Outfoxed (short story)

[Phoenixsong]

I... give... UP. I am having SO much trouble writing something new, it's not funny... I am seriously about to murder something. And school is getting busier by the minute... I'm sure a few of you have heard me ranting about how thoroughly evil senior year is. HOWEVER! I have no idea how long it's been since I last posted something here in Fanfic (whatever it was I never finished it, but at least I started, dammit!), and I am desperate to the point of screaming to put up SOMETHING. So... I dug this out. It's a very short story that I had to write for school when I was in eighth grade... even though I love writing, I never really enjoyed my school writing assignments back then except for this one. Actually, in my opinion, it's one of the best things I've ever written... I mean, I can do better, but I haven't really WRITTEN anything complete since then *headdesk*, and it's certainly not bad. The thing about this story is that the pacing is a little weird... it actually sounds really good if you read it out loud with a... a... sort of "Southern" style, I don't know. Also, I know the plot is a little shaky and weird; like I said, it was eighth grade and I was like twelve. So, yeah. Critique if you want, but recall before you do that I wrote this over four years ago. I hope you all find it as decent as I do... actually, if not, I'd really love to improve it even now. So, uh, yeah.




Phoenixsong Presents (for the first time in, like, three or four years):

Outfoxed

The fox ran. With a chicken in her teeth and the hounds on her tail, she ran. And the nesting birds took off and the squirrels and voles bolted to clear the way for that fleeting flash of red, black and white they knew was that daft young fox. After the Old Man’s chickens. Again. Nearly getting torn to ribbons by Old Man’s dogs. Again. Just barely making it back to her den with her life. Again… it was the same every time. Would she ever learn? they wondered. Some said she wouldn’t get the picture until the fangs of those dogs sank into her throat. It was probably true. Only time would tell.


With a swish and a crunch and the snap of a twig Greeneyes tore through the fallen foliage of autumn, her black-brown heels kicking up sprays of deep red, vibrant yellow, dull, dead brown and smatterings of green. But neither she nor the Old Man’s five hounds saw any of the sweet, warm tones of fall, either flying about in swirls or coating the ground with color. They saw nothing; they just ran. Ran with only one thing coursing through the mind of each sprinting canine: either get away, get away or kill de fox, kill de fox. And the wise old screech-owl watching from the ash tree knew what would happen. It was the same every time. “Cunning” and “clever” Greeneyes would dash down the little earthen entrance to her den, but not before giving up and tossing the dead barnyard fowl to the dogs. All Old Man asked was for the return of his stolen bird, and if Greeneyes didn’t relinquish the bird on her own then the bloodhounds would tear the den—and the fox—apart to take it back. And even Greeneyes wasn’t dumb enough to tempt fate like that. There was never anything else for it; she and her mate would go hungry for yet another night.


“Almost there… almost there…” panted Greeneyes through a mouthful of Cornish hen. Another twenty yards and her home would be in sight. The fox knew that she was already in the sight of that know-it-all screech-owl, the one who always said she was neither cunning nor clever but plain old stupid. Well, she would certainly show that blasted owl this time. She was going to get away with her prize today – she knew it. And as the baying and howling of the dog Bone and his foaming pack rang in her ears, closer, ever closer, she put on an extra turn of speed, causing twice as many extravagantly painted leaves to spurt from her paws and end up in the faces of the relentless hounds.


“Closer now… closer now…” growled Bone through clenched teeth. Another few feet and he’d know the satisfying feeling of the fox’s leg between his jaws. The Old Man just wanted his chickens back; he wasn’t interested in harming the fox that killed and made off with them. Bone felt differently. That Greeneyes was always finding ways to sneak in and snatch up a little hen under his watch, and he was fed up with it. He was going to catch that fox today – he knew it. And as he advance and the panting of the harried fox grew louder, ever louder, he let out a howl of elation and raced forward, the prospect of finally killing that thieving fox driving him mindlessly forward through the showers of autumn glory around him.


There! thought Greeneyes. There was the den, with the worried golden eyes of Longbrush peering out at her from its depths, beckoning Greeneyes to hurry into its sanctuary. Almost there…


Snap! The terrible fangs of Bone nicked her heel. It was time to stop. Greeneyes let out one final burst of frantic energy, flicked her head back and sent a mass of limp feathers flying back over the heads of the hounds. They skidded to a stop, spun around after the bird and reluctantly allowed the fox to scamper into her burrow. And Longbrush sighed and looked away from his mate, hiding sad, starving eyes and muttering, “You failed again, didn’t you?”


Then Greeneyes smirked and dropped the mangled chicken at his feet with a simple “No.”


“But how… you never…” gasped an astonished fox. “I saw you throw the bird back to the dogs!”


“Listen…” whispered the grinning Greeneyes. “Just listen.”


And sure enough, with a maddened howl a snarling, seething Bone cried out, “A fake! Dis ain’t no hen! Dis here’s a darned ol’ quail, dis is!” And in his towering rage he tore the bird to bits then turned away with a parting shot of “I gitcher fer dis, Greenyfox! I gwan catchyer an’ killyer an’ bite yo’ thievin’ head off! I gwan gitcher! Aaarrgh!” He snorted and turned away; he and his pack were gone with that.


“Amazing.” Longbrush shook his head with a wry smile. “Simply amazing, my vixen.”


“Not quite amazing. I found a dead, decrepit old quail this morning and placed it just so; then as I ran past, I dropped the hen, threw them the quail and snatched the chicken up again. They took the bait… I took the hen.”


So the foxes had their feed. And the wise old screech-owl up in that balding ash tree sort of smiled to herself. Maybe that daft young fox was more cunning than she had thought.

[Lady Vulpix]

Hey, it's a nice story... As long as you're not a hen.

[Saffire Persian]

Yeah, definitely a southern style. Reminded me of the tales of Uncle Remus and such. Still, a nice, if old, little story. ^_^ I like foxes, too.

[Phoenixsong]

I'm glad you both liked it so much. I was so proud of this when I first wrote it... now I look at it and I go like, "Meh... that's weird. Sounds nice if you read it aloud, but definitely weird." Thanks, though!