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Once upon a time there was a young fox and a quiet raven in a forest meadow. It was the heart of summer, late afternoon, and the sun was warm gold.
They had been friends for a long while, there was a trust between them, and when the fox was in doubt the raven always told him the truth.
“So what do you think of them…aren’t they pretty good?”
The raven looked down. “They’re all the same.”
The fox’s ears went flat. “What does that mean?”
The raven was silent for a moment. Then: “What do they mean to you?”
It was a fair question, and the fox thought about all the times he had belittled ‘art’, sneered at proclamations of self-expression, laughed at the notion that such works began with emotion. In the end, though, he couldn’t deny what was viewed as the truth’s genesis to most…to him, now, though he couldn’t quite believe it.
He laid down in the warm grass and listened to the wind. “I don’t know. I guess I just feel alone.”
The raven nodded. “Always just one in them. You could do more, yet you never do.”
There’s silence between them for a long time. The fox closes his bright green eyes, takes in the scents of dandelions and aspens and acorns. “There’s no one else,” he says finally. “Just me and you, and no one can see you anyway. There’s no world either, not for me, it always belongs to someone else.”
The raven sighs so softly that the fox does not hear, glances at a sky perfectly blue and completely cloudless. “Because you’ve given it all to others.”
Sad smile. “It’s my nature.”
“This is so. If you never take anything for yourself, though, you’ll never grow.”
The fox rolls over. The grass is cool and silky against his back and the wind has soft, soothing voices now. His mind drifts to his stash of sour grapes, to the land of No Tomorrow, the place of dark light where he never has to hurt. “I’m okay, raven. I might even be happy. I can’t be like them…I don’t hate them, not really, but I’m pretty angry at them. I just can’t understand why they do all those horrible things,” he pauses, smiles crookedly. “Better a young fool than an old king.”
The raven shivers, despite the surreal warmth and the fairy tale shimmer of the emerald woods. “Suit yourself,” she says.
They had been friends for a long while, there was a trust between them, and when the fox was in doubt the raven always told him the truth.
“So what do you think of them…aren’t they pretty good?”
The raven looked down. “They’re all the same.”
The fox’s ears went flat. “What does that mean?”
The raven was silent for a moment. Then: “What do they mean to you?”
It was a fair question, and the fox thought about all the times he had belittled ‘art’, sneered at proclamations of self-expression, laughed at the notion that such works began with emotion. In the end, though, he couldn’t deny what was viewed as the truth’s genesis to most…to him, now, though he couldn’t quite believe it.
He laid down in the warm grass and listened to the wind. “I don’t know. I guess I just feel alone.”
The raven nodded. “Always just one in them. You could do more, yet you never do.”
There’s silence between them for a long time. The fox closes his bright green eyes, takes in the scents of dandelions and aspens and acorns. “There’s no one else,” he says finally. “Just me and you, and no one can see you anyway. There’s no world either, not for me, it always belongs to someone else.”
The raven sighs so softly that the fox does not hear, glances at a sky perfectly blue and completely cloudless. “Because you’ve given it all to others.”
Sad smile. “It’s my nature.”
“This is so. If you never take anything for yourself, though, you’ll never grow.”
The fox rolls over. The grass is cool and silky against his back and the wind has soft, soothing voices now. His mind drifts to his stash of sour grapes, to the land of No Tomorrow, the place of dark light where he never has to hurt. “I’m okay, raven. I might even be happy. I can’t be like them…I don’t hate them, not really, but I’m pretty angry at them. I just can’t understand why they do all those horrible things,” he pauses, smiles crookedly. “Better a young fool than an old king.”
The raven shivers, despite the surreal warmth and the fairy tale shimmer of the emerald woods. “Suit yourself,” she says.
Category Story / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 86 x 120px
File Size 14 kB
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