Author: Gregory M. Fox
Category: Fiction
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/gregory-m-fox/page,8,17426-a-breath-of-fiction.html
Mind
Section VIII
Want
“Well, what do you want?”
Mary’s frank, honest eyes looked at Tommy expectantly. “I suppose I knew that was coming,” he said. “But that doesn’t make it easier to answer.”
“I guess not.”
“You know, I’ve asked myself that same question. I can barely stop asking it. And every time, I come up with a million possible answers, but never the right answer—the one thing that I truly hope for. And then I start to think that it’s the wrong question. I mean, shouldn’t I really be asking ‘what do I need?’ After all, they’re rarely the same thing. And if I’m really honest with myself, I’m probably the worst person at knowing what I actually need. But if I don’t know, who does?” Tommy sighed heavily, then continued. “I’m sorry. I know this hard must be on you. But I think I just need to be alone for a while.” He rose, donned his coat and said, “Thanks for everything.”
Mary just watched him walk away. What could she say?
When the door closed, she turned back to James who was still in the booth. “How about you?”
“I’ll have the club sandwich with the mixed vegetables, please.”
Last
Henry asked if he could kiss her one last time. She sighed, but said, “I guess.” He leaned in close, heart racing; he felt her breath, smelled her perfume. All so familiar.
And a thousand scenarios flickered through his mind.
He would kiss her too long and she would slap him.
After one kiss she wouldn’t let him go—they would tumble onto the couch and make angry, sad, confused love all night until they woke up happy.
She would call him later and say, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
He would grab her by the neck and kiss her hard until she screamed—he would say, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,”—she would ask him to leave—or maybe to stay.
They went on and on—some beautiful, some frightening, some sad. He had no idea what would happen. He only knew he had to find out.
Their lips met.
And she did nothing—she didn’t resist, didn’t kiss him back, didn’t even flinch. She acted like he wasn’t there, like the kiss that meant everything didn’t even exist. It was worse than anything he could have imagined. When he pulled away, her face was blank.
“Goodbye, Henry.”
Page
He had been reading all afternoon until the sunlight faded with evening. Keeping a finger in his place, he rose and turned on the overhead lamp before returning to seat and book.
Something about the yellow radiance enveloping him had altered the page. He read it, came to the bottom, realized that he couldn’t recall what it had said, returned to the top and read it again. Then again. The words were recognizable, but the meaning seemed to have drained out of them and was running down his hands. The page was a wall on which the words seemed to dance around, rearranging themselves. They stole the meaning from his blood, making a mural that depicted the story of his life. And he was in the mural. Or the mural had grown until it swallowed him in its tempest of haphazard strokes, bold lines, dismal colors. He was drowning in it.
“Pete?” He recognized his wife’s voice. It echoed around him as if it was said loudly, but from lifetimes away. “What are you reading?”
Looking up from the page was like coming out of a trance, leaving him disoriented, his head ringing.
“You’re crying,” she said.
He exhaled. “Yes.”
Milk
He was writing the words “get milk” on a post-it, had just finished the downward stroke of the “l” when it hit him—writing that message was removing the need to think about getting milk. The post-it would remind him later. Not needing to think about milk, he would naturally forget it in an instant. If he was illiterate, he would have to remember the milk himself. How much had he forgotten in his life? How much could he have remembered? He thought of all the papers he had written in high school and college, all that he had faithfully journal led since his youth—all this he could have remembered. Literacy had made him stupider. He imagined scholars coming across “ignorant savages” who were actually superior intellects. The idea grew larger: a story, maybe even a movie about an alien race coming to earth, visiting not Washington or London or Beijing, but a remote, illiterate tribe of Africa. The aliens would marvel at their intelligence and worship them.
The dog barked.
He sighed, went to fill water bowl, then returned.
What had he been doing? He saw the post-it: “get mil,” and nodded, writing the letter “k” with great satisfaction.
Copy
Dustin pressed the cancel button furiously as the copier continued to spit out pages. Finally, with a shrill beep, it stopped. He hadn’t set the copier to sort, and with 75 copies of a 15 page document, he certainly didn’t want to do it by hand. The dozen pages already printed went into recycling; he changed the settings and started over. The machine shuddered into motion while Dustin looked around the room for a distraction. He looked up at the ceiling and started counting tiles. 68 with a few irregular sizes. The machine beeped peevishly. Out of paper. Dustin wrestled the drawer open and shoved in a new ream. Satisfied, the copier continued its work. Dustin poured himself another crappy cup of coffee from the pot that had been there since eight and drank it with a grimace. 68 tiles; a few irregular. Just like always.
A beep—almost cheerful. The job was done.
“Ah, there you are.” His boss entered the room. “I made some formatting changes to that document. Think you can run it again?”
75.
Output.
Sort.
Start.
