Author: Gregory M. Fox
Category: Fiction
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/gregory-m-fox/page,3,17426-a-breath-of-fiction.html
Water
Section III
Fragile
The water is as calm as a cold morning, and I’m afraid even my breath will disturb it. Still, with my toes at the very edge of the pond, I lean as far as I can over to look at my reflection. And he is there, waiting for me.
I know, of course, that he isn’t actually in the water. A gentle breeze or a dropped stone and he would shatter into a million pieces. My parents tell me that when I was very young, I would try like a cockatoo to fight the child I saw in the mirror, and they were always afraid I would break the glass and hurt myself. But when they took me into another room, I would look everywhere for the reflection who seemed to have abandoned me. A little older, I would tell them how sad it was that my reflection could only move when I moved.
I’m not sure when I started walking, but the pond is now far behind me. And I look into the sky, wondering who is looking back at me,—wondering if I only exist on a pane of glass or in the surface of a still puddle.
Puddle
“You splashed me!” she shouted again.
It was like beating my head against a wall. “Look lady, it was an accident. I didn’t see the puddle.”
“Didn’t see it?” Her voice was piercing. “Didn’t see it? You rode straight into it. How’d you miss it?”
“I don’t know alright. I’m sorry.” And I meant it. I only hit the puddle because I was avoiding the old woman in the first place. I even ended up almost as wet as she was. Hearing her shriek, I had stopped, only to be scolded once I got off my bike. “What do you want from me, lady?”
“Stop calling me lady,” she yelled, her face turning purple. “Kids these days. Who raised you? Who gave you that bike? You shouldn’t be allowed to have it if you can’t be mindful of others.” With that, she snatched my bike from where it was leaning.
“Hey, you can’t just take that,” I yelled.
“You don’t deserve it.”
They came out of nowhere: enormous, heavy drops of water, driving us into a tiny cafe. Looking at each other, both soaked from head to toe, we laughed.
“Come on,” she said. “Let me buy you some cocoa.”
Flotsam
The beach was strewn with bodies.
“Jim,” Martha called out. “You better see this.”
“See what?” He lumbered out onto the porch where his wife stood staring out toward the shore. Even in the pale morning light, they could still discern the dark shapes massed along the beach. The sheer numbers were boggling to the mind. In places, the sand was not even visible, so closely were they clustered together. Small and hairy, covered in Kelp, it resembled an invasion from another world. Their small house stood on an isolated point Maine’s Atlantic coast. They knew theirs were most likely the only eyes witnessing this sight.
“I’ll check it out,” Jim said.
“Be careful.”
He took a shovel—not a weapon, but the tool he was most likely to use. However, as he got closer to the beach, he began to realize how bizarre the circumstances actually were. Was it a prank? Some sort of disaster out at sea?
He came trudging back to house carrying one of the bodies in his hand. “It’s worse than we thought,” he said.
He squeezed the wet ball of matted fur and a scratchy voice said, “I wuv you.”
“What are they?”
“Furbies.”
Missing (i)
It was the third straight day of rain. The sound of the storm rushed in with every customer who took refuge in the coffee shop. Each time she heard it, Mae looked over to see if it was Dorothea. Each time she was disappointed. It had been over a week.
Dorothea had been coming to the shop since before Mae started working there, maybe since it had opened. Every day she ordered the same thing: an Americano that she filled with so much sugar, you’d think she had to chew it. “It’s just like me,” she’d say. “I should be bitter, but instead I’m so sweet you can hardly take it.” Mae always laughed at that.
Would Dorothea tell a barista she was going on vacation? It could be sickness. After all, she was 68. But perhaps it was worse. When Jerry stopped coming the year before, it wasn’t until his obituary appeared that Mae realized why. But Dorothea lived in the next town over, and her family was in Minnesota. If something had happened, she might never hear about it.
Distracted, Mae prepared the next order absent-mindedly, poured steaming water over a shot of espresso, and called out, “Americano.”
