Lightning Fox

Lightning flashed so brightly out the window next to the desk, Max was nearly convinced the next bolt would come straight through it.

And he almost welcomed it.

He’d been sitting at his desk for over two hours staring at the blank page in his Underwood typewriter…and failing miserably to come up with a single string of words to start the short story he was hired to compose; the deadline loomed around the corner. He positioned his thin white fingers upon the black keys and once again the lightning flashed next to him out the window, making him jump. The thunder rolled like boulders tumbling---close, overhead.

‘I’ll never get anything done with all this distracting storm,’ he thought. He drank the last of the wine in his mug. Poured the rest of the bottle into it and drank that too. ‘May as well head down to the pub.’

He grabbed his overcoat and fedora. He did not own a weatherproof coat because he found them terribly unfashionable and opted for an umbrella instead.

The walk to the pub was a short one but as he stepped out the door of the dairy house he rented, the rain turned sideways as if it had been lying in wait for him. By the time he stepped into the dark smokey pub he was soaked from the chest down.

“Heh heh heh,” he chortled to the bartender, “Guess a hot toddy is in order. Bourbon please, extra honey my good man.”

“Right away sir.”

Maxwell Smittenfield, author of short stories for the monthly Canterbury Chronicle, Took his toddy to a table in the farthest corner of the cozy pub. From there, he observed without attracting attention; studying human habits, nature, and the good and evil that accompanies these things---accelerated by alcohol. In other words, he was inspired in these places. He rarely talked to people. He really didn’t like people all that much. When he started out as a journalist, he interviewed subjects…and found that people in general made his skin crawl. He turned to fiction. After those grueling years of interaction with degenerates, liars, and pompous fools, he had found his niche.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have hit a wall as of late. He’d stare at the page, almost not daring to type a single letter for fear of wasting a precious piece of paper.

He watched from his alcove with his bourbon hot toddy, as life and interactions played out before him. A bosomy brunette in a red dress was arguing with a fine-looking gentleman; in Max’s imagination, she was his lover, not a wife. Meh… a story told too often.

At another table, two tattooed men were preparing to arm-wrestle. ‘Hmm- possible…’ They appeared to be sailors on shore leave, judging by their lowbrow talk and crass assessment of the whore they were fighting over. ‘Seen that, wrote that.’ He sighed.

Perhaps another pub? He was fearful out of his element---afraid of attention. But, he needed new material. Hence, a change of scenery. At the bar, he ordered a double shot of bourbon, drank it, and headed off out into unknown territory, wishing he were tucked into his feather bed, the covers pulled up round his neck.

As he stepped out the pub’s door, the rain once again assaulted him. Thunder and lightning roused his buzzy head, and he plundered on down the street in search of a story like no other.

Lightning seared overhead. For a second he saw in wonder his hair, released from its tight queue, standing all around his face like frightened porcupine quills. An odor like burnt apricot pie and molten iron filled his nostrils…then dull pain as is head bounced off the cobblestones.

***

“Foxes can’t be vegetarians!” screamed Finnigan’s mate.

“But…but…I just can’t,” replied Finn.

Sunny-Rae said, “But you can. Look at your teeth. Sharp, pointy, made to tear into flesh.”

Finn suppressed a shudder. He had tried to kill prey. He knew, as a fox, he was supposed to kill prey. But they looked into his eyes, and he just couldn’t rip their throats out…or chomp their heads off…like his mate expected him to do. “Why are you even with me? I’m a freak of a fox…”

Sunny-Rae was small and slinky, with vibrant red fur and a bushy tail. “You’re cute. You’re smarter than any fox I’ve ever known. You have the potential to be leader of a pack.”

He sighed, annoyed by her pestering. Foxes didn’t pack. He said, “But I just don’t like killing. What makes me better than them?”

“You’re a predator, it’s nature’s way.”

Finn knew she was right. But he cringed and nearly fainted at the idea of actually killing a creature, having its blood run down his throat. Just the thought made him start gagging.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” she said, “C’mon…we’re going to sup on some chicken yummy-ness.”

Out of the woods and under a garden fence, Sunny-Rae led Finn towards the small dark hut in the corner next to a barn. It was on a raised platform with a narrow gangplank which the two foxes slunk up as silently as cats in clouds. Sunny-Rae’s bushy tail twitched at the tip in excitement. Finn smelled the saliva on her chin. He was glad she couldn’t see his own tail limp and low, and she probably mistook the scent of his panted breath for hunger not dread.

Inside the coop, a dozen hens were sleeping on boxed nests. Finn found their soft snuffled snores endearing. Sunny-Rae nodded her pointy nose towards the fattest hen, a speckled specimen resembling fluffy black and white granite. Finn approached the hen. Her fat body bubbled underneath her and a tiny head popped out. He froze. Sunny-Rae leapt over him and clamped her jaws around the hen’s neck before she had time to cry out. Blood spurted over Finn’s face, and he cried out.

Suddenly all the hens were awake and squawking! Sunny-Rae raced past him with her prize. Finn stared at the eight tiny faces goggling at him from the empty nest. He heard a shout from the human’s house and the spell dispersed in a poof of fear. He turned and raced down the plank, stopped, looked around for his mate…he detected the urine she’d left. It was a fuck you, a goodbye.

And he was glad.

A large human male stormed out from the house towards him. He had a long gun, Finn could smell the shot, the oil, the death. Instead of running, he hid under the gangplank, tucked into the tiny wedge against the dirt. The man shone his lantern into the melee of feathers and squawking and saw only one hen missing and an empty nest. He plodded back to his home, cursing under his breath.

Finn eased out in slow motion, ready to race for his life any second. But the door to the home slammed shut, the interior light went off. Finn crept out of the yard and from the safety of the woods, at last relaxed.

“Peep.”

“What the?”

“Peep peep peep.”

Finn looked around him…and saw a dozen wee chicks staring back.

***

Maxwell awoke in a hospital bed.

The nurses were shocked into a flutter of white wings like doves down the hall.

Max knew what was coming and took off before the doctors could examine him. That would be intolerable. Probes and questions and…dissections! AAA! He had no idea why he was still alive after being hit by lightning---he knew that much---and just needed sanctuary to collect his mind. He headed home to collect his things, he figured he’d have about two hours before they’d figure out where he lived.

At the old dairy house and began packing all his things…and saw feathers on the old brown boards. ‘Strange.’

As he reached under his bed for his slippers, his eyes connected with eyes glowing amber under there. “Gah!”

He jumped back, frightened and wide-eyed.

Finn came out and said, “Hi.”

Max fainted.

***

Max opened his eyes, and the fox waved a paw in hello. “Did you talk to me?”

Finn stared back.

“Hahaha! Of course you didn’t. I am losing my mind.” He started to get up off the floor when a dozen tiny baby birds ran towards him like tiny striped and spotted pompoms. They bounced all over him, peeping excitedly. Max looked at the fox.

Finn said, “Yeah, they sorta come with me. Long story.”

Max sighed, “Thank God I’m not losing my mind. You really do talk.”

Finn said, “I don’t know how you can hear me but I’m grateful for the respite. These are my adoptive babies.”

“The lightning. Um…we can’t stay here. Officials will be coming to find me for questioning.”

Finn said, “Yes. I know a place.”

Max followed Finn and the babies through the woods for over an hour. Finn stopped and pointed to a cabin---dark and barely visible. Max opened the door and found it was a hunter’s cabin. Cozy and sparse, but with a fire going, would provide the needed refuge.

The chicks fell into a clump on the rug by the fire. Finn scavenged old clothing and rags to make a nest around them. The man unpacked food stuff and over the fire in the hearth and prepared a stew. He was astounded when Finn refused to eat it, preferring the dandelion weeds outside and the blackberries.

Once sated with food, Max dared ask, “I’m not crazy then? You really can talk?”

“No. But you can hear me.”

“Hmmm.”

Finn explained why the chicks followed him. They loved him like a momma. They trusted him to protect them. After tucking his babies into a nest of old rags, he looked out the dusty window of the small cabin and said, “Look. Full moon. Come on.”

Max felt in a dream and followed without question. He watched the bushy red tail duck and swerve around spikey copses, he followed. Around wood falls, through shallow streams, and into meadows, Max followed the fox.

“Shhh,” said the fox. Max crept up and laid next to Finn as the fox parted the huckleberry bush before them.

A pair of green tree frogs were waltzing. A trio of June bugs were playing reed instruments, as a fat toad beat on an acorn drum. As he watched, a pair of mice joined the dancing; a ferret came out and danced by herself--- slinky and bewitching---she turned an eye towards Finn who staggered backwards two steps and raised a paw in hello.

A loud crashing sound---like a herd of beasts---accosted the wonderful scene. Finn said, “We’ve gotta go now.”

Max followed the fox back to the cabin they’d taken over. He went immediately to his Underwood and typed on it furiously for the rest of the night.

***

Galleon Empitire, editor in chief of the Canterbury Chronicles, sat like a fat toad behind his desk. He looked up at Max. He opened a box on his desk and offered Max a cigar. “My boy. I had my doubts. Thought you’d be circlin’ the drain…”

Max, in his best suit, his tricorn in his lap, said, “Yes sir. I may have been. But the move out into the country has inspired me.”

“Indeed, young man. Sales after the last new---crazy ass story---” Galleon actually stood up and clapped, making Max more uncomfortable than happy…”Wow, what a mind.”

Max pocketed the marker he received for deposit at the bank…or for exchange in gold…and went back home to the little shack. The one he shared with the fox and the eight little chicks.