Foxy Lady

Foxes were always called Reynard.

She knew this was true. Her grandfather had told her so, and her grandfather always told the truth, regardless of whether her mother thought she should hear it, such as the fact that her older brother had been born somewhat less than nine months after her parents were married. This had resulted in her being banned from seeing him several times throughout her childhood, though the ban was always quietly lifted a few weeks after it had been set in place, and she could start visiting him by the lane again, instead of through the hedge in the backyard.

And he had been the one who told her that all foxes were called Reynard, which was why she was having a particularly hard time accepting this one’s invitation to call him Kit.

Kit wasn’t a bad name for a fox, she had to concede, drinking in his bright red hair and sharp eyes. And really, he didn’t look like a Reynard. He did look like a Kit. He also looked like a fox, and foxes were always called Reynard. She sipped her purple drink and looked at him through her eyelashes.

It was a long time since her grandfather had died (“Don’t let them fool you and think I’m just sleeping,” he’d told her shortly before he’d passed. “I’m dying and you may as well know it.”) and she was a young woman who knew the truth about many things, and one of them was that young men were easily manipulated by pretty young women, which she was. This was partly why she knew he was a fox; he wasn’t responding to any of her usual tricks and devices. The whiskers helped. Most people wouldn’t have been able to see them, she knew, but there they were, like a shadow or a see-through image, bizarrely decorating his handsome human face. She could see the foxy shape of him in his shadow, in his sudden movements, and in the tail that also was and wasn’t there.

He’d bought her a fancy drink and they’d chatted about this and that, but the whole time since he’d entered the room she had been watching him, and she thought she about had it figured out now.

“You know I know,” she said, and was gratified by the way his face did not melt into surprise. Instead he grinned a foxy grin, and said,

“But did you know I know you know I know you know?” And she watched him be gratified at her puzzlement, which didn’t last long.

“Why are you here, dressed like a human?” she asked. His expression faded into seriousness.

“Because I want to have fun,” he said in a funeral voice. She watched him carefully, as she had all night, and could tell he was lying.

“Are you under a curse?” she wondered aloud. “Or a geas? Or banished?”

“None of those,” he said, his eyes like glass and his mouth perfect. “I’m in love.”

She was familiar with that, at least, but she knew enough to be careful with fey creatures. A man could only break your heart. A fox could do much worse.

“Are you in love with me?” she asked coyly, and in answer he leaned over and kissed her. His whiskers tickled softly, in the way of things that are not quite of this world. His mouth was warm and tasted of sweet alcohol. She drew away, and he looked at her like he was the one under a spell.

“How did you do it?” he asked softly. “How did you ensnare me so quickly and completely?”

“Is your name really Kit?” she asked in return. He grinned a saucy grin that she liked better than the empty-eyed look he’d had a moment before.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said. She shrugged.

“Not really.” But his grin did not fade.

“Liar,” he said, and she frowned. What he said was truth. She tried for nonchalant.

“Well, I’m not going to pursue it,” she said.

“I will pursue you to the ends of the earth,” he answered sincerely. She mused that it was an uncomfortable thing, to have a trickster’s love.

“That’s so cliché,” she said, and if he’d been human she would have walked out of the bar. Now, she merely turned away. He touched her arm, and she felt his fur. It was soft, and it tickled ever so slightly, the same as his whiskers had. She glanced at him.

“Come with me,” he whispered. “Run with me, exult with me. Mine is a purer existence, with no lies, no falsehoods, and no need for them.”

And she ached with longing then, for a way of being that did not permit untruths. But she did not lose her head, and she replied steadily,

“How can a trickster live without falsehoods? You call yourself Kit, but I see you for Reynard. You are not even in love with me, are you?”

He drew back, frowning, and she knew she had spoken truth. It was the first time this had made her sad. But now she could walk out of the bar without feeling like she was leaving behind a part of herself. He did not move to stop her, and by this she knew she would encounter him again. He was not in love with her, but doubtless he was fascinated by someone who saw through him so easily. They always were.

This one's about cats.

Not dark at all this time. Whew. That was getting scary.


There was no telling with cats.

