In the hall I met the red fox. With glad eyes and a bark he came, his fiery fur dragging, his tiny feet disappearing into overgrown fur. His wet, black muzzle pressed against my outstretched palms. “Whoa there,” I said. I fell backward. His eyes flashed red. His sharp teeth tore at my arm. I pulled skin from my hand, pulled thread from bone as if peeling apart a moist, pale cheese. I balled up my flesh and threw it down the hall. The fox yipped off into darkness. He ate in the corner shadows, near a broom and pail. Eventually, he returned. “Yip,” he said. I retracted my raw, stinging hand. His hunger was undiminished.
-- Heather Sager grew up in rural Minnesota and now lives in Illinois. Her short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Curbside Splendor E-Zine, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and Minetta Review. Her poetry will appear in Route 7 Review.