The House That Ran Red

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It smelled like piss, shit, blood, and fox. It smelled like overturned earth, the soil still cool and damp.

His hackles rankled.

His ears folded back.

And he huffed. His leg twitched.

The grass rustled, blown by the breeze, and the sun overhead set.

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His ears folded back, tighter, against the back of his head, and the corner of his lip twitched. Threatened, to raise and peel.

“No.” He huffed.

There were better things to fucking eat, things better than random fucking baby foxes.

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The last of the baby foxes disappeared.

A loud, small, fuzzy thing, dark and soft with grey—almost black—down. Its body now a flash of pink. Its small flesh rendered food, inside the pink of his mouth.

‘Passing through or do you call this home?’

His right ear twitched.

He licked his lips.

Shifted his weight where he stood.

“Passing through.” He grunted, finally. His voice low.

He watched him.

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Yeah, no.

Fuck this.

He was done. The moment gone and passed.

“Fuck if I know.” He grunted. His ear right splayed back.

And then—

“See you around, old man.” He barked.

He gave him a passing glance, when he shouldered past.

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