Restaurant

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“Derik …”

“What?”

Her mouth opened, but no noise came.  She swirled around the last few noodles of her fettuccini, hoping they would provide the answer she needed, just like the tea leaves her grandma used to read before apostatizing.

In another part of the restaurant, a pitchy variation of the birthday song had started up.  His head turned in the direction of the music where a cluster of balloons bobbed a little too closely to the ceiling fan.

But she was trying to talk to him.

“Derik, I’ve been thinking …”

A bright red apron materialized abruptly beside them.  “Can I get you a refill?”  The overly chipper voice was a shock to her system, so entrenched as she was in her solemn contemplation.

“Thank you,” Derik chimed in reply.

A clear pitcher of water suddenly hovered between them, filling their glasses.  There was the familiar “plop, plop, plop” of ice cubes falling into the cups as well.  She hated having too much ice, but she managed a feeble “Thanks.”

“And let me get those plates for you.”  Then apron and plate and fettuccini had vanished.

“What was it you were about to say?”

“It was … nothing,” she said.  “Never mind.”

* * *

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

Zipper

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“Why can’t I stay at home?” Zinny asked dejectedly.

Hannah answered my rote, “You’re still too little to stay at home by yourself.” Moving automatically, she grabbed a stocking cap from the hook by the door and shoved the hat down over her daughter’s mess of curly hair.

“Why can’t daddy watch me?” Zinny asked next.

“Because dad’s not home right now,” Hannah said, grabbing the bright purple coat from its hook and draping it over Zinny’s shoulders.

“But I want him to be home.”

Hannah restrained a sigh, saying simply, “I know, darling.”

Zinny looked up with large eyes that her mother refused to meet and asked, “Where is daddy?”

Hannah knelt to help her daughter with her zipper. “He had to go far away for work, remember?”

“He’s always far away at work,” she groaned.

“Yes.” Hannah yanked the zipper, and it didn’t move. She yanked again.

“I just want him to be home again.”

“Yes Zinny,” Hannah said through gritted teeth, “I know.” She tugged the zipper pull with short sharp movements.

“But why is he not home?”

“Because he’s NOT” Hannah shouted. They were on the same level, face to face, eyes filling up with tears.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Eyes

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“I can’t believe I ran into you! It’s been too long.”

Renee nodded while desperately searching her memory for this woman’s name. What she said was, “I’m surprised you recognized me. Between my haircut and the masks, I’ve gotten used to friends walking right by me.”

“It’s the eyes,” she said smiling. “They gave you away instantly.”

“I guess they call them the ‘window to the soul’ for a reason.”

“Exactly!” the other woman said. “That’s all we’ve got to go on these days.”

Renee realized that she had never actually made an effort to look this woman in the eye. In fact, she’d gotten into the habit of avoiding eye contact with anyone she encountered on her rare excursions out of the house. It took a surprising exertion of will, but Renee forced herself to look into the other woman’s eyes. And she saw.

Mirth
Uncertainty
The strain of trying so hard to accept that this was what life was like now
so that when she told herself, ‘it’s gonna be okay,’
she might actually believe it.
Loneliness
Determination
Confidence that everything really would be okay.

“Emina,” Renee said, recalling the woman’s name. “It’s so good to see you.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Photo by Ani Kolleshi on Unsplash

Devotion

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The sculpted folds of cloth were cool beneath his touch. “It’s a beautiful statue,” someone behind him said.

The elderly worshiper turned to see a young priestess watching him. “Beautiful,” he said with a wistful smile, “but still only a poor reflection of the divine, wouldn’t you say.”

“Your humility does you great credit, sir.”

“Ah.” A sigh. “His eminence has been telling stories, I see.”

“It’s an honor to meet you the sculptor who filled this temple with the most awe inspiring representations of the goddess,” the young woman said eagerly.

“It was my honor to work in her service,” the wizened artist replied. His hand still rested on the sculpted stone but it was his other hand the priestess now focused on: the black, deformed thing at his side.

“The high priest also told me about your . . . accident,” she said.

“A fallen stone,” he said, “of all things. I had finished my work, and the goddess claimed my hand forevermore.”

“Why not pray to her for healing? Surely she would answer such a devoted servant.”

A smile, radiant and sorrowful. “And have her return the greatest sacrifice I could possibly offer? What would that say about my devotion?”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Photo by Peter Ivey-Hansen on Unsplash

Terminal

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She called it her “sippy cup.” The water bottle had a built in straw that reminded her of a child’s spill-proof cup. Today, of course, she wasn’t drinking water. The vodka bottle from the duty free shop was buried in her bag, and she wondered how discreetly she could refill her cup in the busy terminal. She wondered if she looked as bad as she felt. She wondered why she should even get on the plane at all.

“Here you go,” a chipper voice said, cutting in on her ruminations.

“What?”

A large man with a round belly was leaning toward her and holding out a flower necklace. “This one’s for you,” he said. “I know, you’re supposed to get the lei when you arrive. But I figure, look at all these people. Vacation’s ending; they’re going home to everyday life. And travelling’s always stressful. Seems like they might need flowers too.

“Come ooooon,” he said when she still didn’t reach for the necklace, “you’ll be able to tell people you got ‘leied’ at the airport!”

To her own surprise, she laughed. Moments later, she was wreathed in pink flowers, and felt like she could face the future after all.

Photo by Killian Pham on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Abyss

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“Welcome to the Abyss,” Clyde chimed. “Care to make a donation?”

The young woman blinked several times, eyes adjusting to the lighting of the sparsely furnished lobby. “You . . . have to pay?” she said at last.

Clyde gestured to a jar labelled Tips. It was empty “Never hurts to ask. You ready?”

“I guess so?”

An unusually insouciant response. “Right,” Clyde said, hoisting himself up. “Through here.” He opened the door at the back of the room and gestured for the visitor to enter.

She stepped into the large empty room, saw the Abyss at its center. “This is it?”

Clyde nodded. “Enjoy,” he said, letting the door shut behind her.”

He returned to the desk shaking his head. Maybe he should have tried to warn the kid what she was in for. Maybe a decade ago, he would have. But no one who came to the Abyss was really prepared. There was a reason repeat visitors were so rare. Sometimes it was better just to let people have the experience.

The girl emerged ten minutes later wearing an expression Clyde knew well. Trembling, eyes wide, she crossed to the desk and dropped a handful of bills into the tip jar.

* * *

Photo by Adrien Olichon on Unsplash

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Pear

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Story by Gregory M. Fox
from A Breath of Fiction’s archives
originally published November 28, 2010

* * *

Dear Isabella,

I hear my buddy Chris decided to pay you a visit.  After the laugh we had with him, I’m surprised he was even brave enough to show his face in public.  But the really astonishing part is that I heard you’re actually going along with his crazy idea.  Is this for real?  I mean, did he show you that lame bit with the pear?  I told everybody you must be playing a practical joke on him or something.  He’s calling himself the “Great Admiral of the Ocean” for crying out loud.  How could anyone take a guy like that seriously?  But everyone tells me you’re sincere.  Do you actually think he’ll make it?

If all I’ve heard is true, then I have to let you know I’m a little concerned.  I mean, what are you and Ferdinand smoking over there?  First it was the Inquisition, then the Granada War, now this.  I think you guys need to rethink some life choices.  Everyone knows Chris is a crackpot who wants to kill all the Indians ever.  And besides, Africa is where the real action is.  Cape of Good Hope, here we come!

Yours,

King John II of Portugal

1492

* * *

Photo by Sheila Joy on Unsplash

Wolf

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The wolf was hungry. That was why it had come to the village. The blood of lambs was dripping from its jaws when the men found it. “Horrible,” they said, “monstrous, repulsive.” Razor sharp teeth cut through flesh.

“Perhaps,” one among them whispered, “we could use this beast.” The men were hungry too.

A wolf is an excellent hunter, savage and relentless. With this beast at their side, the men brought home wild boars and mighty stags. The village held bounteous feasts with these spoils, though the best portion always went to the wolf first. The wolf was hungry.

And winter came. The wild game grew scarce, and the wolf grew lean. The wolf grew vicious. They slaughtered livestock to keep the hungry beast from turning on them, but they couldn’t sacrifice it all. “Perhaps,” one among them whispered, “the village across the river.”

No one in the other town was prepared for an attack. For the wolf. Beasts don’t fight like men. A wolf goes for the throat. The men returned home victorious. They came home scared. They led the captured herds before them, following a hungry wolf – a beast with the blood of men dripping from its jaws.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Photo by Chris Ensminger on Unsplash

Procession

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All through town doors are shut and lights extinguished. The pale procession is coming. Everyone can see them, but you only hear the song if they’ve claimed you. If they have, it’s already too late.

I’ve been waiting for this night with dread, with curiosity, wondering what I would hear.

White shadows. Empty eyes. Silent steps. They move toward the river, writhing in slow motion. Tattered dresses eddy and pool in the moonlight. Mouths open to sing. And oh god, I already know the song.

Barefoot, bareheaded, I walk out into the night. None of the ghosts look at me, but I find an opening in the line for me. I walk. My lips part. The song wells up, spills out, erupts. I wonder if the people watching through their shudders can hear my cries of anguish. I wonder if anyone cares.

I follow the women to the river, to the bridge, where the pale procession always ends. From that vantage, I can see his house, the house where it happened. I wonder if he is watching. The song swells behind me, sorrowful, angry, and desperate.

But I refuse to let him win.

I walk on, and my sisters follow.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Photo by Kenrick Mills on Unsplash

Promised

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Lucy used the spare key hidden on the porch light to get into his house. What she found was a disaster. Smashed furniture, the smell of rot, a shape curled up in the darkness. A long, low moan. “Nooooo.” As she swung the door open, that shape began trying to drag itself away. Away from the light.

Away from her.

“William?” Lucy said, afraid of the answer.

“Go,” the voice hissed. Then, in a pitiable whisper, “Just . . . just go.”

She looked at the debris scattered around her, saw the broken chair leg with its jagged point next to where she had first seen him. He had stopped trying to crawl away. Instead, from that misshapen mass, two eyes stared back at her. Dark and beady, Lucy could only catch the smallest glint of light reflected in them. Gradually, as her eyes adjusted, she began to make out more details: bony hands, clawed fingers, back twisted into a hunch, papery skin, sparse white hair in lank clumps. Fangs. They caught the light too, vicious, dangerous things.

“What . . . happened to you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

The vampire answered anyway. “No blood,” he said. “I promised . . . for you. No more blood.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox