t want any trouble.”

A hand on her shoulder. “Stay behind me,” David said in a calm, even voice, “and be ready to run.” His eyes carefully tracked the blade between them and the other end of the alley.

“Your purse and your wallet,” the mugger repeated, voice harsh and scraping

David’s sensei had said, “Never get in a fight you can’t win.” Now David took slow, deliberate steps toward the stranger.

“David what are you doing?” Cori hissed

But his eyes were fixed on the figure ahead. “I’m need you to put the knife down,” he called.

The blade slashed threateningly. “Don’t come any closer!” The hand holding the knife was shaking.

His sensei had also said, “The best way to win a fight is not fighting.”

“So when do I fight?” David had asked.

“David please, it’s just money.”

The hand holding the knife was shaking.

“Hopefully,” David’s sensei had answered, “you never have to fight.”

David lunged. Cori screamed. Bodies collided. David had flawless technique, but the mugger had nothing to lose.

A body on the asphalt. Blood on a knife in the dark.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Memory

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Olivia’s memories were a heap of soggy brown leaves. Gone were the bright colors and sharp edges. Instead her mind wandered through decomposing mush.

Someone was looking at her. Olivia stared into those keen hazel eyes, groping for recognition, but the detritus of long years crumbled away in her grasp. My sister, she thought. “Maggie? Do you need something?”

The expression twisted into concern, and Olivia realized her mistake.“Joanna,” she said, correcting herself. “I’m sorry. Sometimes it all just gets a little . . .”

“I know, mom.”

Her daughter spoke compassionately, but with a pitying note that turned Olivia’s stomach. Or maybe that was actually something she ate. She had obviously eaten some of the turkey and potatoes that had been piled on her plate, though she couldn’t remember it. A child ran past. Whose kid? She had no idea. But they were at her house, so they must be related to her. There were people moving all around her, a cacophony of voices, a swirling current she couldn’t keep up with.

Life, vibrant and clear, and growing in the midst of it – love.

“Mom? Is something wrong?”

Olivia’s eyes were clear and shining when she answered, “I’m just so thankful.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Vegetables

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“I hate you,” Joan announced, walking out of the kitchen.

Tabi’s eyes went wide eyed at the plate of crackers and dip her girlfriend carried. “Holy shit,” she said, “You’re insane.”

Joan just glared back. “I’m insane? What kind of a sicko puts googly eyes on a tomato?”

Tabi at least had enough sense to restrain herself from snorting with amusement, but still said, “When you told me you wouldn’t eat anything with a face, I didn’t think that included fake faces.”

Joan settled into the armchair with an emphatic flop. “Well when you said you like my ass in skinny jeans, I didn’t think you’d suddenly start sabotaging my waistline by turning all the vegetables into adorable little fridge friends.” She punctuated her retort by shoving a fistful of crackers into her mouth.

Crunch!

“It was a joke. I thought it would be funny.”

“Maybe it is,” Joan replied, “but I still end up feeling like I’m the joke.”

Silence.

Crunch!

A sigh.

“You’re right,” Tabi said. “I’m sorry. I’ll go chop some vegetables.”

“No,” Joan insisted. “Let them live their lives.”

Tabi’s eyes narrowed. “You named them, didn’t you?”

“It’s not my fault! You made them too cute.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Image: Keri Lee Smith on Flickr

Crash

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“Funny running into you like this,” Jeff said.

Marci batted her eyelashes in surprise, looking first to their wrecked cars, then back to her co-worker. “Did you just make a joke?”

His head tilted. “Yes?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you joke,” Marci said, a slow smile spreading across her face. “I like it.”

“Yes. Good.”

There was something adorable about his awkward stiffness. She found herself wishing for the conversation to continue. “I am sorry about your car,” she said, feeling that part had to be addressed first.

“Yes. It is thoroughly ruined now,” Jeff said with a simple nod of affirmation. “We are both quite lucky I was not damaged as severely as my vehicle.”

Marci tensed, suddenly worried that she had been misreading the entire situation. But Jeff didn’t seem angry, despite his blunt words. “Wait a minute,” she said, smile returning. “Are you joking again?”

“Yes?”

She moved a little closer, grinning. “So, you want to get a bite to eat when this is done?”

Jeff’s eyes glazed over. As an extraterrestrial, he was far out of his depth here. “Flirting is an enjoyable activity.” he declared.

Marci frowned. “Did you . . . hit your head?”

“Yes?”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Blessing

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“I’d like to…” he stalled, struggling to speak, “to bless you.”

She rolled away slightly from the man who had approached her on the sidewalk. “What sort of blessing?”

He sighed. “You think I’m trying to play you.”

“No, I—”

“‘It’s fine,” he continued, breath labored. “I don’t blame you. So how about this, just let me touch your wrist, and if nothing happens, then you’ll know.”

“My wrist?” Shifty and shaken as this man seemed, there was something adamant in his gaze that made her feel brave. “Fine. Let’s see this blessing.” And so she held out her arm.

Relieved at her change of heart, the man knelt beside her chair, reached out and laid his hand on her wrist. Immediately, her skin began to glow.

“Holy shit!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “Yes, that’s exactly what I am.”

“What?”

“Any harm I do to someone must be repaid as a blessing, or else I suffer it too. I’m a curse as much as a blessing.”

“So if you’re blessing me, that means.”

Then, for the first time in a decade, she felt her legs.

No small miracle.

There were tears running down the stranger’s face.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox