Vulpes

or, an exploratory prompt

“Maybe we’re not meant to remember dreams,” I said, letting the words spill out.

We were in our third week of university, and in the short span of days our lives had split. First by distance; now by something else.

The sound of my girlfriend sighing came through the receiver. “Just because you don’t,” she said, “doesn’t mean we’re not meant to.”

“I know,” I lied, rubbing my fingers along the ridge of my nose and watching as a moth flittered about the outdoor light. “But I really think we're not meant to.”

“You think I’d just keep this to myself? Not tell you?” Her voice held an element I no longer recognised.

“Why does it matter so much?” I asked. I knew why it mattered. She was telling me this on the phone; this was how she was choosing to do it.

The moth’s futile dance continued.

A hundred miles away someone shouted my girlfriend’s name and my ear detected the placement of her palm across the microphone, followed by muffled words.

“Sorry,” she said, releasing her hand, “they’re gone now.” She was biting her lip, I was sure. “Look, I just want you to understand. Can you do that?”

Understand? How could I understand?

She continued to speak, emitting words that no longer held meaning. I said nothing, twisting the phone’s cable around my finger and resting my head against the kitchen wall as I stared out into the autumn gloom.

From nowhere, a fox stalked into view, stopping on the grass outside the kitchen window. It sniffed the ground, rust-red body motionless as the wind caught against the trees. Its ears pricked to the night, hearing something I couldn’t. Then it turned its head and two glacial eyes pierced through air—through glass and false light—and found their way to mine.

It saw me.

“You’re not listening,” I heard from the receiver.

“I am,” I murmured. But I wasn’t. I had moved from the wall and was watching the fox as it watched me, aware of the sheen of sweat now against my spine. The fox approached the window on silent paws and it waited there with those crystal eyes, its sleek nose pressed to the pane. I moved another step forward.

A cloudy patch of grey appeared on the glass.

The moth dropped to the floor.

The receiver clicked. In my ear there was nothing.

The fox bowed its head, then it left, padding its silent exit across the grass until it was out of view, the remnants of its breath fading from the glass.

I replaced the receiver and with my back once more to the wall, I slid to the floor. The long black cord of the phone snaked down to my shoulder, cold against my skin.

The room was silent. My housemates were long since at the pub.

I was alone. For the first time I was alone.

I closed my eyes and in the darkness her face lingered.

That was when the doorbell rang.

Photo by Jeremy Vessey on Unsplash

---

So that’s my part in this done. 500 words. A promise complete.

I should back up: Some weeks ago, long-standing writer and—I think it’s fair to now say—collaborator Terry Freedman emailed me asking if I’d be interested in doing a sort of story exchange: I write 500 words, then he continues with 500, then me, then him, until we have 2000 words. What could go wrong?

Probably lots.

But where to start?

Well, recently Terry happened to write a post about dreams¹. Within that, he said this:

To which I replied with this:

To which Terry said:

So off I went this week, intent on writing something with a horror angle. I soon realised I don’t know how to do that. Much as I love horror and have read a fair chunk, my brain has no idea what makes horror writing tick. So what came out wasn’t horror. Not explicitly, anyway. I like the symbolism, but that’s just my take.

Do I know what the above is? Mostly. But this was one of those moments where I went in with a line and then watched with curiosity as my fingers informed me about a girlfriend, a phone call, a fox and a moth.

It all took a couple of minutes².

Does it suit 500 words as is? Does it ask for more? Does it end weirdly? What was her dream? Who’s at the door? I don’t precisely know the answers. But, that’s the beauty, I guess. I pass it on to Terry now to find out³.

1. Linky linky (might be paywalled, Terry?)

2. Bahaha. As if. Here’s what actually happened: Wrote words. Moved sentences around. Deleted words. Undeleted words. Un-undeleted words. Hated words and deleted all words. Rewrote words. Thought about foxes. Stared at rabbits through window. Licked raindrops.

3. If you still want to. Any direction is possible. No pressure, sir.