Sometimes they sat there and watched what was going on around them with moon eyes and tails twitching, and other times they slept through everything. On occasion it seemed they could sense emotions and respond accordingly, but there had been instances when, distraught and in tears, she’d had to pause in her self-pity to let a cat out to do its business. It was possible, she mused now, that this had been exactly the thing for the cat to do, because often when that happened she stood at the open door and looked out, at the trees, the yard, the cat, remembering that there was a world beyond her and her problems, and had gone inside with the cat at the conclusion of its business and been able to dry her tears.

But she had never seen a cat turn into a man, as her newest arrival had just done.

She knew she was a bit young to be a cat-lady, but she just couldn’t help herself. She’d take in any cat who wanted a place to find food and shelter, and they must have some sort of feline grapevine because more kept coming. She was not the kind of cat-lady to name all her cats and keep track of them obsessively, though she did have some idea of their numbers, and had named many of them. But some of them were so obviously passing through that she felt it rude to form attachments like names, and some she was sure had names of their own, and it would have been equally rude to give them a name. There were five that were definitely hers, and they had names she had given them and their own places to sleep or hide and she had spayed or neutered each of them. They even had collars. Then there were a further fifteen or so that came and went on a fairly regular basis, and who had a few collective food bowls set out for them. Then there were the uncountables, the masses that came on occasion or only once or twice, some of whom she had never seen, and could only identify by that much less food and a scratched tree or two.

The man sleeping on her floor was one of the uncountables, who she could just recognize by sight but who had never made himself known to her personally. As a cat he was a slender, black thing, always nervous and wary of her, so she left him a bowl out of the way of the other cats and herself. He had never looked unhealthy, not skinny and ragged and dull-coated like some strays. He looked like he belonged to someone, and that was what she had assumed until now. Today, though, he’d come limping up, streaked with blood and shyly insinuated that he’d like to be let in, which she had done, at which point he had fairly collapsed on the floor, fallen asleep, and turned into a man.

The man was stark naked, of course. If a cat turning into a man surprised her, this fact, at least, did not. He was also covered in the same kinds of scratches that the cat had had, only on a human they were much shallower, and only looked painful, not deadly. She had laid a few old towels over him, but otherwise had simply let him sleep, trying to keep herself calm as she pretended that this was normal, not cause for alarm, and she could definitely wash the dishes without looking at him more than a few times (a minute) out of the corner of her eye. Occasionally he would twitch in his sleep, and she would carefully not jump, and only hold her breath until it became apparent that he was not waking up. Until he did.

He came to instantly, like a cat, of course, and stood gracefully with no extra movement, letting the towels fall off him. She tried to stare only at his eyes, which did not look like a cat’s eyes except in the wild and wary way they were taking in the surroundings. He quickly took stock of the small apartment, and then locked eyes with her. She stared back, not moving, though she could not be certain it was only him she was trying not to startle. He stood like a cat stands, quietly, but always with the imminent threat of movement. He took a step forward, and then stumbled, caught himself, and looked back up at her with human eyes and a human stance. She relaxed marginally.

“Hello,” he said, in a deep, almost purring voice. “I think I know you. I hope I haven’t given you too much trouble.”

She shook her head, automatically, out of politeness. “Of course not.”

There was an awkward silence. She caught herself more than once having to twitch her eyes back up to his face, and he must have noticed this because suddenly, with more than a hint of a cat’s grace, he leaned down and picked up one of the towels and wrapped it swiftly around himself.

“I’m very sorry to trouble you,” he said, and though she was grateful for the towel, she still had to work to keep her eyes on his face (she was sure this tan, muscular man in front of her could not logically have an analogue in the slender thing that had entered her apartment), “but could I borrow use of your shower? And, perhaps, some clothes. I am terribly sorry to put you to all this trouble, but this was the only place I could think of to go. I was sure I wouldn’t change back, you see.” This last was said ruefully, with a little smile that made his face unbearably attractive. She swallowed.

“No problem,” she squeaked, and cleared her throat. “The bathroom’s there” she pointed “and there’s a first aid kit in there too.”

“Thank you,” he said, bowing slightly. She was more taken aback at that than perhaps anything else so far, and she almost forgot to mention the clothes.

“Oh, and I think I have some sweats that might fit you,” she added, as he was about to leave the room. He turned with that feline grace, nodded thanks, and went down the hall. She staggered back and leaned against the kitchen counter, hand to her mouth.


