The Emerald Mountain

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 05, 2018

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Submitted: June 05, 2018

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A fox fell from the steep cliff that pointed a daggered narrow jut towards the middle of two dying mountains. It was there where the month allows a perfect view of a morning sun, slowly bringing the dew to thinning to reveal the green lush meadow to start a new day. The black swallow of yesterday has its cascaded edges burned by a fiery red that spread like a dye to a dry cloth. It was slow, as the sun rises that different colors sketched the dawning horizon more than just red. There was the endless yellow horizontal hue and dull orange light over the dying red, the shadowy black mountains would be visible, and rainbow mists that moles would sniff aground. Thin clouds reflected the light in a visible haze as if they were burning, yet the morning was still cold. The half sun rested atop the triangular mountains so that a perfect cone would be seen. Mid day was the time that the fox would sometimes rest under the remaining groves from the steep of the mountains. It would still remember the paths it trekked as it was easy, for the land was dry and few marks to be noticed. There were few predators to hide from and playmates became scarce as it grew up. 

Rain poured last night, filled its last favorite hole with water and dirt and its fear from the moans of other beasts made it brave the rain and cross the meadow below a distant foreign mountain. It was then that it woken to a beautiful morning and to the softest grass its paws had ever felt. Instinct to jump and play was inevitable as the scene revitalized its lost energy from the storm. Even the high grasses swayed as the fox laughed, hopped and rolled on the greenery. Its hunger faded, its guard forgotten as everything was peaceful and the scent of the air revealed that others were too far away. A quint echoed sound made it turn all grey as the fox landed on its side. It whimpered trying to get up as its left leg cannot land itself on fours. Its second attempt was successful, and the instinct to flee became unbearable to even look around. It hopped but fell again, curving its back wondering why its fur was wet as the morning sun almost had dried it. It tried to lick where it was numb, and can only taste the blood of a prey. A nudge made it almost turn over and the fox's head looked up where the force came from, bearing its fangs with a low growl. There was another fox, yet smaller. Not just fox but a wolf, a squirrel, a skunk, a hawk, a badger all around a tall beast. They were clinging to it, sunken by the beast's own fur. There was the smell of bear yet the beast looked nothing like it, though it stood like one. It had no fangs when its teeth became visible together with a small short jaw. The tall beast nudged the fox again. It whimpered and attempted to run. Its body moved a few paces until it reached a cliff. The beast ran to follow but it suddenly stopped. The fox neared the edge yet the beast only moved slower and cautious, with a growl the fox never heard before. The beast crouched low like a tiger, motionless for a moment, then it suddenly moved. The cliff was quite high and the fox knew, fearing both falling and being caught. The beast was fast too. The fox would have been caught if its left hind leg was still there and the beast had grabbed the air instead. It attempted to avoid the beast and run to the side but the swift fox was no more near swift and complete. 

A blissful sensation, almost similar to hopping but better, feeling the air on its belly, and being above the ground. It was probably how birds felt that a fox can never feel again in its lifetime. The most enjoyable it must have ever felt had ended with a swift crush. The beast was far and was peeking from the cliff, surrounded by the lush grasses it had played with before. There were low trees beyond as its eyes can also see further, thick trunks and fruits. It remembered the time when it was among other foxes eating the dropped ripe fruits, shrub berries too and drink from the river when no other beasts were around. A time when it chased the others' white tails and bit some paws. The fox had closed its eyes and felt the wind past its head. It had the scent of grown dragonflies that it used to endlessly catch across the meadows since a pup, but never to get one. There was a low gentle whimper as the fox lastly felt once more the precious memories it had, being a fox of the dying mountains.


© Copyright 2018 Gwim Tikas. All rights reserved.

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