A Muse Bouche Review: October 2024

Dear Readers

Featured: Firefoxen (Louise Sorensen) Fiction
The Four Stages of a Fire (David M. Simon) Fiction
Elemental Norfolk (Marian L Thorpe) Poetry
Enemy Fire (Renée Gendron) Fiction
The Governess (Joseph P. Garland) Fiction
All Fired Up (Arlene Davies-Fuhr) Fiction
Burn, Baby, Burn (Don B. Smith) Fiction
September Team Showcase

Enemy Fire

Renee Gendron (@ReneeGendron)

Firefighter Commander Sang-Ook Lee stared at the metal door in front of him. Behind that door was violent chaos, but inside was a surreal calm. One bead of sweat formed on his brow and stayed there, splitting his attention. The sounds of screams, weapons fire, and metal meeting metal filled the firefighter’s office. The metal floor plates vibrated from hundreds of soldiers running from position to position and assault craft gaining ground in the Dome.

Pock. Pock. Pock.

Three bullets struck the metal door from the outside, pushing out the metal into hills, but the bullets didn’t penetrate into the room.

His orders from Command were to keep his crew inside the station until needed to fight a fire. Now, each of my crew members sat beside him, turnout gear at their feet, gazes straight, motionless. One shift of weight onto a creaking floor plate, one rattle of an oxygen tank, or one pulse that pounded too loudly, and the enemy would storm into the room and cut them down.

Sang-Ook clenched and relaxed his fingers. The bead on his forehead trickled down his temple and was followed by three more, and those three were followed by more. He swiped the sweat from his eyes.

The lights flickered, and the room went dark. The emergency lighting turned on, bathing the room in a red light.

“Fire in the main corridor near the hospital.” Olivia’s voice came across Sang-Ook’s radio.

Sang-Ook pressed the send button on his radio. “10-4. Fire team responding.” He stepped into his turnout gear, put on his oxygen tank and motioned for his crew to head out.

The sounds of battle outside the door intensified. Halligan bar in hand, he flung the door open, swept his gaze left, then right and ran up the hallway towards the hospital. He reached the t-section at the end of the corridor. Dome soldiers took up defensive positions behind crates and debris.

A Dome sergeant motioned for Sang-Ook to come forward, then stood and laid down suppressing fire. The sergeant’s squad followed suit, and the fast rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire echoed in the hallway.

Sang-Ook sucked air and ran behind the sergeant’s position, ducking and sticking close to the wall. A bullet whizzed past him, ricocheted and struck a soldier below her armour. The injured soldier maintained her firing position despite the blood spreading across her side. She removed a magazine from her belt, reloaded, and resumed firing.

Sang-Ook pressed forwards down the corridor thick of smoke and dimly lit by emergency lights.

Artillery fire rocked the Dome, and the floor plates rattled, knocking Sang-Ook off balance. He caught himself on a wall and looked behind him. His fellow firefighters were running past the t-section.

Pulse in throat and lungs sucking in large breaths, Sang-Ook led his team down the corridor.

An enemy soldier rounded the corner and raised their weapon at Sang-Ook. Sang-Ook swung his Halligan bar, and the enemy lost his grip on his weapon. Gonzales and other firefighters approached Sang-Ook, and the enemy soldier ran down an access corridor towards the sound of another battle.

The boom of artillery fire against the Dome’s defences provided the backbeat to the rat-tat-tat of small arms discharge. Smoke thickened the air, and the temperature increased by several degrees.

Sang-Ook and his team ran past three positions with fierce fighting to the main corridor leading to the hospital. Bright orange flames licked the walls and ceilings. The loud hissing and popping of the fire dimmed the sounds of battle.

All southern access to the hospital was cut off.

This kind of fire, Sang-Ook could handle. He motioned to Gonzales to follow him, and he walked straight into the belly of the fiery beast to determine the source of the fire. He followed the scorch marks on the ground to their darkest point at an electrical access panel.

He pressed his radio receiver. “Command, this is firefighter Commander Lee.”

Static came on the line. “Command here.” Olivia’s voice was welcome.

At least she’s still alive.

“Cut electricity from sections five through fifteen of main corridor six.”

“We can’t. It’s the same electrical system as the forward batteries.”

Sang-Ook cursed under his breath. “If we don’t cut power, the fire will spread beyond the section.”

“Stand by.”

Stand-by? Fire was more destructive than enemy bullets. Fire chewed up fortifications, stayed hidden in walls until it found a point to break through and spewed hell at unsuspecting people.

