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

Betrayal

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Late night was turning into early morning when something inside her finally broke. She couldn’t deny what was happening, even though she would like to. “So this is it?” she asked, giving in to pain and exhaustion. “After all this time?” Her throat spasmed, voice cracked. “Do . . . do you have any idea how much I loved you?”

No answer of course. She felt the knot tightening around her belly again. Another up-welling of agony. Another spiral into the abyss.

It had all started with a date at a trendy brew-pub all those years ago. They had split an order of parmesan truffle fries. That’s when she knew—from the first taste of those crisp, tangy fries—she was in love. And over all these years, she had been faithful, ordering the same fries almost every time she visited that brewery, each experience as satisfying as that first.

And now this. Betrayal of the most visceral kind.

Had she been stress eating? Of course. Was the high ABV pint she’d ordered a part of this too? Undoubtedly. But there was only one thing she could blame for the chunks floating in her toilet bowl.

“Alright,” she muttered in resignation. “It’s over.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Climb

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WHY do you climb?

What sort of a question was that? John huffed as he drove a piton into the rock face, and not just because of the exertion. He hadn’t even wanted to do the stupid interview, but his friends had convinced him that it would “inspire people.”

Why DO you climb?

The question echoed in the vacuous space where his answer should have been. How could he articulate something so basic? Why does he breath? Why does he eat? Of course, those were things everyone did. Very few other people climbed mountains on multiple continents. So shouldn’t he have an answer?

Why do YOU climb?

The question stung like an accusation. Why must he justify his past time. Who cared? Certainly not the reporter. She seemed even less interested in the interview than he did. And in her blank, dispassionate stare, John had finally seen the pointlessness of his entire life.

Wind buffeted him on the rock face, howling:

Why do you CLIMB?

Cheek pressed against stone, John looked down. How insignificant he was to that wide world below him. How extraordinary that he should get to see it.

And because the alternative would be falling, he climbed.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Leaving

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I watched him prepare to leave, feeling a strange emptiness a foreboding. Then my dad happened to stride past. “Dom, you’re not staying for dinner?” he boomed.

Dominic shook his head. “The number 23 stops running after seven.”

“The bus?”

“Yes, dad,” I said, unable to stifle my own attitude.

“Nah, come on,” he insisted, clapping Dominic on the back. “Stay for dinner, then I’ll give you a lift.”

Dominic’s face was still, as impossible to read as ever. All he said was, “My mother might worry, sir.”

Dad gave a sharp, approving nod. “Fair enough. We’ll take you back now.” Then he turned to me. “Whaddya say, Harry?”

“Dad, just be cool.”

But he wasn’t even listening for my answer. “Dom, where do you live?”

A quick glance in my direction. “Corner of Fifth and Washington.”

A pause.

“That’s . . . that’s on the East Side, right?”

Dominic’s jaw tightened. “That’s right sir.”

The jovial tone returned. “Oh, would ya stop calling me sir. Call me Bob.” Then he grabbed the keys and flung open the door. “Come on boys, the Cadillac’s out front.”

We rode all the way to Dominic’s house in silence. Somehow, I knew that everything had changed.

* * *

A story by Gregory M. Fox