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A Breath of Fiction

  Volume I: The First 200 Stories

  Gregory M. Fox

  17 October 2010-10 August 2014

  Copyright 2014 by Gregory M. Fox

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  Table of Contents

  Air

  Fiction, Constellations, Lifted, Transcend, Shot, Closed, Breath, Tightrope, Something, Hold, Coaster, Singing, Bubbles, Song, Flash, Horizon, Sky

  Fire

  Flame, Sigh, Blaze, Fusion, Fire, Lights, Sides, Sip, Combustion, Star, Bullet, Box, Wanderer, Numbers, Sparks, Tenderly, Wish

  Water

  Fragile, Puddle, Flotsam, Missing (i), Water, Restaurant, Spike, Shelter, Ice, Rain, Cubes, Spinning, River, Sprinklers, Colors, Serene, Catch, Inundation

  Earth

  Stones, Petrichor, Pear, First, Answers, Visitors, Awakening, Blind, Pudding, Funeral, Scrape, Fatherhood, Riddle, Pendulum, Pine, Beating, Metro

  Animal

  Selection, Housebroken, Lost, Remains, Waiting (i), Spill, Headlights, Thunder, Boss, Laugh, Raccoon, Wings, Constrict, Illumination, Leash, Bernard

  Vegetable

  Gate, Picnic, Iris, Cotton, Green, Stains, Missing (ii), Cascade, Veil, Maple, Ivy, Flowers, Woven, Chainsaw, Leaves

  Mineral

  Sand, Fine, Gold, Porcelain, Directions, Change, Knife, Sensation, Part, Break, Silver, Oasis, Enough, Hands

  Mind

  Want, Last, Page, Milk, Copy, Reflection, Stories, Amber, Spot, Memory, Troubleshooting, Dial, Prolific, Go, Alone

  Body

  Bandage, Knell, Cough, Reunion, Store, Dance, Impact, Mess, Dissolution, Oils, Sawdust, Fingers, Hair, Stab, Expect, Haunted, Body, Road, Left, Kiss, Embrace

  Heart

  Pump, Mail, Breakfast, Ring, Knock, Notes, Choice, Visit, Bitter, Silence, Gift, Sleepover, Meeting, Doors, Warrantee, Waiting (ii)

  Soul

  Help, Worlds, Summer, Neck, Look, Judgment, Aboard, Tone, Thanksgiving, Morning, Remembrance, End, Miracle, Tears, Call, Blood, Peace

  Time

  Shadow, Time, Okay, Cages, Soup, Dust, Tug, Entropy, Script, Ghosts, Travelers, Steeped, Home, Moan, Rings, Lightyears, Waking

  About the Author

  Read More

  Acknowledgments

  Air

  Section I:

  Fiction

  “Are we the same or different?” you say.

  I answer, “I don’t really know.”

  I know we’ve all got separate bodies, and we love or hate each other for it. But they say there’s just a 0.1% genetic variation between every human on earth. We meet at grocery stores; we meet on streets; we meet in motel rooms and board rooms and bathrooms. We kiss or we fight or we walk right on by, and then we tell the story, pretending it’s ours alone.

  I entered the second act of your life, and I’ll disappear before it’s done, but you were my inciting action, and I’ll be that for someone else. So, I can’t tell whose plot is whose, whose line is whose, who’s the star, and who’s supporting.

  The air in my lungs was in yours five years ago; before that, it was in the mouth of the medic who saved your life, before that, it was somewhere above Alaska; before that . . .

  Separate, together, we’re living. We’re telling a story. We’re whispering it in our laughs, our punches, our tears. We’re screaming it in our shivers, our slow dances, our silences. Each breath a fiction that tells the truth.

  Constellations

  She travelled only at night and used the streetlamps to navigate. Her ancestors had followed the stars, but a hazy orange glow had long since washed them from the sky, so she had needed to find a new map—new constellations to guide her. Alone in her vessel she drove between these clusters of light. To get to the grocery store she went east for three streetlamps, north forty-for seven streetlamps, then east for fifteen streetlamps. Work was west for twenty-nine streetlamps, north for fifty streetlamps, then east for ten streetlamps. Her parents’ house was over 2,750 streetlamps to the south.

  One day, a wind came, and blew for hours so strongly that houses shifted off their foundations, that pigs with a running start could fly short distance, and that power lines snapped like cheap thread. That night the power lines failed to come on. Without the blaze of those fluorescents, she had no bearing—no direction. So she drove. She drove until she reached the end of the world, and then just kept on driving. For the first time in years, she charted a new course, her car sailing among the stars she was seeing for the first time.

  Lifted

  Agnes wasn’t looking at him, but at the hazy blue horizon. Somewhere along that line where heaven and earth met was her future. With hope and determination emanating from her, it almost seemed like she could already see her destination. Paul’s shaking voice pulled her back into the present.

  “And what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

  Like a cool breeze, she wrapped herself around him and whispered, “I wish I could tell you that, but it’s for you to decide.” Softly, she kissed him. “I’m not asking you to follow me.”

  “I know,” he replied. “But that’s the only way . . .” Her hand was already slipping out of his as the gap between them widened. “Now?” he asked. “Does it have to be now?”

  Agnes nodded. “Goodbye, Paul. Maybe someday we’ll meet again.” She turned away and with one flap of her enormous wings launched herself into the sky. Through his tears, Paul watched as she flew ever higher and farther, becoming a distant speck that merged with the horizon. Teeth clenched, he started running toward that line. He ran faster and faster, until wings larger than an eagle’s sprang from his back and lifted him into the air.

  Transcend

  Like a soldier peeping out of a foxhole, the girl’s eyes darted up from her book. She scanned the coffee shop furtively, both fearing and hoping that one of the times she looked at someone, their eyes would be looking back.

  She was particularly interested in the boy the next table over. Here again, she thought. Every Saturday, and always with a sketchbook. I wonder what he’s drawing. I wonder if he’s drawing me. Her thoughts grew like a vine, grabbing onto any nearby idea, twisting her imagination into a gnarled tangle of daydreams.

  The girl felt something mounting inside her. At first she thought it was the abstract longing for connection, the kind one feels in a crowd of strangers. Then she realized it was something much more tangible.

  “Ah-CHOO!”

  It was not a particularly loud sneeze, but it was violent. For a moment she was nothing but a mass of flailing limbs. Once she’d regained her composure, she heard a voice from the next table over.

  “Bless you.”

  There it is, she thought. A connection. Before we were two entirely separate people and now we’ve transcended ourselves.

  The next table over, the boy was thinking, My coffee’s cold.

  Shot

  Every moment is composed of smaller moments, and the moment that defined Hank McAvery’s youth was made up of three.

  The first was the in-bound pass. Freshman Dougie Sheffield threw it in because Red Stevens had fouled out in the third quarter. It was a perfect bounce pass right beneath the six-foot-six wingspan of Westfield’s All-American forward Percy Jones and into the hands of Hank McAvery.

  The second moment was when Hank turned toward the hoop and left the world of gravity behind. He inhaled deeply the perfume of sweat and leather that clung to him, lifted the ball a
nd launched himself into the air. That twenty-one ounce sphere left his hands like a prayer bound for heaven and sailed through the air like Noah’s dove. For that moment within a moment, the world was silent.

  The final moment was when gravity reasserted its dominion over the world. The ball began its downward arc—Hanks’s feet hit the floor—the buzzer sounded—the ball, which had flown so beautifully, fell nine feet wide of the basket, knocking over a Westfield cheerleader. Hank, too, continued his descent, collapsing on the hardwood floor where he would remain for the next two hours.

