Chapter Five: My Third Attempt at Flash Fiction

Storm Marches

There once was a small little fox named Grass Stone. He was about the size of a housecat, with pointy ears like a dog. Grass Stone's ears were dipped in black ink, as were his paws and nose, but the rest of him was orange like clay. He has a skinny tail that wasn't quite as fluffy as he'd like it to be, but he couldn't see that most of the time, anyway.

Grass Stone lived in an old, abandoned farmhouse near a road. He hadn't always lived there; a big park with lots of pine trees and large rocks was his first home. He had lived there with his mother and his two brothers and three sisters, until they all got bigger and went their separate ways. Some days Grass Stone sat in the farmhouse and wished he could be with his litter again, curled up in a ball with lots of people who he loved and who loved him back.

Sometimes a butterfly flew through the barn. Grass Stone liked to yip at it in the hopes that it would come down, all orange and black and spotted, and stay with him for a night or two. The butterfly never did, nor the birds that made their home in the rafters for weeks at a time. The birds would make little eggs that became little birds, which became bigger birds that flew away again.

Grass Stone curled up in the old hay every night and shut his eyes, sometimes with a full stomach, sometimes with an empty one. There was a pain in his chest most nights that hurt in a way the striped cat he once fought near the road never had. It was a strange pain, one that Grass Stone didn't know how to push away.

One day Grass Stone woke up to find the orange, black, spotted butterfly resting on his knows. He immediately caught his breath, not wanting to disturb the little creature and scare it away. But Grass Stone was still a young, wild thing himself, and he couldn't stay still for long. Before the current family of little birds started chirping, Grass Stone had sneezed, and the butterfly burst into the air like a hurricane had thrown it there. It began flitting away from Grass Stone, out of the abandoned farmhouse through a hole in the weathered planks that it always used. Grass Stone trotted after it, whining apologetically.

He found himself slipping between the large, creaky doors to get outside. The butterfly had been so close; had it been sleeping? Maybe it wanted to stay with the fox, it was just frightened by the loud noise of his sneeze. Grass Stone just had to let the butterfly know it hadn't been on purpose, that was all.

The morning light made his pupils widen. As he made his way through the tall grass surrounding the farmhouse, Grass Stone could feel dew pass from the stalks to his fur. It felt wet, like when he washed himself , but more special. It made him think of his mother, keeping him safe and keeping him clean.

Up ahead, the butterfly made a loop around a telephone pole before continuing on. Its fox pursuer tried to keep up, panting a bit as he sped up. The sun and the moon were both hovering in the sky on either side of the butterfly. Grass Stone didn't think about them, though.

At some point, he realized his paws were dashing over hard, black ground. He stopped and looked around at the road, but it wasn't his road, not the one outside his old, abandoned farmhouse. It was wider, and a red car was racing towards him. Grass Stone yipped in fear and rushed across the remainder of the street, arriving on the other side just in the nick of time. The car sent out a rush of wind that buffeted his clay colored fur like the breezes back in the field outside of his farmhouse.

Safe on the other side, Grass Stone was free to turn his head and look back at the wide road, black as night with markings as yellow as a dandelion and whiter than the moon. Splatters of rain gushed out of the road's surface moments after striking it. Grass Stone, somewhat unsure of where he was, turned around with his entire body and looked around for the butterfly.

Instead, he saw a green hill spotted with powdery blooms. It sloped down into a little but flowing  creek, bordered by deep brown dirt on one side and a miniature clay cliff, which was a shade of red so light it could almost be called orange. A grove of oak trees protected part of the creek from the storm brewing up the fox's head. Grass Stone tentatively made his way through the flowers and grass and rain to the creek, where he bent his head and slowly lapped up the water. It was relatively smooth because of the branches overhead,  so Grass Stone could see the movement reflected in it. He looked up in surprise and fear.

On the small clay hill were three foxes. They were all very wet, but they stood straight, their eyes alive with curiosity. One of them, who had ears angled a bit farther back than most foxes, crept towards the edge of the hill and looked down at him. Grass Stone's eyes closed shut, afraid.

He didn't hear the fierce growl he expected. Rather, a kind cry. His eyes opened up, and he saw the two other foxes, side by side with the first. They all watched him and whined. Grass Stone didn't understand until he saw the orange and black butterfly flapping above their heads. His tail began to wave as he splashed across the running waters and up the clay hill, where the other foxes started to yip happily.