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

Help

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

* * *

“Tell me, do you believe in God, John?”

“Yes.”

“And do you believe in his son?  That Jesus died for our sins?”

“I do.”

“God bless you, John.  God bless you for doing his will.”

John checked his watch.  This tiny Hispanic woman had latched onto him after he gave her a five.  In his heart, he believed this God’s will, but he was beginning to think that she had a different idea of what that meant.  Now he found himself putting ten dollars on her gas card.

As they walked out she said, “Don’t worry, the grocery store is close.”

He paused.  “I’m sorry, but I have to go.  I’ve done all I can.”

“John … think of God John.”

He couldn’t bear those eyes.  Beneath her look of confusion, there was something else.  Disappointment?  Certainly.  Anger?  Possibly.  But what frightened him most was the subtle disdain that glistened just beneath her gaze.  She thought herself more holy, and perhaps she was.  “I’m sorry,” John said, “I wish I could do more, but I just can’t.”

“John …” she trailed off.

For a moment there was silence.  “I—I’ll pray for you,” he said quietly, then slowly turned and walked away. 

* * *

Photo by Jaee Kim on Unsplash

Vulnerable

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Mara’s jaw dropped. “You’re seriously breaking up with Ally because you think she’s a vampire?”

“I mean not really,” Dillon answered. “It’s just an idea that got stuck in my head, but it’s ruining the whole relationship.”

Arms folded and eyes narrow, Mara asked, “What about her is so vampiric?”

“Well, she hates garlic.”

A shrug. “So do I. Lots of people don’t like garlic.”

“But my family’s Italian. All my favorite foods have garlic. Oh!” he added, growing animated, “She wouldn’t go into my family’s church at Christmas either.”

“Do you even go to that church anymore?”

“But think about it,” he insisted, “holy water… crucifixes…”

“And have you tried talking to her about her own beliefs?”

“Fine,” Dillon grunted, “but what sort of woman doesn’t carry a mirror in her purse?”

“A confident woman with relationships built on trust.”

“Huh?”

Mara rolled her eyes. “My point is that you have a habit of sabotaging relationships once they get to a point where you might actually have to be vulnerable.”

Dillon winced. “Harsh… but maybe you’re right. I… should probably give her a call.”

Mara smiled encouragingly, revealing sharp fangs, then lunged forward and bit Dillon in the neck.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Wool

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On their third date, Candace and Michael were still getting used to seeing each other without masks. They grinned at each other constantly all through dinner until Candace pointed out a seed stuck in Michael’s teeth. She laughed so hard at his panicked expression that water squirted out of her nose.

Michael had been mortified, but Candace still invited him back to her apartment for drinks. “You look warm,” she remarked. “Why don’t you take off that sweater?” She indulged herself in a quick peek at his narrow hips and flat stomach as his undershirt pulled up with the sweater, but then he started writhing awkwardly, stuck halfway with the sweater covering his head. With one forceful tug, Candace freed him from his woolen constraint, but the static electricity left tufts of his hair standing on end.

“What is it?” he asked as Candace stifled a giggle.

“Nothing,” she insisted, leaning forward to kiss him. A bolt of static electricity crackled between their puckered lips and both jumped, clutching their mouths.

Then Candace started giggling.

Michael’s shoulders slumped. “I guess I should go,” he sighed.

“No!” Candace said. “Stay! This is the best date I’ve had in a long time.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox
Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay

Sacrifice: a parable

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It was in the dark ancient days that the last king climbed to the hill in the center of the city. They were days of uncertainty, of fear, of death. There was only one white flower left in the grove on the hill, one bloom remaining with the power to heal. The king stood resolutely before it. Pale, flickering stars burned far above. Drawing his gilded sword, the king fell on the blade. The blood, the sacrifice, nourished the flower, and a dozen more grew in its place.

The people of the city saw. They would not forget that sacrifice, nor let the flowers that blessed their city perish. Each year on the anniversary of the king’s death. a procession marched to the top of the hill, and blood was shed. A few followed the dead king’s example, willingly giving of themselves so that others might live. But most years, they had to find the blood somewhere else. Beggars in the street, criminals filling the prison, but mostly people from the farms and villages of the surrounding countryside: the people of the field.

