Sly Appetites

For one such as Edmund Fox, known as Sly to his intimates, the chance to capitalize upon an opportunity that would gift him with multiple benefits was not to be passed idly over. That natural instinct for the bottom line had been encouraged by his marriage to an outcast heiress of a noble clan of aristocrats, one Jezebel Weaselton. Seizing the low hanging marital fruit which held a slight promise of future higher status if not wealth in the world, He had wooed the young lady and eventually the two were wed, taking up residence in his dubiously comfortable, yet cavernously spacious cave some distance from the village boundaries.

Reason for Jezebel's excommunication lay somewhere in a mire of roomers regarding a shocking lack of moral fortitude which bespoke of a penchant for feathered boudoir accessories. Some of those accessories it was whispered were not for wearing, and may indeed have been used for rather unwholesome stimulation of one's nether regions through light, feathery caresses. Whether or not accurate, such suggestions were most unwelcome, and the girl was unceremoniously cast from her family's estate by her father, after he'd hidden his own collection of scarves, cuffs and soft tasseled whips. Left without a home, Jezebel was forced to take up with the serpentine-tongued Sly Fox, he both possessing his underground lair of questionable repute, and a mind that bent quite nicely under the manipulations of feminine whiles; testosterone fueled urges for Sly being ever an Achilles heel.

Sitting one sun brightened afternoon upon a chalk boulder aside the village's main road, Sly pondered his latest bothersome dilemma. Jezebel had grown wherry of the less than elegant chicken feathers he'd been providing her throughout their partnership, and had been demanding something of greater, more luxurious quality. He had bowed to her wants and in his aspiration to be a moderately dutiful husband, he had brought her a thieve's selection of alternatives. Yet, frustrating to him, his lady had rejected the feathers of duck, grouse and even one magnificently black specimen cast from a raven's wing. She'd wanted something of aristocratic quality and none of those offerings were up to her lofty expectations.

A handful of weeks before however, Sly had become aware of a goose residing in the nearby village, possessing a rarity amongst her typically dirty gray colored kind, snow white, swan like feathers. The fowl herself was some what of a braggart and enjoyed pestering the ears of any within hearing that she and her kin had donated wing feathers to royal arrow makers for fletching. Though this was possible, it was at the least questionable when the winged imbecile continued her boasting by proclaiming the arrows made from her donations flew truer and straighter than all others of the king's archers. Unless she had been present at any of the battles across the southern channel, there was no way for her to actually know such a thing, and Sly presumed she was simply inflating her own importance through filling the world with vast quantities of hot air taken from her personal reservoir.

The question to Sly's mind though, was how to convince the goose to give up her feathers. She projected the heir of one whose intellectual strength was insufficient to lift a pebble from the earth, but it would be better she be presented with a scheme capable of fooling one with above average intelligence. It would most certainly not do to under estimate one's foes in any such dealing.

"Tis greatly troublesome," Sly thought as he absently scraped upon the powder surface of the boulder upon which he reclined.

That is when inspiration discovered him, and the previously weak plans that had polluted his mind were thrust from his thoughts. He peered downward at the rock. It was made of chalk and through his scratching, he noticed markings had been left in the whitish surface. Experimentally he scraped some more with his nails, producing a similar set of results.

Smirking at the arrival of his awaited solution, he took up a near by chunk of harder rock, and hammered at the boulder until a fist sized lump broke free. Upon the flattest side of that newly dislodged portion of white stone he scratched a handful of words, and spent a few passing heart beats examining his etchings. It though far from perfect, was passably legible and would suffice for his purpose, especially as that foolish goose claimed to write masterful poetry using feathered quills taken from her tail plumage.

Sly then took up his inscribed lump of chalk and made his way to the home of the goose. As he had expected, she was occupied in her usual verbal assaults upon a neighbor. So engrossed in her nonsense was she, that she had as yet failed to notice the individual to whom she was speaking had drifted into a healthy slumber. Soft snores disturbed the air, occasionally slipping between the painfully exaggerated words of the goose. Using those combined sounds as cover, Sly stole up and lobbed his chalk projectile towards the rear of his quarry's head.

Whether guided through chance or the hand of one who despised providence, the lump of chalk flew true. It climbed in a lazy arch upward for a few brief heart beats, before tumbling down to strike the goose upon the crown of her skull. The blow was far from mighty, baring only sufficient force to knock some of the remaining sense from the fowl's brain before the stone fell to the ground. "Heaven's graces!" squawked she.

The goose stooped and examined the lump of chalk that had come to rest at her webbed feet. Inscribed upon its surface were the words, "the sky be fallen."

Nervously she peered around, neglecting to look upward at the suspect sky itself. She caught sight of Sly who stood there peering at her with a feigned expression of fear and concern affixed to his features.

"Lady," said Sly, eyes overly wide, "Tis of good fortune I arrived this moment. The sky be fallen!"

"I be well aware good sir," honked the goose. "This fragment of cloud left a dent upon my skull!"

"Ye best come on with me then lady. It be safer in my cave." expounded Sly, struggling most heartily to suppress the smirk he felt attempting to push through his proffered expression of worry.

Foolishly, the goose came at once and Sly lead the way to his lair. They paused at the entrance of that cave, having arrived after much hard progress. Both confidence artist and soon to be victim gasped, stitches penetrating each of their sides from their collective exertion.

Whence the goose and Sly Fox had regained sufficient ability to breathe and move, they made their way further into the depths of the cave. "Ye may make your residence in there," Sly said gesturing to the opening of a narrow side cave that resembled a partially open maw, filled with the gloom of countless shadows.

That darkness hid the stone that hung over the entrance from a length of hemp cord. In her relief to be entering the sanctity of her shelter from the collapsing sky, the goose did not hear the ever so soft creeks of the rope as the overhead boulder was rocked by a subterranean breeze. As she pushed through the entrance into the smaller cave, Sly slashed the rope and the heavy stone plummeted to knock all consciousness from the foolish fowl's existence.

Edmund Sly Fox's tongue traced a path around his lips as he observed the demise of his victim. Soon, oh ever so soon he'd be gifted with two delights. The first of these of course was to be a goose dinner of succulent quality, and the second the generous thanks from a presumably appreciative lady awarded to he who had procured such regally grand feathers.

Your Thoughts:

This is the third in my series of flash fiction pieces, and as always you are welcome to leave your thoughts in the comments below or on my Facebook page: Author Jonathan Birdsall on Facebook, or on my Twitter page at: Writer Jonathan Birdsall (@writerjbird).

I humbly await your return next monday. Cheers my good readers!