Secret of the Fox Kingdom

The Beckoning Fox

Guilt, an emotion that has engulfed me entirely, banished me of all my happiness. Cleaned, as if I bathed in it. But that's just the thing, it's like a liquid, and I'm drowning in it. That is what battles on in my mind, during the darkest of my hours. Though there is, seeking through this dense evil, a ray of gratefulness - the gratitude to still breathe.

Reading through this passage, you might ponder upon the thought of what might of dragged me down to this level of depression. A word I dare speak of to you, as if you understood the inexplicable, sheer brutality of it all... is war. And there's not been a day since I woke up in that bed - peach in my hand, where that word hasn't been whispered into my ear.

But a peach isn't evidence enough. Therefore I'm expressing myself through the only form that's still within my ability, writing. I'm going to reenact a personal experience via pen and paper. A tale of foxes, a poem of war. The following is within your choice to believe.

It began with the simple act of a daily routine, the bland expedition from school to home. It was a Thursday - exams occupying my mind. injudiciously crossing the roads, as if I were silently asking to get ran over. Japan, suffused with unique culture, it also consists of the only job my father could grasp. Isolated in the hilltop countryside of it, one could imagine you'd be quite lonely - especially if you're a recently disembarked immigrant. Of which can hardly speak the native language.

I took the usual, arduous pathway up the side of the mountain. Rather undisturbed, the path was populated by various traditional carvings and intimidatingly extensive statues of Daruma dolls; a symbol of good fortune in Japanese folklore. But to the untrained eye, an exasperated and hirsute face of a man and it's meaning not extending any further than drivel.

But these legacies are the reasoning behind the trail's name, Fōchun (Fortune). The rounded, hollow statues were impeccably chipped from boulders to the most microscopic of details. Tinged by the moss that thrived off of it, some had been cracked open over time, and had developed into ideal shelters for raccoons.

Beguiled by the enthralling appearance of these sculptures, one whom posesses a passion for such things often finds themselves paralyzed with inquisitiveness. As they're controlled by the irresistible desire, to survey and discover. Venturing down this mezmurising path, will unearth an even more hermetical display.

Weaving through the cedar trees above, suspended from a dying thread, cylindrical Japanese lanterns. Eye catching to say the least. Ornamented in a bright red paint, it's black text contrasting against the white outline, they are distinguishable for miles. Some lay near putrid amongst the colossal statues below, an illuminating journey at it's end. Yet this be but a fraction of this strange avenue, let alone this chronicle. Though if that Fox had not of been destined to emerge into the corner of my eye, perhaps such a tale would not exist.

Ah yes, the Fox. I can still picture him to this day, he is forever fixed into my mind. His tail - twirling in the summer breeze, was big and bushy. His eyes, shining in the sunlight, were the colour of a starless night. And his fur; like the sun, a burning red.

I stopped, and admired his beauty - he hadn't noticed me yet. But soon enough, he did, and took a few curios steps forward. I was not in any danger of course, we are neutral. But little did I know, hidden amongst the foliage; death itself, disguised.

My eyes widened as I caught a glimpse of the bear trap, like a huge gaping mouth, preparing to snap shut. The Fox - headed in it's direction. I gasped at what could be his last step, but it was too late to warn him, the trap snapped shut.

He leapt up into the air, but the weight pulled him down, he kicked and squealed - his eyes glued to mine Tears left my eyes, as blood left his leg, I was in shock. How could such beauty become so devastating in a matter of seconds?