Fox prepares to enter fairytale world.
The screams are -- ah, ah AHH! They hear the sluooking, the sneaking and silent whisp of his breath which hangs. The wind comes through the cave on the west, and the kids in the village square run for their lives. He's stalking and prowling for the best meat, ripe and juicy and full of life and vitality; not soon enough, not soon after, anyway. The sun does not care and will be setting soon. Past the reeds is a landfish, scared to reveal itself. It doesn't want to come out for fear of deatentannery. The fox red-blurs through the villas, streaks the flames past your houses. Catch fire and go kaput. The songbirds cannot sing anymore. A plump hobbit wobbles out of his hut and gives the fox the evil eye. Fox stops. Fox waits. Fox waits. Fox waits.
Fox patient.
A sweeping wave of misery on the ground headed toward us. Can they stop it? The villagers gather to discuss their situation. Small one says they should build a grand net to capture all the bad and then they can cook it over a fire and they can eat it right up. Others say: "No!" The fox stands on the roofs of their houses, waiting. Fox waits. The sun is almost gone today -- rats run from the villa. Mountains surrounding this place shrink with fear, cast their shadows out as shields. Pennies lie on the floor, wandering to the nearest bistro. Tomorrow will be a full day, and the villagers decide to take a rest for the naptime again. Wolves dance in their dreams and gobble up the outliers.
Morrow comes to-day. Tilt his ear towards the horizon and listen: low rumblings of discontentment. Unsatisfied in your general doings, they are on their way to twirl the sticks and smash the clay pots. Coins will spill out around them, and they will sidestep in circles to pick them all up. Fox pops out of the ground in which he was burrowed. He sniffs the air and detects the scent of a bakery on the West Avenue. Sliming towards this place of yummery, he is undetected by the villagers, who have mistakenly slept in. Clouds roll from the west, and are ready to provide. Fox dislikes; he slimmies through the door crack of the bakery and finds himself within a paradise hovel. Donut sugar sicks line the shelves and the place over the doorway where there are things. Counters sheen: hobbit of a fat is cleaning the store. He glances at the fox and gives a frightened squeal. How sonder. Fox bares his yellow teeth and demands a recount.
My arm stretches across the playing field.
Fox retreads and finds himself within a cage. The villagers could not be trifled with or set upon. They banded together after dreams and flew in loops around the wilderness. Fox frowns. Red burns your eyelids and retinas; corneas collapse. Smells emit, drool slops upon your shoes and barista clothes, and you give a yelp, dismayed by the turn of phrase. Wobble wobble goes the cobble, hobbits: they bounce back and examine the damage. Meanwhile, Fox wrestles his way out of the cave cage and pounces on your nearby housecat, which gives a mreow. He gobbles the beast up and gazes at: fat. You. Fatty McMuffin can't be bothered with fear or pain, for he is too busy with the donut. He stares for the moment, then runs as fast as his feet may take him. Fox bounds after, gliding on stomach acid.
Sun is high in the sky. It is yellow and white and gives you light. Fox is a ray, propelled by the vision of ancient shamans begging for celestial help. Divine intervention assists only those who cannot hack the natural way of life and death. Fox shuns the mental order aside and catches his prey, the morsel that rests on the dirt with the mud and pigs, who doesn't so much as want to know why. Only that your fingers and hands are crippled today with tendons and ligaments that don't go away. Schools of petrodosinons rise up in the nearby lake, proclaiming the eminent return of their saviour, who is so close to being. Sun strikes them down and they return to their homes, though Fox will have almost none of it; not at the moment, not precisely now as he devours the last of the emerald fantasy playpen.
There used to be happiness here. When the grass was grown and the trees made shade, you could sleep a nap away or trail the path to exercise fitness. Songs were lilted and blown to the wind that you were under, and flute players tittled a fiddle with the best of them -- lovely sonar, that massaged your scalp and cap and underneath, the hair. Ears tickled at the fancy, and no more were chubby ways any sense in making. Pigeons have been spotted in the trees that watch foxes beyond the border, but they were lazy today, and this is tomorrow. Fox extracts his nails and extends his foresight: the flesh was delicious, and bloody entrails drip to the dirtmud. Red, red, so many red. Scars form along your mind's creases and crevices; brains are here in your liver and esophagus, which convulses, wanting. Wanting your sound that makes him shiver in delight, and feel things incomprehensible to you beings which want the fat.
Fox saunters out of the place where green is wonderful face. Sun frowns on the misfortune; sun prefers the good to the ugly, but cannot do anything but look at him, him that slinks past your old decrepit village. The villagers are behind walls and huts where they will die, and thoughts that led places now lead into darkness. Fox wanders past your guardpost, where the blue robins decided to shirk their duty; and Fox continues on into the dusk-dawn, where he will sleep the days away that he stole from your place and home: hut. Fantasy ends on a darkred day, bleeding out the sun, giving breath to the moon.
