Since I've been critiquing stories right and left, I thought that it was about time that I offered up one of my own for the firing squad. If my writing seems superfluous and pedantic, that merely rests in the fact that my only reading for the past few days has been the Dickensian novel 'Hard Times,' and my writing style remains thus influenced. So, if you please...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
An ode to Responsibility:
The fox scrolled the combination until the lock opened. She ran through the back door, four paws scurrying lightly yet furiously across the dirt floor of the den in the rear of the shop. Her limbs ached, even after she had laid down the monstrous backpack, but she had no time to rest. She quickly jolted about, gathering spare clothes and miscellaneous light utilities, along with two spare forepaw pads with matching hind paw pads.
The other fox slept at the front of the shop, as an assortment of blocks lay scattered on the floor. The machine had one page half-loaded, but there was no ink ready to produce a new page. As he heard the back door rattle, he hopped to his feet, stretched out across the floor, extended his claws, and yawned as if he were a prey animal springing back to life. He stared at the half-filled page before nearly falling over hurrying into the rear of the shop.
As he ran into the rear of the shop, he gave her two nods of greeting, but she paid no heed. After watching her scurry and skedaddle to and fro about the room, he finally summoned up the courage to ask her, “What are you doing?”
She gathered the items with alarming speed, and placed them all beside a backpack which had already been overloaded.
She looked at him, tilted her head to explain that she was sorry, and replied, “A job just came up, and I think that I should take it.”
He froze, his fur standing on end and his claws digging into the floor. He shook off his icy pose and glanced over at the pile. Prominently displayed on top was a peculiar sort of hind paw pad.
The pad had the usual parts for a hind paw pad, but with other adjustments. The cushioning just under the paw had a bit more padding than usual. In addition, two irregular protrusions extended out the rear, as if to give the bearer more balance. But what that balance might be used for was entirely up to the bearer’s discretion.
“It’s another diplomacy job. They need a translator. Something about an arms deal. They need to leave today. I can take this job now or never. It pays well.”
“How long?”
“Four months. There and back. It’ll be a snap.”
“Last time you said it would be five months and it was seven.”
“We had some transportation trouble.”
“Can’t they get anyone else?”
“You know how hard it is to find a fox who speaks decent enough Chinese nowadays. If I don’t go, then who will they have? Will they just pick up the language while they’re there?”
“Please don’t go.”
“They need this arms deal. Rockets and gunpowder technology. We need this to defend ourselves. You know how they’ve toughened up the eastern flank. If I don’t go, then our whole future could be at stake!”
She stopped, and he loosened his muscles and pawed at the ground, “What’s wrong?”
She returned to packing, although less enthusiastic than before, “Nothing, I just need to hurry, that’s all.”
He walked over to the backpack. It was held together through a variety of laces and latches, and had stretch marks peppered all about its surface. He undid a lace here, a latch there, and a whole array of notebooks, papers, and various other pieces of stationery came tumbling out.
She pretended not to notice.
“What happened at the language council meeting?”
She stopped, walked over to him, and together they admired the pile of documents and their subsequent notations.
“They’re changing everything,” she said to him while pulling her ears back, “Romanization.”
She walked back to the front of the shop, and gazed up at the stacks upon stacks of wooden blocks. Every one of them was unique, except for the forms which they wished to convey.
He followed her into the room. He, too, gazed up at the stacks upon stacks of wooden blocks.
He shook his head, “We can’t do that.”
“I know,” she replied, “That’s why I took this job. I’ll be back in four months. We won’t have enough money to purchase a whole new set, but it will help. We still have a year before they implement it. If I don’t go then we’ll both be bankrupt.”
“But you’ve already been gone a month. I can’t run the shop without you.”
She lay down on the dirt floor and looked up at him. “Why do you need me? The kits are all grown. We’ve already had three litters. We’re not going to have another. Why shouldn’t I go?”
“They can find another fox.”
“Not one with my kind of skills. We need this deal. It’s to defend ourselves.”
“Maybe we should just stop defending ourselves.”
“Maybe you’re wrong.”
She walked back into the rear of the shop, squatted down and felt the peculiar hind paw pad’s attachments with the rear of her furry left forepaw.
“Please stay. You can’t go,” his voice cracked and he sat up looking through the door.
She walked back over to him and lay down under him. She closed her eyes for a brief moment before looking up at him.
“But I can,” she replied, “And that’s what scares me.”
