Show

Posted on by gmfx

“It sounded good tonight,” Matt called.

The figure loading gear into van froze. An over the shoulder glare. Foster hopped out of the back and hefted another speaker. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good crowd too.”

Foster set the speaker down roughly. “Look,” he said, “if you’re trying to rub it in, you’ve made your point.”

“I’m not,” Matt insisted, bending down to pick up the amp. “I mean it. It was a good show.”

“Give me that,” Foster grunted, sagging as he snatched the amp away. Matt backed off, arms raised. Foster almost rented, but his pride wouldn’t let him. “It is possible to play good music in a bar or at a house show.”

“I know that,” Matt said. “I know.”

Foster slammed the van doors and turned to face his former band-mate. “Just not good enough for you.”

Matt’s voice faltered. “I never said – I wasn’t trying to…” Foster just folded his arms and waited. “I miss it, you know?”

“Yeah,” Foster said. “Me too.”

Matt shrugged, nearly ready to give up. But he stayed. “I thought, maybe we could…”

The two young men stood in silence behind the bar, wounded, wary, waiting.

“Maybe we could play together sometime?”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Mac

Posted on by gmfx

Noodles swirled and squelched as the yellow powder dissolved into something resembling cheese. Nathan stirred, barely paying attention to the task as he stared into that mac and cheese abyss.

His sister was asleep on the basement couch after another messy breakup. She had arrived late last night, full of rage and tears and tequila, and had shattered on their kitchen floor. Once again it was his job to clean up the mess. But every time the pieces got smaller.

Meanwhile, his hangry kids were screaming upstairs, the audit at work was starting Monday, his car was making a weird noise, and then there was the state of the entire world . . . On top of all that, even cooking up some macaroni felt daunting.

He just wanted his sister to know he loved her.

He just wanted his sister to love herself.

How long had he been stirring?

“Is that blue box?” a raw voice croaked.

Nathan didn’t see the red eyes, the unkempt hair, not even the scars, both old and new. He saw the smile, struggling to break free at the corner of his sister’s mouth. “I know it’s your favorite,” he said, “so I made a double batch.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Photo credit: freefoodphotos.com

Cheek

Posted on by gmfx

Music, lights, a warm smile: the moment was right, he was certain. Felix cupped Madison’s cheek, leaned forward, and—

She jumped, eyes wide, and squawked like a chicken.

“Uh . . . what?”

“Sorry,” she said, forcing a chuckle. “Er . . . what were you just doing?”

“I thought . . .” He hesitated, wondering how he had misread things so badly, “I was going to kiss you?”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Is that okay?”

She tried to nod, tried to smile, but couldn’t quite do either. “It’s just . . . you didn’t eat the garlic bread.”

Felix glanced over at his plate of cold bread, and his face grew red. “I . . . well I was worried about my breath.”

“Right,” she said. “Of course.”

“Can we try again?”

Madison nodded with a smile that seemed completely genuine. Once more Felix leaned in, reached toward her face and—

“Don’t touch my neck, hellspawn!”

Felix nearly fell backward in his chair, arms raised in alarm. Yes, he had definitely misread this whole situation.

“Oh god,” she groaned, flush with embarrassment. “You’re not a vampire.”

“No?”

Madison winced.

“Look, maybe another time we can—”

SMACK!

Felix reached up to the red handprint on his cheek.”

“Had to make sure you weren’t a ghost.”

* * *

Escape

Posted on by gmfx

“Cait is coming into town this weekend,” Aria said, hoping she sounded casual. “So, I was going to get dinner with her Friday or Saturday.”

“That’s short notice,” Erik said. “What about the kids?”

Aria felt a pressure in her chest, heard a ringing in her ears. She swallowed, and the sensations receded. “I think they’d be alright for one night,” she said. Erik grunted. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen Cait,” Aria said brightly, like she was introducing an entirely new topic.

“She really should have given you more of a warning,” Erik said.

“About two years.”

“I guess that’s how she’s always been though,” he said with a shrug. “Only thinking of herself.”

The pressure returned. A deep breath. “I want to go.” She hated that it came out sounding like a question.

“You’re putting me in a really hard spot here.”

“I’m sorry,” she said automatically.

Her face must have betrayed some emotion, because Erik suddenly spoke gently, “I’m just trying to think of the kids.”

Shrill noise, burning in her ears. The pressure in her chest rose, swelled, erupted. The noise kept getting louder. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe. Her scream had escaped.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Scouts

Posted on by gmfx

“We should go back,” Lobu said, trying to sound decisive instead of scared, “fetch the warriors.”

“And attack travelers unprovoked?” Tayin replied, “You would break the second directive?”

“N-no,” Lobu stammered. “I . . . it’s just—”

“Those aren’t simple travelers,” Akiley interjected. She perched on a rock as still as a warding stone, watching the shapes moving below. “They’re monsters.”

“The look like people to me,” Tayin said, unable to keep the derision out of her voice.

“But their hall,” Lobu said uncertainly. “It—it flew! And it’s shaped just like . . .”

“Like Casket,” Tayin admitted. She had been as scared as anyone when that gleaming metallic form crashed through the sky with fire in its wake. But unlike most in her village, Tayin had actually visited Casket. All she had found there was a ruin. Now she knew what it had once been.

“They came from the darkness above,” Akiley spat. “What else could they be but monsters? Emissaries of the evil stars come to poison the Promised Land.”

Lobu was backing away, eyes wide. Akiley glared from her disdainful perch. Tayin shrugged. “Our ancestors came from the stars too.” she said. And she climbed down the ridge to greet her kin.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (X)

Posted on by gmfx

Sam hadn’t thought this through. There was more he wanted to ask his ex-wife – there had always been more that he wanted to say to her – but like so many conversations before, he floundered. A familiar feeling of shame choked him as he imagined the face Angela was probably making on the other end of the call, waiting impatiently for him to say something. To say anything. He had to say something.

“Who are you talking to?” Kit had flung the door open with her usual gusto and was now shoving a cup of steaming hot coffee into Sam’s face.

“Hey, I gotta go,” Sam said hurriedly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“You really don’t have to,” Angela replied.

“Sam,” Kit growled still holding the coffee right in front of his face.

“Yeah. Bye,” Sam said before dropping the phone and taking the coffee from Kit.

“What’s up?” she asked as she pulled on her seatbelt.

“Nothing.” Kit threw a suspicious glance at her partner. She had already put the keys in the ignition, but she didn’t start the car. Sam looked her direction, but was unable to maintain eye contact. “What?” he asked.

“What’s up?” she repeated more slowly.

“I had to make a phone call.” Sam knew he was being awkward, and he knew what Kit would say if he mentioned Angela. And he really didn’t want to think about the teasing that would follow if he explained why he had called his ex. So, to avoid the conversation, he took a nice casual swig of coffee. “Mmmfffg, ahh!” he choked.

“Yeah,” Kit said. “It’s hot.” She maintained a level gaze of scrutiny as Sam recovered and fished for napkins to clean up the coffee he had managed to spit onto the dashboard.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, still avoiding eye contact.

Kit just sighed. “It was her, wasn’t it?” Sam didn’t say anything, just directed a particularly intense focus on the little tasks of wadding up the napkins, shoving them into a cup holder, and blowing on his coffee. His face was red, and his mouth was drawn into a thin line. Kit wasn’t going to let him get away with anything though “I thought you weren’t going to talk to her anymore.”

“You say that like it’s easy,” Sam grunted into his coffee.

“Didn’t you delete her number?”

“Yes.”

“So she called you?”

“I . . . had her number memorized.”

With a roll of her eyes, Kit finally started the car. “For god’s sake, Sam. Get your shit together.”

“My shit’s my own business,” he answered gruffly. “Just because you’ve never . . .”

Jaw set tight, but otherwise unmoved, Kit waited. “Well?” she said at last. “Just because I’ve never what?”

“No,” Sam said, feeling a fresh shame rising around him, “Nothing.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Underwear (IX)

Posted on by gmfx

“Get the coffee, alright?” Sam said.
“No way,” Kit shot back, “it’s your turn. Shotgun always makes the run.”
“Can you just get it?” he growled in a tone he generally reserved for scaring youths off of private property. Kit’s face soured, but she relented. With a disdainful shake of her head, she climbed out of the squad car and slammed the door. “I’m sorry,” he called after her. “I just need a minute.” Kit just blew a raspberry over her shoulder as she marched into the coffee shop. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sam opened his phone and made a call.
There were four painstaking rings before a woman answered in a harsh voice saying, “What do you want, Sam?”
“Hi, Angela,” he said with a passable attempt at genuine enthusiasm. “How are you?”
The enthusiasm was neither believed nor returned. “Why are you calling,” she asked.
“Alright, listen,” he said with a sigh, “I know this is kind of coming out of nowhere, but I need to ask you something.”
“What, Sam,” she asked in the tone of a brusque goodbye.
Like ripping off a band-aide, Sam hesitated, and then rushed all at once, saying, “What do you think my underwear says about me?”
A pause. Sam wondered if Angela actually had hung up the phone. Then with almost a hint of a laugh, she said, “Excuse me?”
“Look I know it’s a weird question, but . . . it’s kind of important,” he mumbled.
“Are you drunk?”
“Am I—it’s the middle of the day,” Sam said, raising his voice even more. “Why would you think I’m drunk?”
“Are you?” she asked with probing sharply.
“No,” he retorted. “I’m not drunk. I’m on the job.”
“Did you just say you’re drunk on the job?”
“I—what?” Sam said, growing more flustered. “Angela, I’m a cop.”
Her shrug was practically audible. “You hear a lot of different things about cops these days.”
“Will you just answer the question?”
Having been annoyed by the conversation since the moment she answered the phone, Angela sighed and said, “I don’t know, Sam.”
“Okay, but one year, for my birthday,” he said hurriedly, “you gave me a pair of silk briefs. Did that mean something?”
The next sigh was much louder and more pointed. “It meant I thought you would look good in them.”
Sam watched the coffee shop door anxiously, knowing that his partner would return at any moment. “Alright, but then one Christmas you gave me a pair of boxers with footballs on them,” he said, still speaking quickly. “What about that?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever,” Angela answered. “I guess I thought they would be fun. Football was one of the only things I ever saw you get really excited about, so I thought you might like some boxers with footballs on them.”
“But I always wore boxer briefs,” Sam said anxiously, “not boxers.”
“Well the store only had that pattern on boxers. Would you have worn them even if they were the right style of underwear?” Sam made several noises like he was trying to speak, but no answer ever came. “I thought so,” Angela said at last.
“So what does that say about me?” Sam asked, exasperated that Angela couldn’t answer some simple questions about the significance of his undergarments. Her icy attitude was also frustrating. Obviously, their history made things complicated, but she was the only person who had ever been able to offer him comfort on the rare occasions that he reached this level of emotional distress. It seemed reasonable to Sam that a dead real estate tycoon wearing his style of boxer briefs was significant enough to warrant a breach of their usual silence.
Of course, he hadn’t explained any of that to her. So when Angela’s answer came, it had an air of calm finality. “I think you lost the right to ask me questions about your underwear when we got divorced.”

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (VII)

Posted on by gmfx

It was a vegan bakery. From inside his car across the street, Sam studied the little shop. Was there any trace? Any remnants of the past showing through the new, trendy facade?

None that he could see.

The problem wasn’t the bakery itself. And he didn’t have anything against vegans. He did have the thought that it must be a sad life without cheese, so all the more need for delicious baked goods. Sure, a cookie without butter or eggs apparently cost twice as much as one with them, but that didn’t seem to be a problem here. The shop was nestled between an upscale boutique and a stylish cocktail bar. There was a Tesla parked in front of him for crying out loud. Clearly an eight dollar muffin would be no big deal in this neighborhood.

Maybe he should have become a baker instead of a cop. He definitely wouldn’t have to deal with corpses as a baker, right? And there was no reason he would ever need to find out that he wore the same underwear as a murder victim. And if he ate a donut on the job, it wouldn’t be some sort of ironic joke, just a perk of the job.

But he liked being a cop. Didn’t he?

Sam knew he should go. Still, his eyes drifted back to the building across the street, up to the second story and the northernmost window, where his old bedroom had been. Dammit if even the windows weren’t different. They were modern, double hung windows that probably didn’t let in a cold draft all winter, then swell so much they wedged themselves shut in the summer. There might not even be a bedroom on the other side of that window. It was probably an office or a storage space. He doubted the people who ran businesses here now needed to sleep in the spaces they rented.

Thinking now of his parents, Sam remembered that he had three missed calls from his father along with three voicemails he hadn’t listened to. He didn’t open any of them up now, but texted his dad anyway: Went by the old place this morning. It’s nice of course, but it’s not the same. Wonder what will happen to it now.

Not the same – an understatement. No abandoned store fronts or plywood panels on broken glass doors. There were actually flowers growing in the small beds along the sidewalk. And even this early in the morning there were people around. There was more life and energy here than in even his best childhood memories. The area had been completely revitalized, and it was all thanks to the clever dealings of Richard Polbrock, the man whom Sam had found dead in his underwear in a part of town as run down as this had once been.

Sam knew that’s why his father had called. He had watched the news and knew that Sam had been at the scene of the murder. And his father would understand why Sam had stopped by the store and apartment that had once been theirs – before Richard Polbrock bought it and canceled their lease. Sam hoped that if they never actually talked about it directly, neither of them would have to admit the truth: that they were glad Richard Polbrock was dead. Sam didn’t want to describe that crime scene to his father. He didn’t want to here satisfaction in the man’s voice, didn’t want to reduce his father to that sort of base cruelty. And he didn’t want to spend any more time thinking about that corpse in his underwear.

It was just underwear, right? It didn’t mean anything.

It was just underwear…

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Thread

Posted on by gmfx

Round and round Ana wound the thread, bright turquoise running between her fingers. “If you would just let me explain…” she tried to say.

“You’re not going,” the older woman announced, not even glancing away from her work on the loom. “There’s no point discussing it.” Her fingers danced like a harpist plucking the strings, but hers was a song of color and patterns that would take weeks to complete. Ana marveled, not for the first time, how someone as severe as her mother was capable of creating such beauty.

Every thread in its place.

Round and round, Ana spun the thread, her grip on the shuttle so tight her fingers started to hurt. Her mother continued weaving. “You don’t really need me here, Ana remarked.

The answer came automatically. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I do.”

No thread out of place, Ana thought. The last of the turquoise thread slipped through her fingers. The shuttle was ready. But instead of handing it to her mother, Ana slipped it into her pocket and said, “Mother, I think this will be your finest work yet.”

Ana meant what she said, but her mother simply scoffed. Ana didn’t care. She was leaving.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Leaving

Posted on by gmfx

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.