The machine roared with laughter. Dustin counted to 68. He counted again. The copier beeped. Out of paper. Again.
Reflection
It’s like that old visual trick with the rabbit and the duck. Or like a reflection in a puddle. You look at it, and you can see the sky and the trees reflected perfectly. Then all of a sudden, something switches and you only see the dirt or sidewalk beneath the water. Both of them are there, but somehow you can’t see them both at the same time. It’s like that. The first time I saw a dead soldier, it terrified me. The only other dead body I had seen before that was my grandmother because she had an open casket funeral. But the second time, something had shifted. I didn’t see a person, barely even a body. It was just a lump of matter. It may as well have been a statue of a person—just a chunk of rock. I got used to seeing them, just like you get used to seeing rocks. But every now and then, it shifts back, and there’s a person again. I see a whole lifetime of joys and sorrows broken on the ground. I see myself reflected back. I see all of humanity on the surface of that body.
And I weep.
Stories
The woman sat alone with her cappuccino and puffy red eyes.
“She looks like she’s been crying,” Braydon said from four tables away.
“I wonder why,” Amy said.
Maybe she just got caught cheating on her husband. Or worse, she just met the other woman and found out she’s a better fit for her husband. Or maybe she just came out to her parents and they disowned her—don’t want to ever see her again. Maybe she just lost the right to see her children because she spends all her money on coffee.”
“Why do you do that?” Amy asked.
“I thought you liked this game?”
“But they’re always depressing stories about strained and broken relationships.”
“She was crying,” Braydon said, “What else should I think?
Amy focused a moment, then said, “Maybe she lost her job, but it’s still a couple hours before her husband gets off work, so she came here for a pick-me-up. But she’s not afraid to go home, because she’s got an awesome, loving husband who believes in and encourages her.” Just then, the woman looked at her phone, smiled, and left.
But Braydon was looking at Amy. “You’re incredible,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
Amber
When no one else’s eyes are on you, that is when I perceive it most. You step back, and your glance returns to your darling. It is swift. Subtle. But now that I’ve seen it, I can’t see anything else. Almost frightened, your eyes dart back to be sure he’s still there, even if you’ve been holding him all the time.
And that is how it goes most of the time. Your hand is wrapped around your darling almost like it no longer belongs to you. And without him you quiver, like you are losing your own body. Or perhaps it’s merely the two becoming one. I could almost call it love.
But tell me: are you happy? I see the lust when you look at him in your quiet moments, stroking your darling with the tip of your thumb. And when you laugh your loudest, head tossed back, I see your sadness at his departure. Tell me: is he kind to you? What does he whisper when you guide him to your lips? Are they promises or secrets? And is it sweet or bitter going down? Tell me: are you filled or emptied at the bottom of your cup?
Spot
It had to be removed. I first saw it while shaving my legs. They were so smooth, no bristles or bumps—smooth and perfect. Then I saw it. A little dark spot, slightly raised. It hadn’t been there before. Or had it? I’d never seen it before. I poked it, pinched it, scratched it. But the ugly dark lump hadn’t disappeared. Now the skin around it was red and blotchy. People would see. It was like a beacon pointing at my blemish, my imperfection. I scratched it harder. And harder. I felt skin beneath my fingernails, blood oozing out of my leg. It hurt, but not terribly. No worse than cutting myself shaving. That was when I got the idea. So simple. I could just cut the little mark off. Like surgery. So I did. At first, there was blood everywhere, but I wiped it up, and there was just a tiny gouge. It scabbed, so I had to scrape the brown crust off again and again. But it healed. Now I cut them all off—all the freckles, marks, and lumps. Purification. It’s worth the pain. They’re hardly noticeable anymore—just tiny light marks, slightly shiny. And perfectly smooth.
Memory
The shop was on 9th and Washington, right where Mike said it would be, but David was afraid to go in. So, he walked around the block instead. Coming to the store again, he hesitated, and then walked on. He bought a pretzel and a Coke, sat in a nearby park, and thought it over.
It’s legal, he thought. It’s fine.
Napkin and Coke bottle went into the trash, and he walked back down 9th. He stood across the street from the shop as the light changed from green to red to green again. Finally he crossed. Inside it looked almost like a pharmacy. There were candy bars beneath the counter and an isle with toys and coloring books.
“Can I help you?”
“Me?” David stammered. “Oh um, yes.” There was no turning back. “I would like a memory please.”
“Happy? Sad? What do you need?”
“Both,” he said, “if that’s possible.”
“Sure. Melancholy. Coming right up”
A moment later, pills were on the counter. He paid hurriedly, almost ashamedly. He swallowed the first tablet without water as soon as he was out the door. He remembered a girl, a candlelit dinner, starlight, and then tears. The pill was working
Troubleshooting
“I’m not sure my boyfriend is working properly,” Toni explained.