  Closed

  A dozen people told me what they saw—how you stood on the roof, pushed against the sky like a trap door, and disappeared onto the other side. Everyone who saw it was baffled, but not enough to call it a miracle. It was too abrupt. No bright flash; no puff of smoke. Just a click and a thump, and you were gone.

  I didn’t want to believe it. I still don’t. But it’s been six months now, and you still haven’t come back. So, either you really are gone, or you don’t want me anymore. I don’t know which world would be worse to live in. I don’t know why you left without telling me.

  There are always rumors about a second attempt. Disaffected teens throw stones at the sky. But no one follows you. No one thinks it’s possible—not even the people who saw it happen.

  Whenever there’s a new moon, I go to that field behind the old church. I look up at the sky, trying to see what you saw the night you told me that everything had changed. I look up at the million points of light. How could they be anything but stars?

  Breath

  “They say you have the breath.”

  “Who says?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “A little,” I said.

  The lieutenant pursed his lips. “Follow me.” He led me through the war-torn streets to a small, dark house. Inside, a group of officers were huddled around a bloody figure stretched out on a table. Apparently it was a grenade. They had removed all the shrapnel but the man was still dying.

  “Can you do it?”

  “I’ve done headaches before and a couple fevers, but this . . .” I shook my head. “Don’t you already have someone with the breath? Someone with training?”

  “Of course. He’s lying on this table.”

  So that was it, the healer needed a healer. I had to try. I stooped over the moaning figure, smelled the blood soaking his hair and clothes, pressed my lips to his and exhaled.

  The healer sat up suddenly, eyes wide open. I thought it had worked, but then his body started glowing.

  “What is this?” a major demanded. “What did you do?”

  I don’t know,” I said. “This has never happened before.”

  The healer was glowing brighter, but his face was serene. He inhaled. Slowly he exhaled. And in a burst of light, he was gone.

  Tightrope

  They met while working for the circus. He was a tightrope walker, and she could do a handstand on the back of a cantering horse. She had always admired his act, but once she fell in love with him, it only made her sick.

  The drum roll.

  The spotlight.

  A wave to the crowd.

  She would beg and beg and beg him to stop. “But what else can I do?” he asked. “I am too old to learn the trapeze, the human canon has greater risk, and I don’t even know how to juggle.”

  “If you loved me, you would stop.”

  “If you loved me, you wouldn’t ask that.”

  So she grimaced each night as he climbed the narrow ladder to the high wire.

  A deep breath

  The crowd goes quiet.

  The first step.

  His balance was better than hers. She tripped getting off the train, sprained her ankle and cracked her wrist. Her career was over. She had loved performing, but when she no longer could, it only brought her pain to be around it. She was leaving the circus, and she asked him to come. “But what else can I do?”

  The rope begins to sag.

  It trembles.

  Something

  “What’re you looking at?” Harold asked.

  Dana had stopped eating—a noodle still on her fork. Her gaze was fixed beyond him. “Something’s happening,” she said.

  “What?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know. People are stopping in the street. They’re looking up at . . . something. The sky maybe? A building?”

  He gave a half-glance over his shoulder. “Why?”

  “How should I know,” she snapped.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry. Just wondering.” He jabbed absent-mindedly at his chicken. “It’s obviously interesting enough to distract you.”

  “Don’t be like that, Harold. I just mean I can’t tell,” she said. “It looks like it’s above us.”

  His eyes drifted to the ceiling and found only a light fixture. “Above us?”

  “Yeah,” she said, still mesmerized.

  “That’s it,” he said, dropping his silverware and tossing his napkin onto the table. “I’m going to check it out.”

  “They’re leaving,” Dana said.

  “What?”

  “It must be over.”

  Harold hurried out of the restaurant. All around, people were shrugging, walking away. Looking up, he saw shimmering pinnacles of glass and steel. He saw birds. He saw the sky.

  Dejected, Harold came back in, sat down and resumed poking at his chicken.

  “What was it?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “It was nothing.”

  Hold

  The alley was wide, but few people used it. It may have been because the tall stone buildings on either side kept out the sun most of the day except for around 12 o’clock. That’s where they stood, surrounded by murky shadows while strangers passed by on either end of the manmade ravine.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. He bowed his head to look at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded slowly.

  A breath of wind wound its way down the alley and swept up a few of her golden hairs, coaxing them to flutter before her face and land on her moist lips. His dark, gentle hand brushed those strands aside, tucking them behind her ear and letting his palm rest for just a moment on her warm cheek. She might have been blushing, but the half-light around them made her almost expressionless face appear more serene than he had ever seen it.

  He felt her jaw tighten.

  “Come on. We should be going.”

  Her heels clicked on the cement footpath as she walked. But he lingered ever so briefly, saying goodbye to the air where her perfume and his hand still hung.

  Coaster

  Herb showed up early that day, hoping to be the first aboard The Singularity. He had gotten his first job at Coaster Kingdom when he was a junior in high school, checking whether kids were tall enough to ride the coasters. Most people in town worked for the park at some point, but Herb stayed for thirty-seven years. He’d done just about everything: worked concessions, dressed in animal outfits, even drawn caricatures. But in all that time, he’d never gone on any of the rides. Then the park gave all employees passes to the front of the line for The Singularity on opening day. They said it had completely revolutionized roller coaster technology. Herb decided he ought to see what all the excitement was about.

  On the appointed day, Herb showed up early, took a shortcut through the funhouse (he knew the route perfectly), and was first person to board the new coaster. The car was launched out of the station at 115 mph with Herb strapped into the front seat. He shouted with ecstasy over every hill, through every curve and loop. The thrill was like nothing he had ever experienced, right until the train sailed off the tracks.

  Singing

  “They’re singing,” he said. We had driven out into the country, just like when we were teenagers, to look up at the night sky. But his eyes were fixed not on the moon or the stars, but on dark spaces between.
>
  “Who’s singing?” I asked.

  “I don’t know the words,” he said, “but it’s beautiful. And there are images—colors in my head.”

  I hated when he got like this, though I had only seen it a few times. It seemed like my friend turned into someone else. I sat there for an hour, lonely and loving him, or at least wishing we could be in love—not quite the same thing. But he barely spoke, only a few excited phrases whenever the tune changed. Eventually, I gave up and waited in the car. Another hour later, we drove back to the city in silence.

  It was three weeks later before he appeared at my door, looking like he hadn’t been sleeping. His eyes were desperate, crazed, and sorrowful all at once. “What’s wrong?” I asked, ushering him in.

  “I was wrong,” he mumbled. “All this time, I’ve been wrong.”

  “Wrong about what?”

  “They’re not singing,” he said. “They’re crying.”

  Bubbles

  A cheer leapt from the bubble as it popped on Max’s nose. The dog sprang to its feet and began barking at the sound of strange voices even though he couldn’t find any trespassers to whom they might have belonged.

  Liza could hear the ruckus from inside the house. Max was usually good-tempered, so she rose to see what was bothering him. Looking out the window, she saw her dog bristling at a cloud of bubbles drifting over the fence. “Brian, look. Bubbles.” She heard a patter of small feet dashing down the hall, and then Brian was beside her, pressing his nose against the glass.

  “Bubbles!” he shouted, and a moment later the screen door was slamming behind him.

  Liza watched with a smile as her son jumped up and down, flailing at bubbles floating just out of his reach. But when his finger finally broke one, he stopped and stared at the bubbles. Concerned, Liza followed her son outside. A bubble hovering just in front of her, shattered, filling the air with the sound of applause, hollers and whistles. Mystified, she reached toward another and popped it. An echo of joy met her ears, “They’re just so beautiful.”

