The Old Fox

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Grandpapa's Stories
A little short story; the idea was a courtesy of a friend of mine. I was bored, and decided to have some fun writing a little short something-something.

A young boy is taken on an adventure by his grandfather into the world of an old fox, who recounts the wonders he has seen.

Submitted: March 11, 2017

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Submitted: March 11, 2017



“I’m bored, Grandpapa. Won’t you tell me a story?”


“Well, of course, my little pumpkin! I think today, I’ll tell you the tale of the Old Fox.”




On a farm, in a field, from a small hole in the ground, emerges an autumnal fox, its coat glistening in the early November sun. The fox, black-nosed and muddy-footed, trails a frayed scarf behind him; it drags against the ground, its tattered edges and blurred stripes signs of a difficult life. His nose twitches, and he shivers as a chill breeze rustles through his fur. Nature’s soft breath still stroking his pelt, he stalks amidst the titans of the forest and takes his rightful place at the edge of the precipice he knows so well.


From where he stands, all of the valley below is plainly visible. The rocky cliff face, rushing up to greet the ocean beyond with a shield of stone; the windswept farms, addict’s fingers running shakily through acres of golden wheat; the edge of the forest that marks the beginning of the fields; the rising and falling of the green waves, dashed and spotted with an abundance of flowers; and the sun, ever-present, unblinking, bathing all in swathes of rich amber. From where he stands, the fox can see all.


The fox has been here for many a season, standing as he does now every morning, through sun, rain and snow, admiring the landscape unfurling before him. He’s seen the hills changing their clothes just like the nobles that hunt his kin: in the spring they are clad lightly in the softest greens and innocent pinks. Come summer, they don their thick coats, deep emerald in hue and vibrant as only nature can be. By fall they wear scarlets and golds, far more beautiful than any duke’s gowns, and just as humble. The sparse trees above let their leaves tumble to the undergrowth, blanketing the ground with brilliant shades and letting shafts of white perforate the canopy once more.


But now it is nearing winter, and the once-proud trees will soon shudder against bitter blasts, naked and bare. Now, with less than a month of apprehensive respite before the true chill sets in, they are no more cavalier in the face of icy isolation than the disrobed branches that line the paths the fox treads upon. Upon their leafless boughs lies a smattering of snow, leaving one final hint of beauty in a decaying land.


The fox sees all of this; and he feels a kindling of pride flutter deep in his heart, amidst the sorrow of the decaying landscape. And the hills roll away from him in wintry grandeur, patiently waiting for the return of spring.

© Copyright 2018 Avery Greyfield. All rights reserved.

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