“What seems to be the problem?” the representative asked.
Already frustrated by dealing with robotic Q&As and by spending twenty-five minutes on hold, Toni said curtly, “I’m not happy with it.”
There was a pause on the other end. Uncertainly, the rep asked, “Did you receive a different boyfriend than the one you ordered?”
“It’s not that,” Toni said. “I got the hunk chassis with the supportive personality program, just like I wanted.”
“A very popular selection. Is the boyfriend functioning properly?”
Toni sighed. “Yes. I’ve tried out all 101 uses from the instructional guide. I even downloaded some extra apps and programs for him, but he still doesn’t make me happy.”
“Ah!” the rep said confidently, “did those apps cause any trouble?”
“No.”
Another pause. “So . . . is there a problem with the boyfriend?”
“There’s gotta be,” Toni yelled.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well,” Toni said, “because I’m not happy.”
“Hmm . . .” the rep said—a discouraging noise. “Ma’am, the fine print of your owner’s manual clearly states that our products may enhance, but do not guarantee happiness. Now may I ask: were you happy before you ordered your boyfriend?”
Dial
Seven digits. Just seven digits. They were staring at him. Laughing at him. Though the piece of paper fit into the palm of his hand, the numbers seemed to tower over him like a wall or like a mountain range that must be climbed. Of course, the real issue was not whether he would be able to (it was, after all, just seven short movements), but what waited on the other side.
He imagined that beyond those jagged stones was a gently sloping valley where water ran gently from hidden springs, where he ate sunlight and drank the breeze. He imagined peace and joy. But just as vividly, he would imagine a wasteland, nothing but sand and rock for as far as his eyes could see, where scorpions hid during the day waiting to attack by night. Or worse yet, he pictured nothingness. He saw himself scale the last peak and then step out into a void with nothing but silence and darkness to hold him as he plummeted, falling forever down.
On his phone’s dark screen, the white bar of the cursor flashed steadily like the rising and falling of his hopes. He sighed heavily and began to dial.
Prolific
On nights when his father passes out drunk, he goes into the streets with a backpack full of spray paint. In dark, downtown alleys, he finds brick walls littered with bullets. He calls it mixed media and covers his canvas with words that rage like a sunset by Turner.
On nights when his sister comes home from her boyfriend’s place with bruises, He takes a baseball bat and smashes a mailbox into a rough self-portrait that he titles “Madonna and child” to confuse his critics.
On nights when he visits his friends and everyone else is high, he writes manifestos on stones and hurls them with righteous fury at the constructs of society. The windows he breaks are installation pieces in which viewers contemplate reflections that are fragmented like cubist paintings.
And on nights when he misses the mother he never knew, he does performance art. He lies perfectly still on a park bench until the stage is bathed in swirling red and blue lights. The swelling of sirens is his cue to improvise a dance filled of spins and kicks and leaps into the shadows.
But every night he cries himself to sleep, repeating, “Meaningless, meaningless, everything is meaningless.”
Go
There is a dream that taps at the window when you forget anyone else is in the room. He pulls up to the house in the same old Pontiac he drove when you were young. His knock on the door is firm and decisive, but you promise you will stand your ground. It doesn’t matter—he is in the room, filling the room, towering over you. He speaks of love, but in a voice that fills you with a fear and an excitement you barely remember. His breath still stinks of Rebel Yell and Newport cigarettes. He says “Let’s go.”
And you say “No.”
“Let’s go.”
And you say “Please.”
He says “Let’s go.”
And you are in the car with him driving away, leaving behind home and family and cares and me.
I know your dream as well as you do. I feel it like an oily film that clings to your skin. I see the dream reflected in your eyes when you look out the window. I hear its echo when you cry out his name in your sleep. I know your dream as well as you do. But I don’t know if it is nightmare or fanta
sy.
Alone
When the doctor gave her the news, Ana felt like she couldn’t go straight home. Instead, she went to the park, to her favorite bench.
They were sitting beside her, one on each side. Ana couldn’t remember if they had been with her the whole time, or if they had only just arrived. Both faces seemed so familiar.
There was a young man on her right, eyes glittering like a starry night. “Come with me,” said a voice clear as a mountain spring
On her left, sat a severe woman, eyes black as a crow’s wings. “Come with me,” said a voice deep and dark, dry and rough as desert sand.
“Who are you?” Ana asked.
“I am Hope,” the man said, burning with confidence.
“I am Despair,” the woman spoke, cold as certainty.
Then Ana recognized Despair’s face—it was her own. She turned to Hope and realized that his face was also hers. In fact they weren’t beside her at all. They were sitting across from her, one and the same—her own reflection. She was alone with her hope, with her despair. It was not good to be alone. Ana stood, left the park, and hurried home.