  Song

  Samuel was walking home when his heart jumped. Something hit him like a shot of adrenaline, quickening his heartbeat—making his skin tingle as his hairs reached out into the world. His looked around. Whatever gave the air this life, no one around had noticed. He thought of asking, but decided to avoid the difficulty.

  As always, Samuel trusted his eyes. For some reason, they settled on the concert hall: that world which had always been denied him. Its magnificent splendor, together with his pulsing senses, drew him near.

  No one was looking. He ascended a ledge of one of the soaring windows and found himself peering through the front of the hall at a careful arrangement of musicians playing instruments he could never fully understand. Facing, was a tall, lanky man: moving like a sapling in the wind, cutting the air with a thin wand which danced in time with Samuel’s heart. He tentatively touched the glass, and it struck him like lightning, baptizing his nerves with the movements of crescendos and blending harmonies.

  “What is it?” he tried to ask.

  A strong hand grabbed him from behind. He saw silent shouts enclose him.

  “What is it they’re doing?”

  Flash

  The wind was so strong. It reminded Tom of kite-flying as a boy with a kite as red as Rachel’s lips on their wedding day. They had met the summer he broke his arm. He had broken six bones in his life; the worst was his femur. He broke it falling off the roof while replacing shingles one summer.

  A fall of all things . . .

  Fall was his favorite season. It made him think of apple cider and the smoke of leaf burnings. He had burned his tongue drinking his coffee too quickly this morning. That always happened when he was running late for work. In high school, he prided himself on his speed. He even went to state for the 110 hurdles one year, but he fell and broke his ankle.

  Tom Jr had broken his ankle at seven jumping off a swing. Rachel had been terrified. She blamed Tom for not watching closely enough.

  His watch—he should have taken it off.

  The lights of the building were flying past like the shooting stars he and his first love saw that night in the mountains.

  The wind was so strong. In a moment, he would never feel it again.

  Horizon

  You had grown your wings before I did. Awkward and clumsy though I remained, you didn’t leave me. “It’s normal,” you said. “I’m sure yours will come in any day now.”

  But they didn’t. All our friends took to the sky, while my feet only seemed to grow heavier with each day spent plodding along the ground. Sometimes you would wrap your arms around me and lift me just high enough to touch the clouds, but those flights could never last for long. Your wings weren’t meant to carry two.

  “I’m an anchor,” I said.

  “You’re a nest,” you answered.

  I was walking slowly, while you hovered along beside me. “Why do you stay with me?”

  “You’ve got the best legs of anyone I know.”

  It was genuinely funny, but I only shook my head and said. “We just aren’t made for each other.”

  “Are you saying . . . ?”

  “Yes.”

  Fighting off tears, you fell into the sky.

  You still come back to me sometimes—your anchor, your nest—though you spend your days flying far from where I walk. Together, we stare out at the horizon, silently longing for that distant spot where earth and sky meet, blur, and become one

  Sky

  “Goodbye, Mr. Balloonman,” Phillip said waving with his one free hand.

  “Goodbye, Phillip,” Hank replied (his full name was Hank Balloonman).

  Because of the Hank’s big, bushy beard, Phillip had always thought him a very hairy man, much like his father, but today, for the first time, he saw the top of Hank’s head, and realized the old man was quite bald, almost as bald as his new friend, Blue Balloon.

  “Where are we going, Blue?” Phillip asked.

  “I don’t know,” Blue answered. “But if you keep holding my hand, it will all be okay”

  So, together Phillip and Blue rose up over the city. Everywhere they went, something exciting was happening. They went to the park and saw squirrels using acorns to play catch. They went downtown and met the window-washers who made faces at people in the buildings. They went to the clouds where the birds were dancing. They caught a fly ball above a major league game, waved at airplane passengers, and saw the rest of the rainbow.

  When the stars finally began to come out of their houses, Phillip said, “Blue?”

  “Yes, Phillip?”

  He yawned, “I’m tired.”

  “Okay, Blue said. Let’s go home.”

  And they did.