Water
Unable to tread water, Dimitri flailed his arms wildly, barely able to keep his head above the water. In the river’s forceful current it was impossible for him to dislodge his ankle from the sunken branch which had snagged it. Risking a sprain or worse, he jerked his ankle violently, and fortunately the branch gave way instead of his leg. He was back at the mercy of the current. Without strength left to reach the shore, Dimitri tumbled through the water. Battered against stones and overtaken by fatigue, his struggling gradually ceased.
A halo of light filtered down through the water.
He felt that he was being pulled. Lifted. Someone’s hands laid him down on the grass, caressed his face, wiped the cuts and bruises from his skin. “Who . . .” he tried to say. But a voice nearby shushed him. Gentle lips pressed against his. Cool water filled his mouth, ran in rivulets across his eyelids, down his neck, over his whole body. He felt like he was floating and submerged all at once.
Dimitri woke on the riverbank to the sound of trickling water. Shakily, he stood. The morning sunlight reflected off the water’s surface and danced in his eyes.
Restaurant
“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.”
Spike
James had been sneaking liquor into work and spiking coffee for a few weeks now. First it was just his own drinks while he was on break. When he told a couple of friends about it, they started coming in during his shift so he could make them special orders as well. Not long after that, the pranking started. The occasional rude customer would become much friendlier, the couple having serious relationship talks would get emotional and start yelling, the lady who slipped religious tracts into the tip jar felt the encouraging warmth of the spirit. And James just chuckled behind the counter. He was surprised that no one seemed to have noticed, but maybe they didn’t mind.
James woke to the sound of a beeping heart monitor. A doctor informed him he had been in ICU for several days. The drunk driver who had struck his car was still unconscious, but was expected to recover. However, the three children who had been in the car with him were dead. The man’s wife visited James in the hospital. She shook her head with tears in her eyes, saying over and over, “He never drank. I don’t understand. He n
ever drank.”
Shelter
The kiss was confusing. It seemed to have happened accidentally, only you didn’t pull away. No, you held on tighter and tighter. And having loved you all this time, of course I wouldn’t let you go.
When you described him, the perfect man, did you know that I was doing a comparison in my head? I was checking how I measured up. Or fell short. Were you checking too? Or perhaps gauging my reaction? You’ve always made me want to be a better man, but even love can’t make me grow or change the color of my skin.
When you told me you were lonely, did you forget that I was right beside you? Did you hear me whisper “I’m lonely too”? Sometimes it’s hard to tell if we are actually having a conversation. So much goes unsaid.
And when you kissed me, did it mean you cared for me? Could I be something other, perhaps even something better because I am real? Or were you taking any shelter in a storm? Is it love or cruelty for you to kiss me because I am here, not because I’m what you want? Is it love for me not to care?
Ice
She had forgotten about the freezing rain. Shivering, Marigold darted back inside and kicked off her shoes. Her glasses fogged almost immediately, making her steps small and cautious. She stubbed her toe only once on a chair, and by the time she reached the garage they were clear.
First she looked in the front seat, but remembering this was the first bad weather of the season, decided to check the back. Still no luck. Sighing, she went back into the house for the car keys. They weren’t in the bowl by the door or on the counter. Finally, she realized they were in the pocket of the coat she was wearing and returned to the garage. In the trunk of her car, she found the ice scraper and triumphantly headed back into the cold.
It took around five minutes of chipping and scraping, but she was finally able to pry open the mailbox. Feeling quite pleased she removed a letter from another coat pocket and placed it in the black abyss of that gaping mouth.
Her breath gathered in small clouds, then dispersed into the morning.
Marigold took the letter out of the box and trudged back into the house.
Rain
Don’t think I haven’t been faithful or even happy. Because I have. All I’m trying to say is that I’ve never been able to love my wife with my whole heart.
When I was eighteen, I went out into a field during the rain. I danced, splashing in the mud. There was a girl walking through the tall grass and singing a sad, slow song. And she kissed me once before going on her way. When the rain was gone, so was she.
I loved her.
But I never saw her again. A month later I met the woman who would be my wife. She came like a ray of sunshine and illuminated all of the dark recesses of my heart. It was in her that I first knew myself, and her warmth helped me accept all of the wild shadows I had never realized were inside of me. She was comfort and stability.
We were happy. We have always been happy together.
But whenever it rains, I remember that kiss beneath the clouds. I remember the taste and rhythm of untamed passion that fell into my life. And for a moment, my wife does not have all my love.
Cubes
Slurrp.
They hadn’t seen their waitress for seven minutes, and the ice cubes in Julian’s glass were melting slowly. Nevertheless, every minute he would slurp up even the tiniest bit of water. Holly tried to ignore the sound and read her menu, but each time she flinched a little more. Like the ice, she was losing her cool, and it was being steadily sipped through her boyfriend’s straw. Finally, she lashed out.
“Can you please stop that?”
“What?” Julian asked, taking another sip.
Slurrp.
Holly shuddered, “That—stop it.”
“This?”
Slurrp.
“Yes!” she shouted. “It sounds like—like a Wookie choking.”
Julian looked at her with amusement. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll stop.”
“Thank you.”
Crunch.
Holly’s whole body tensed.
“What?” Julian said. “I stopped slurping.”
“But that’s even worse. It’s like your teeth are breaking.”
Julian sighed, frustration overtaking his amusement. Holly almost regretted her harsh tone until he started gurgling and sputtering and making goofy faces at her. She pursed her lips. “Oh, very funny, Chewbacca.”
Julian might have choked to death in the seat beside her except that Holly was so annoyed she backhanded him in the stomach, dislodging the ice cube he had tried to swallow whole.
Spinning
Another rainy morning, and I pour myself into the day with a cup of coffee. I burn my tongue but there is no time to sip. I am on cruise control as I hit the road. More coffee in a travel mug for the road. Waiting for the light to change at Cedar and Washington, my alarm goes off for the fifth time. I hit snooze again. Are my headlights on? Are my wipers? Is the car? Perhaps I only dreamed I turned them on. Or maybe I am dreaming now, and any moment, I will wake to my real alarm, get out of bed, have coffee, and drive to work, only vaguely aware of the repetition, wondering whether I had slept through an entire day of my life. And my phone is going off again. I am pumping the brakes, wishing that this day would stop, that my life would stop, that my car would stop. I don’t know if the world is spinning or if I am. My face is in a puddle, and I don’t know if it’s mud or coffee or blood, or maybe all three. But if I’m late again, I could lose my job.
River
“It’s not the end.”
Mark stared hard at the water flowing through the moonlight. “It feels like the end.”
“I don’t know,” Peter answered. “I’m not sure that anything really ends. We’re always influenced by the past, you know? We’re creating the future. Things are always changing, always in flux.”
Mark frowned, tossing a small stone up and down. “Are you trying to give me hope for tomorrow or something? Tell me things are gonna get better?”
“No. I’m letting you know that what you do now matters, whether it seems like it or not.” He picked up a stone, weighed it carefully, and hurled it at the river.
Plop.
Splash.
The sound gradually disappeared into the murmuring of the river. “It still feels like the end,” Mark sighed. “Maybe it should be.”
“Do you want it to be?”
“A little.” Mark gripped the stone tightly in his fist. “It would be easier.”
“Yes. It would.”
“So why not give it all up then?”
Peter shrugged and picked up another stone. “You can try. But it’s a choice. Like any other.”
“What does that mean?”
Peter tossed his stone into the river.
Plop.
Splash.
“Whatever you choose, it’s a beginning.”
Sprinklers
The sprinklers still ran every day at 4:00 p.m. even though all the grass had died years ago. Every day he sat on the porch watching as big splotches of mud formed in the gritty dust now composing his yard. He was sure it was a metaphor describing his life, but he refused to get close enough to the spray to figure it out.
Today, he had visitors. His youngest son had brought his wife and daughter to visit. They had tried to keep him inside to talk instead of his customary sit on the porch, but he needed his habits. They sustained him.
After fifteen minutes alone on the porch, his six year old granddaughter, Joy, came outside. He usually tried to avoid her, saying he didn’t like children. But the truth was, young as she was, the girl already resembled her grandmother. And that was too much for him to take.
Today, however, she sought him out. “Look Grandpa,” she said, pointing to the sprinklers, “rainbows! Let’s catch them.” With energy only children have, she took his gnarled hands and pulled him uneasily out of his chair and into the yard. And th
e water fell on his face.
Colors
“What’s wrong, grandma?”
The light was red again. Diane had growled and struck the steering wheel in anger, frightening her granddaughter Lizzie in the back seat. Diane hated the traffic lights, especially on Main Street. During rush hour, it was ordinary to wait through three or more cycles of red lights. Of course, she could remember when there was only one stop light in the whole town. It was just a couple blocks away on the corner where Frank’s Hardware had been before it became a Blockbuster and now a Dunkin Donuts.
The light turned green. Diane let off the brake but only idled as the cars ahead of her slowly began to move. She hardly recognized her hometown anymore. She had grown up using an outhouse for goodness sake. Those were simpler times. Now everything was all noise and movement. Even when traffic was gridlocked, people were still rushing.
The light turned yellow. Diane almost cursed as she pressed the brake. Red. The truck ahead of her accelerated into the intersection. It was clipped by a car turning left and skidded into a fire hydrant. Water gushed into the air.
“Look grandma!” Lizzie cheered. “Look at all the colors!”
Serene
After five minutes, I turned off the engine, wanting to save gas. I waited inside for Erin, while the rain played jazz on the roof.
Erin loved rain, especially the feel of it on her skin. She told me that as a toddler, she’d go into the rain and take off all her clothes until her mother chased her down. I asked her once how old she was when she stopped. All she said was that rain is better than sex.
Erin had been fidgety since I picked her up. I think she knew. As soon as I turned on the wipers, she asked to stop. After fifteen minutes she was still standing there, her arms spread wide. And the sky was getting darker. I got out, hoping to coax her inside, but her face was more serene and more beautiful than anything I’d ever seen. There was nothing I could say. That was when I knew I loved her. And that she would never love me back.
Just then, the hair on my arms started to stand up. There was a flash of heat and light and a sound like the sky tearing in two. And Erin was gone.
Catch
He raised the glass to his lips, but found it empty. He looked down, feigning confusion even though it was the fifth time he’d made the mistake in as many minutes. Hopefully no one had been paying enough attention to catch him. But when he set the glass down and glanced up, he saw only empty chairs. Somehow, without him noticing, everyone else had left the table. They were now scattered around by the food, on the dance floor, or at other tables.
He was alone.
With a sigh, he rose from his seat, picked up his dirty dishes, realized he didn’t know where they would go, and set them down again. Shrugging, he pulled on his jacket and slipped away from the ballroom.
At the exit, he stopped for a moment and looked back at the reception, at all the smiling faces warmly illuminated by a thousand pinpricks of light.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” someone said.
“Oh, um . . . yes.” There was a pause. “I was just—”
“Dance with me?”
He would have tried to refuse, but a small, soft hand grabbed his and pulled him into a swirl of green silk and chestnut hair.
And they danced and danced.
Inundation
It’s not because of you that I am distant. It’s because somehow, suddenly, I find myself in the past.
I’m watching my mother pack her bags and leave, watching my father stubborn and silent, watching my step-mother pack her bags and leave.
I see the compassion in your eyes.
I’m listening to my sister in the next room calling her husband a stupid cow while he says “I never should have married you.”
I hear your voice calling me like a siren.
I’m sitting beside my best friend who’s sobbing, “I screwed up and now she’s gone. I screwed everything up.”
I feel the warmth of your heart in every tender touch, in your body pressed against mine.
I wouldn’t know true love if I saw it. I’m shaking with the fear that I am too warped, too broken, too blind to find it for myself.
But I know the love you pour into me—more than I am able to contain. It rises around me like a sea while I cling to my dry patch of earth. Rise up and sweep me away. Though I struggle, fill my belly, my lungs, my very being until I’m lost in you.