For year after year and generation after generation, laborers, migrants, and their children were hauled up to the hill and sacrificed with a gilded blade. Over time, things changed. A wall was built around the grove. Families of victims were offered a small recompensed. The people of the city appointed guardians for the hill to protect the flowers that grew there. Less blood was taken so that most of those sacrificed were able to live. And the hill was glutted with blood.

Then came a time of plague.

Across the land, people fell sick. They fell in the dirt and never got up. Remembering their long years of sacrifice, the people of the fields came to the hill. Calloused hands outstretched, they came begging for the healing that their blood had bought.

But within the walls of the grove, there was little to give. Blood had soaked the ground, and flowers had grown, but their petals were thin and brittle and mottled with red. What scarce healing those flowers had to offer, the guardians gave.

And the people of the city raged at the loss of the flowers their king had given. They smashed the gates. They stormed the hill. They set fire to the grove. Red flame. White smoke. Screams in the night. Cold, distant stars.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Date

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Serena grinned enticingly as she set her empty glass on the bar. “Why don’t we take this back to your place?”

“I’d love to,” Phil said staring into his own glass, “but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Oh.”

“But what about your place?” he offered hastily.

Serena’s brow furrowed, then her eyes went wide. “Oh no,” she gasped. “You’re married.”

“What? No.”

“But there is someone else.”

“Not . . . really.”

Serena shook her head in disbelief. “I’m an idiot,” she said gathering up her jacket and purse. “I have to get out of here.”

“She’s not—” Phil winced. “I mean, I can explain.”

But Serena was already on her way to the door. “Don’t bother,” she called without even looking back.

Fifteen minutes later, Phil opened the door to his dark apartment and turned on the lights.

“You’re back early,” a woman’s voice remarked.

“I know,” he grunted.

A spectral figure glided into view. She was dressed in rags, her skin was cracked and crumbling, nothing but two deep pits for eyes. “So how did it go?” she asked.

“Like you care.”

The ghost considered, then shrugged. “Turn on the TV. I want to watch Great British Bake Off.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Gift

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“I don’t know what I did to deserve this as a gift,” she says in her seat beside the hospital bed. She presses his hand into hers, though the bony fingers remain limp in her grip. A life, faint and fading.

A life is ending.

She had never felt more scared than when she realized she was sitting in the room where her husband would die. She would have to say goodbye to him alone.

“On Christmas, of all days.”

Two floors above, another woman wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “A gift,” she whispers. “Such a beautiful gift. And on Christmas of all days.”

She had welcomed him into the world alone, never before feeling as relieved as she did when her son was born and she held him for the first time.

A life is beginning. A life, so fragile, so hopeful.

She cradles his head to her chest, lets tiny fingers grip her thumb. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this as a gift.”

Two floors below, a woman says goodbye to the love of her life with tears in her eyes. “A gift,” she whispers. “You were such a beautiful gift.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox
Photo by Sandy Torchon from Pexels

Shield

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Shauna had always hated working holidays at the hospital, but Christmas during a pandemic made everything worse. Usually patients could at least have visitors; they could celebrate in some small way, letting their ailments fade into the background, but this year the loneliness and misery of the hospital were harder to escape.

She found her next patient standing up in the room and looking out the window. “It’s nice to see you up on your feet,” Shauna said in her nurse voice, more upbeat than she felt.

“I wanted to watch the angels,” the patient, an elderly woman with bad lungs, replied.

Shauna was grateful for the N95 and face shield which masked her cynical expression. Great, she thought, now she’s showing signs of dementia too. “Let’s get you back into bed,” she offered, not wanting to stay late on Christmas documenting about a patient fall.

“Just a minute longer,” the patient answered as Shauna stepped up beside her. After a moment, Shauna finally followed the woman’s gaze out into the night’s darkness. From their fourth floor vantage, they could look down on city streets resplendent with twinkling Christmas lights. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” the patient whispered. “Joy to the world.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox