The Monster

by Fiona Stockley

The forest had claws and teeth, nipping at his hind legs and pushing him to run. Run. Run. Run. That's all he thought about. Run. Don't let it catch you. Like it caught the forest. Run. Run. The monster seemed to slow at bay, withdrawing, but the fox didn’t stop. He knew better than that. He had heard tales of the waves of fire that destroyed the land. He didn’t let himself stop. Run. Don’t let it catch you. Tendrils on its smouldering talons seeped through the trees. Most of the forest is gone now. Lost in the burning inferno. He was almost at the border. Almost to the lake. The monster couldn’t hunt him there. There the fox could rest before it caught up. Then he would run. Till he couldn’t outrun it anymore. The smell of smoke lay in the back of his head, buried there. Unforgettable. He doubted he would ever be rid of the smothering scent of ash and destruction.

The trees loomed overhead, its foliage masking the smell of smoke clouding his thoughts. Soon, these trees will be nothing but skeletons, bare to the bone, their sprawling greenery ripped away, burned to ashes. The fox’s pads ached, deep inside his legs. But he kept running. Almost there, almost to the lake. His past days have seemed to be a blur. The scent of fire clouded his vision. The hungry roar of the raging inferno, right at his tail as it consumed the forest. His home. Soon, there will be nowhere else to run. The fox bounded over a fallen log. He was almost there. Just over the hill. Then he could rest. The underbrush was sparse under his paws, allowing what little comfort he could offer his sore paws. Almost there.

It seemed he had been running for days.

He drank water from the lake, letting the refreshing cold water satisfy his mouth and wet his tongue. Almost two days since his last substantial drink. If he hadn’t dedicated his whole mind to running, his thoughts would have been daydreams of rivers and thundering waterfalls. The fox staggered into the lake’s low tide, trying not to wince as his paws made contact with the water. At this point, he was used to it. Running from the monster. Pains in areas of his body he didn’t even know could hurt. The hunger, clawing inside of him like a different kind of monster. It was like having a beast left to suffocate in your stomach. But one thing was for certain, if he stopped, he was dead. The fox had seen the destruction the forest fire had brought.

Bare land, stripped of colour—as if life had been sucked out of it. He couldn’t keep this up forever. But if he didn’t, it was over. The fox dragged himself out of the water to lay in the bank, trying to ignore the hunger rising from his throat. He had no name. The forest was his name. His life. But now, that is gone too. He couldn’t keep this up. Couldn’t keep running from the monster.