Again, the floor plates trembled under his feet. He pushed through the fire towards the hospital. The bulkhead had been lowered to keep the smoke at bay, but if the fire was in the walls, everyone was at risk.

He peered through the window of the bulkhead. Dozens of wounded lay on the ground, and hospital staff went from patient to patient. Some had burn wounds, others bullet wounds, and others clutched limbs with protruding bones. Even from behind the bulkhead and his helmet, he could taste iron and blood.

He opened the access hatch to the panel. No fire—yet— in this section of the wall. He pressed his radio receiver. “Command, this is firefighter Commander Lee. Please advise.”

“Stand by.” Olivia’s voice was professionally detached, but the sound of weapons fire was in the background.

Had the Command Centre been overtaken? He stared at the wall panel, frozen, focusing on his listening. He kept his radio open.

Olivia was a soldier. She trained every day, and she was fitter than him. Still. She was under attack. Helpless, he stood in the hallway, swinging his gaze from the wall panel to the wounded in the hallway hoping to not see her face, knowing she was still at Command. What if the enemy had chased them from Command onto the decks? What if the gunfire he had heard over the comms had been running firefight? He skipped his gaze from face to face, looking for Olivia’s pointy chin and the cascade of curls that she never quite tamed.

His chest tightened, and drawing breath became painful.

She wasn’t there. At least not that he could see. One breath squeezed past his throat, and focus returned.

The job, the fire, the easing of access to the hospital for the wounded. Always the job.

He jogged back to his crew. “We’re waiting on Command to cut power.”

“Why?” Gonzales asked. “That’s the first thing they should do.”

“The grid’s connected to—”

“Commander Lee, come in,” Olivia said.

The sound of Olivia’s voice brought fresh relief to his scorched brow. He fumbled for his receiver. “This is Lee.”

“Power is cut.”

The lights turned off, and Lee turned on his helmet light.

The first question that prickled his tongue was, ‘Are you alright?’ and the second that weighed on his tongue was, ‘Did we win the battle in the section, or did we lose it’? The tremors in the floor plates intensified, and the booms of battle competed with the sound of hissing flames.

What is going on?

He removed the 2 ½ inch dry chem extinguisher hose from the hose cabinet and walked towards the fire. He motioned for the pressure to be turned on and directed the nozzle at the flames.

The soldiers battled the enemy for freedom, the wounded fought for their lives, and Sang-Ook fought the flames that threatened to turn everything to ash.

The Dome could not burn.

Image by TheAnnAnn from Pixabay

Burn, Baby, Burn

Don B. Smith

Chief Justice Andrew Robertson, my boss, told me we would be shutting down the backup computers for maintenance. Since I was involved in planning it, this didn’t surprise me. Andrew said we would be starting the backup on new computers at Nurena University. I had to pretend ignorance once again. Same old, same old.

I called in the six people I had chosen, and who Andrew told me to use. I explained that we would be pulling the memory wafers and reinstalling them on new computers at the university. Joseph asked an intelligent question about the operating system, and I assured him the new computers were already set up with it, from a download completed the previous day.

Telling him that was a small risk: since Andrew didn’t tell me, I shouldn’t have known. Ant and I had agreed to do this switchover the week before when we developed the plan. Like so many other times, knowing both sides of a story when I was supposed to only know Andrew’s side was dicey, but no one noticed. I suppose knowing too much is always a risk for spies.

Shutting down the backup computers was a complicated process, but we closed everything out in a couple of hours. Pulling the wafers took maybe two more hours. Jer was managing the transfer of the wafers with Ed’s help, using two Nurena U transport vehicles. This was the dangerous part. We were exposed, but the Nurena U logos gave us some protection. Two Council Guards even helped us push through the crowds. Since many citizens don’t like Guards, that might have increased the risk.

My small group got to the U safely and started installing the wafers and booting up the computers to run the programs. I restarted the backup download of the day’s data using conventional channels, but something was wrong. The transfer wasn’t happening. Four of us headed back to the Supreme Court to track down the problem. By then it was dusk, and the crowds were getting ugly. Being on the streets was scary.

We made it safely to the Justice Building and started test protocols. We finally got the data flowing just as a flaming bottle that smelled like rocket fuel crashed through the atrium roof. An intense fire started in the entrance area. We slammed the fire doors shut and retreated into the main area when another flaming bottle started a new fire near the computer rooms. This time there was a lot of smoke as furniture started burning. We could hear crowds shouting and cheering through the hole in the glass.

