Vittorio knew not to look back.
That was what his instincts told him: Run, but do not look back. Do not stop to wonder whether the monster is still at your heels. Do not waste breath on screaming.
And so he did. He bolted like a jackrabbit, pale amber eyes darting quickly in their sockets, looking for a hidey-hole. That would be his salvation. He was small. He would crawl into a tight space and she would not be able to follow him. This is what his instincts told him, and he followed them like a puppet guided on strings.
The mouth of the gorge opened up nearby, but it was an impossible distance for three tired paws paddling through sand. He would need to make do with something closer.
There was a stone, embedded into sand, a narrow opening beneath it. He dove for that, scrambling headfirst into this small hole carved out from the side of the dune. It stank of fox, but it was an old, stale smell, the inhabitant long since gone.
The mother-fox his parents had dismembered when he was conceived, perhaps, though he would of course know nothing of it.
He squirmed his way into the tight space, tucking his little body into the hole. His tongue lolled, already tired with his brief sprint. The fox den was deep, several feet at least, but narrow, and the earth pressed in claustrophobically on either side.
Perhaps the monster would dig him out.
Perhaps she would get stuck.
He pressed himself as far into the hole as he could get, feeling behind him with one tentative paw as his nostrils filled with the seasons-old musk of fox.
Jan 05, 2018 01:32 PM — Post #9
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