He reentered fifteen minutes later, clean, bandaged and wearing her sweats, which were miles too big for her but which always seemed to avoid the consignment pile. They fit him very nicely.

“Thank you very much,” he said. “I have another favor to ask you.”

She looked up from the very clean dishes she was drying and putting away, and found herself captivated by him again. She nodded blankly.

“My sister… is like me,” he began tentatively. “She frequents your porch more often than I do, I think. She… comes as a tabby with a white star on her forehead and a pink nose.”

She riffled through her memory and came up with a match.

“I’ve seen her,” she said faintly. “She’s as wary as you.”

He nodded, conceding the point.

“I’m looking for her. Have you seen her lately?”

She shook her head.

“Not in the last few days.”

He grimaced.

“I see.” He looked back up at her. “It was she who gave me these scratches.”

Her eyebrows raised. He continued,

“She… retains less of her humanity as a cat than I do, and more of her feline nature as a woman. She barely comes home these days. She spends most of her time as a cat. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with her, and I think I may have found a solution, but I can’t seem to find her. I finally ran into her earlier, but she wouldn’t have it, and she gave me these.” He gestured ruefully to the numerous band aids covering his limbs and bare chest. She nodded, grateful for permission to stare, if only for a moment. “If you see her, will you keep her? I’ll keep looking, but I think she’ll turn up here eventually.”

She nodded again, then found her voice.

“Of course. Certainly. She often goes this long between visits. When I see her, I’ll take care of her.”

He smiled, and bowed again. She felt her own waist bend in return. Then he left, as suddenly as he’d come. It was a long time before she went back to the dishes.


She saw the tabby the next day, late in the day, and she quietly laid out a plate of liver where the others wouldn’t get it. The liver was laced with Benadryl, which she’d used before on recalcitrant cats who hated the vet. Soon the tabby was asleep, and she carried her inside and laid her down in a nest of towels. She would have put her in a cat carrier, but she was afraid this one would transform too, and her fears were well founded because a few minutes later she went to check on her and found a woman in her place. She placed a blanket over her, wishing she’d gotten some kind of contact information from the man before he’d gone. It took the woman longer to wake up than the man, but when she did she immediately leaped up and looked wildly around the room, focusing at last on her.

Again, she stood very still, waiting for the cat-woman to calm down. Soon, however, the woman was a tabby again, and growling deep in her throat. She set down another plate of cat food and retreated, keeping a corner of her eye on the tabby. The cat cautiously approached the food, sniffed it thoroughly, and then nibbled on it. Soon the plate was empty, and the tabby was yowling for more. She fed her again, and when the cat was full it curled up in the nest of towels and went to sleep.

An hour or so later there was a knock at the front door, and when she opened it she found the cat-man standing on her porch, with considerably more clothes than he’d been wearing previously. He was wearing jeans, a sweater and a scarf, and holding a bouquet of flowers. She blinked stupidly at him.

“I came to bring you these,” he said, shifting awkwardly and waving the bouquet randomly. “As thanks. For your help.”

She nodded, faintly.

“Thank you,” she said. There was a pause, and then she remembered herself. “Oh, and your sister’s here.”

He was instantly more alert. She turned aside out of his way, allowing him in. He handed her the flowers as he strode past her, into her living room. She followed him slowly. When she reached the room he was already kneeling down beside the sleeping cat. She treaded silently to the kitchen and set down the flowers, watching them. He moved slowly, getting his arms in place, and then swiftly but gently put his hands around the cat. She woke instantly and began hissing and scratching, but he only grimaced and stood, the cat firmly in his grip. He looked up at her, and she pointed to the cat carrier she kept by the door. He nodded his thanks, and slipped the cat inside it, withdrawing his hands and shutting the door in one swift motion. She could see a paw batting out through the bars. He stood.

“Thank you so much. I know flowers aren’t enough…”

She waved a dismissive hand, though she wished she had the courage to ask for his phone number. “Don’t mention it,” she said. He nodded again, picked up the carrier, and was gone again.


A few days later she saw a woman on the other side of the street, wearing a dress and battered old sneakers, who caught her eye and nodded to her. She squinted at the woman, lifting a hand to ward off the glare, and barely had time to recognize her before she slipped away with cat-like grace behind some garbage cans and she lost sight of her.

She saw the slight black cat the day after that, slinking around at the back of the group of feeding cats. She smiled at him, and he came up to her and shyly put his head under her fingers, and when she scratched his ears he purred.

What is wrong with me?

Well, I didn't say I was done with my dark-themed kick.


They were twins.

That was immediately apparent. The twin on her left had bright orange hair, and the twin on her right had on a blue jacket. The twin on her left was speaking loudly, and the twin on her right was using wide hand motions. The problem, she concluded, was that everything that was true about the twin on the left was true about the twin on the right, and everything that was true about the twin on the right was true about the twin on the left.

She looked from one to the other, studying now their hair, now their clothes, now their gestures, and she could not find the differences between them. There were always six differences between two seemingly identical things, and she could always find them within three minutes. The last one was always the hardest, of course, but in this case she could not even find the first one. They even moved the same way. It was infuriating.

Calmly, she picked up her fork, turned to the twin on the left, and brought the sharp tines down decisively into his arm. All loud talk and wide hand gestures stopped, and the twin on the right (the twin without the gash in his arm) grabbed his brother by the shoulders and stared at the bloody wound. Now she could see the differences.

1. The one with the gash in his arm had tears welling up in his eyes, and the one without the gash in his arm did not.

2. The one with the gash was holding his arm and staring at the welling blood in horror, but the one without the gash was staring at her, with a different sort of horror in his eyes.

3. The one with the gash looked very pale, and his freckles stood out on his cheeks clearly. His brother’s cheeks, on the other hand, were growing redder, obscuring his freckles to dim outlines.

4. The twin with the gash in his arm was stumblingly trying to get up from the bench seat, but his brother had already stood and was helping him up.

5. The twin with the gash in his arm could barely walk, so distraught and wounded was he. His brother, in contrast, was supporting him as he helped him walk away.

6. The twin with the gash was focused solely on his wound, but the twin without the gash looked back at her once, twice, three times before she was out of sight.

She smiled each time he looked back, and once they were gone she turned with relief to the two lunches she had bought. Each tray had a slice of pizza, tater tots, a yogurt cup, and a water glass. At first glance they seemed identical, but she was confident she could find the differences between them in under three minutes.

This one's a bit... dark.

Whew. This is quite a bit darker than the last one. I might have to rate it PG-13, but only for "dark themes and some suggestion of violence." Don't worry, this is me we're talking about. I can't stand anything worse than vaguely creepy and off-screen gore. I'm a wimp, and proud of it.


Sometimes it’s hard to sleep:

When I remember the screams and the squish of blood. When I think of my father missing half his face. When the dreams are so vivid I have to cut myself with my knife to make sure I am really in the waking world.

Sometimes I’m not so sure about that even then.


It’s early when I make my way, after another sleepless night, to the place of my punishment at the headmaster’s hands. He and I both know I have done nothing wrong, but he is obligated to mete out punishment anyway, because I am the foundling and the children with parents (parents who pay, parents who care, parents who ask questions) are never whipped.

This morning, in front of the whole school, I am whipped.

I bear no ill will to the headmaster, though I suppose I could. When I daydream of burning this place down, it is always when he is away, or otherwise conveniently not in harm’s way. He is the only one I treat so kindly in my daydreams.

I know someday I will not be able to bleed out all the ill will and then it will bubble over into my soul and take over my body, and I will do things even more terrible than in my dreams. I know that one way or another, that is the day I will leave this place.


I stopped crying out in my sleep very early. When I did, the older boys would take me out of my bed and beat me, and leave me shivering in my nightgown in the hallway, locked out of the dorm, for the headmaster to find in the morning. Though he was kind, he never rebuked the boys who tormented me, and so I quickly learned that if I wanted to avoid the beatings I had to do it myself. First I learned to stifle my cries in the night. This did not stop them from beating me, though it did deprive them of even that flimsy excuse. Next I tried defending myself, but they were always older and bigger than me, and they hit harder that way. After that I got really clever and told them all I liked the beatings, hoping for a little reverse psychology. But the joke was on me, because they started calling me fagg-o and pulling nasty pranks, and that turned out to be worse than the beating, though the lack of bruises was nice.

Eventually I got quiet and I watched them all for a long time, and I learned what each boy who teased me loved most in the world. For one it was a toy truck. He’d never admit it, for we had grown out of that stuff years ago, but he still took it out sometimes and played with it, when no one (but me) was looking. For another boy it was his blanket. He boxed the ears of anyone who made fun of it, but he’d had that ratty old thing since he was a baby, and couldn’t sleep without it. I know, because on nights when it was being washed I’d watch him lay awake all night, making the particular breathing sounds of someone who is fighting down panic. The next night, when it was back from the laundry, he’d curl up tight in it and rub it against his face before falling asleep. For others it was less tangible things, like reputations, such as being the fastest runner or the best at marbles. Once I had learned the secret love of each boy’s heart I set my plan in motion.

I waited for the right moment to carry it out, and after two days I got my chance. I was reading a schoolbook in the library when a group of them came up to me, picked me up, and hauled me outside, threw me facedown in the mud, and then proceeded to tear out the pages of the book and smear them with mud until the only thing left was a collection of bits of soggy paper. Then, laughing boastfully to each other, they went back inside, stopping to carefully wipe their feet on the mat before entering.

I knew it was time.

That night, after everyone was sound asleep (it was the middle of the week, far from washing day) I made my rounds, being careful only to target those who had participated in the mud slinging. I wanted my message clear. No one woke to the muffled sounds of me making my mischief.

The next morning each of the five boys who had attacked me woke to find their most precious thing covered in mud and torn apart. The blanket had been easy, but the truck proved more difficult. I had finally had to simply smash it with a large rock, and now it was barely recognizable as a toy. The running boy’s lucky shoes were totally unusable; the boy who was best at marbles found his precious collection replaced with muddy stones. And the boy who fancied himself the best-looking chap of all woke that morning to hair tonic bottles filled with mud, his best clothes torn and dirty, and his hair cut in ragged clumps. (Cutting his hair had been the most fun, and the most tricky.) It took a while for each boy to realize what had happened, and then to notice that it had happened to others, and then an eternity to figure out what it meant and, last of all, who had done it.

I had stayed to watch, but that had probably been unadvisable. Once the boys had figured out who was responsible for murdering their best loves, they congregated on me and, forgetting themselves, gave me the worst beating they’d ever given me. When they were done I could barely move, but I limped out and headed toward the headmaster’s office, hoping against hope that this time he might protect me, this time he might do something. Instead he gave me a sad look and sent me to the infirmary. That day at lunch it was announced that I would receive a whipping at breakfast the next day. The looks on the faces of the five boys (one with much shorter hair) made my blood boil, and I left the hall without eating, putting my knife to a patch of skin not already cut or bruised and letting the hate spill down my arm and out of me. It took a long time.


I am standing before the headmaster now, at breakfast, which I will not eat today, watching him remove his coat and pick up the whip. It’s a real whip, not a switch, and I know I will not be expected in classes today. I turn my back to him and bend over, taking off my shirt as I do.

The whip bites much harder than I expected, but I do not cry out. I have had much practice at this. Five times it whistles down and brands me with lightning, and then I am allowed to put my shirt back on. I make to go back to my seat, but the headmaster stops me. Without glancing at me he announces to the assembled boys,

“It has been decided that a whipping is not punishment enough for this boy. He is to be made an example of. I hereby expel him from this school, effective immediately.”

There is a loud ringing in my ears. I don’t look at the head master. I couldn’t see him through the gray haze in front of my eyes anyway. My poor headmaster, as much at the mercy of these boys’ parents as I am at theirs, both of us caught, both of us unable to do as we like. I do not blame him.

I was wrong. Bleeding the anger out doesn’t work. All it does is make me insensitive to blood.

I pick up the headmaster’s whip, and step into my dream.

Short story

I've decided to give short fiction another try. Working on novels is kind of exhausting, and I'm getting a little tired of my characters. I remember having a lot of fun writing short stories in high school. So I'm going to set a goal (yay for setting goals) to write a short story every [recurring time period]. Every week? Every day? Every other day? Some regular time. To be figured out later. And I'm not going to worry about making these polished works of art. I'm just going to have fun. Here's the first one, clocking in at 928 words. Tell me if you like it.


Being the new kid at school sucks balls, but it isn’t all bad. You can reinvent yourself, but you have to be careful of the way the people at school want to interpret you. Halfway through my first day, things were looking pretty good. No one had decided to beat me up, and there was a certain someone I already had my eye one. Shelby Barnes. Blond hair, bright blue eyes, great body. I was already in love. We had two classes together. In the second one, English, two minutes before ending bell, I finally got up the nerve to make my move.

“Hey, your name’s Shelby, right?”

“Yeah. Hey, you’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I just moved from two towns away with my mom and sister.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I hope you like it here.”

The bell rang, then, and we all gathered our things to go.

“See you later, bro!” Shelby said.

Oh my gosh. He thinks I’m a dude.

GIANT PAUSE IN THE STORY

Okay, I should admit, this shouldn’t have surprised me that much. I’m just writing down what was going through my head at the time, but I’ll admit that, if I had stopped to think about it, I wouldn’t have been all that surprised that he mistook me for a guy.

But it hurt. And that made it shocking.

BACK TO THE MAIN STORY

He thinks I’m a dude. He thinks I’m a dude. Crap. Now what?

Now we go and slink off to the nearest bathroom. The girl’s bathroom. And find some sympathetic female to commiserate with.

Only there was no one in there. And, now that I was a little calmer, I doubt many girls would have anything useful or sympathetic to say about my situation. I am probably the only girl in the history of the universe that has been mistaken for a guy by the guy she likes. So. What to do.

I could see a few options:

1.Tell him I’m a girl.

2.Don’t tell him I’m a girl, and hope he figures it out on his own.

3.Pretend to be a guy to get closer to him.

a.Then tell him I’m a girl

b.Never tell him I’m a girl and love him from afar (across that great gender divide).

c.Hope he’s gay.

None of these appealed to me. Number one would make everything awkward and he would probably hate me. Number two will probably never happen, and just turn into number three, which has no happy endings.

I flushed the toilet for appearances and went to gym, brooding over my fate.
Once there, several other people mistook me for a dude, despite that fact that I very clearly came out of the girl’s locker room. It came to a head when I was sitting next to the fat, asthmatic kid after twisting my ankle during dodgeball.

“Hey, bro, what’s up?” he said politely.

“I am NOT a bro!” I shouted, halting the game for a few seconds. I lowered my head, turtle-like, into my shirt, and play resumed. Crap. I was never going to live that down. The fat kid blinked at me.

“Oh. Huh. I guess not. Now that I’m really looking, I can see—”

“Aw, look, just shut up, okay. It’s not like I didn’t sort of invite this reaction with my behavior.” Somehow I was now pouring my heart out to the fat kid. How did that happen? “I mean, I guess it’s to be expected that people will treat you differently if you refuse to conform to the accepted social norms. But I’m not trying to be a rebel. I just want to be comfortable. Is there anything wrong with not wanting to have to worry about doing my hair or choosing an outfit in the morning? It’s not my fault I also have no curves. At all. Ever.”

Great, now I’d worked myself up into a depression. Smart move, Jennings.

“Well, hey, have you ever thought about changing your appearance to be a little more… girly, without being more uncomfortable?”

The suggestion made sense, but something in me just rebelled against the idea.

“I dunno. How would I do that?”

“Well, you could try wearing more girly colors?”

“Then I’d just look gay.”

“You could try wearing tighter clothes, to show off your feminine curves.”

“I just said I don’t have any!”

“What about skirts?”

“What? No, those are way too girly.”

“No, there are ways to wear skirts that aren’t too girly. For one thing, you wear them over pants. Not like tights, but like jeans and stuff.”

“Hm.” I considered it. I didn’t have any immediate objections. “But will that make me look more like a girl? Or just stupid.”

“We could go shopping and see?”

I turned to look at him. “You and me?” Incredulousness painted my voice. “Are you serious?”

“Sure. I don’t conform to accepted social norms either.” He grinned at me. I grinned back, slowly. I think I liked this kid.

PAUSE

Not like that.

UNPAUSE

The skirt idea was okay, but we decided that afternoon after consulting our older sisters that simply combing my hair a certain way and wearing different, still comfy, clothes would be the best course of action. The fat kid’s older sister, whose name was Melanie, also advised me to simply be patient. She said I would always have a streamlined figure, but that I would fill out enough to look feminine if I gave it enough time. That was the hardest advice to follow.