My companions chose  to retreat into the fireproof vault. I tried to stop them, but they had panicked and wouldn’t listen to me. By then the fire was intense. The last thing I saw of them was Stacy pulling the vault door closed.

I ran up the stairs, darted through a fire door just as it was closing and found temporary safety in the executive lounge. Soon the fire door was radiating heat. Then it was glowing red hot in its centre. It should have held out, but I guess rocket fuel burns hotter than fire doors were meant to resist. As the doors started melting, I retreated onto the balcony, one storey above a mob screaming and cheering as the building erupted into an inferno.

They saw me against the orange backdrop and started chanting “BURN! BABY! BURN!” My knees turned to jelly, and I nearly fell off into their waiting rage. Maybe Stacy had made the better choice.

Just as I thought my life was over, a large hovertruck popped up over the edge of the mob and rode right over it to just below where I was teetering. I heard Jer yell, “JUMP!” and I toppled into the bed of the truck. It hurt. As the truck bounced me around in its almost empty bed the pain became unbearable. Objects banged against me and I blacked out.

I woke up in the infirmary at our base. Jer was sitting beside my bed.

A nurse told me later that I was out for five hours. I had a concussion, broken wrist and collarbone, and I was bruised all over. But I was alive. Jer said he’d seen me on that balcony on his communicator. Seems I called him a few minutes earlier, although I couldn’t remember doing that. He was still in the area after delivering the wafers. He sped over fast and blew the hovertruck over the top of a mob of several thousand people to rescue me.

We watched the news reports of that night’s rioting. The media were far more informed than usual, with no sign of the usual censoring. Someone had videoed Jer’s hovertruck rising over the outer edge of the mob. Other shots showed it smashing people to the ground under the thrust of its powerful fans. One embarrassing shot showed me falling into the truck. Not jumping. Falling. What a wimp. And then the fast retreat into the dark over more people. In all the shots you could hear the chant, “BURN! BABY! BURN!”

A government report said Jer killed eighty-seven people and seriously injured an estimated 200 to 250 more. Apparently the Council Guards didn’t kill or injure anyone that night, although they were actively engaged in several places. I think Jer was getting all the blame rather than having the Council stoke the anger people already felt toward the Guards. Government agents later arrested every injured person in the hospitals whether they were at the riot or not. They were all charged with insurrection, a capital crime.

The report, though, didn’t identify Jer by name. Hidden in the hovertruck cab, he was not identified and the report said the hovertruck could not be traced. I was identified because I was seen on the balcony, and a wanted circular on me was issued. My spy career was probably over, but it was going to be a frosty Friday before anyone could find me at the base. The riot collapsed after Jer ran over it. The mob just faded away.

Another communicator broadcast featured a new face and a name, Dargon. Dargon praised the brave people murdered by a government agent using a hovertruck and urged them to keep resisting. He shouted and waved his arms and made a big noise.  The mob was justified in killing government agents like me, he said,  and the murderous act to save me was an atrocity that called for revenge.

The performance was almost mesmerizing. Juanita analysed his image later and told us it was a holograph of a computer-generated composite and not a real person. She speculated that it might be a destabilizing attack sponsored by Caprico, a neighbouring country in even more social and economic difficulty than Nurena was. Their people were already surging against our borders.

Dargon attracted quite a following. His performance was repeated over and over on all the news channels with lots of analysis, much of it favourable. Some news anchors claimed he was the new saviour. Small shrines popped up on street corners and people started bowing down. To a fake-human holograph?

A new religion was being born.

Image by Travis Anderson from Pixabay

Elemental Norfolk

Marian L Thorpe (@marianlthorpe)

Earth

Lane and common, heath and ploughed ground
Lie frozen underfoot. The lands
Decline to the sea: downland, and saltmarsh
Diked and ditched by countless hands
Against the sea and winter floods.
Beyond the marshes, the named sands
Will rise and fall with the tide.

Air

Skiff and windpump, sails of cloth and wood,
Are battened down and still. The gust
Strikes salt and icy; harness and rigging,
Tarred and treated for rot and rust,
Await the end of winter’s gales.
Above the marshes, the wind’s cold blast
Will rise and fall with the sun.

Fire

House and cottage, farm and village row
Sit tightly closed and warm. Fire
Kindles in the hearths; desire and habit
Pruned and piled the garden pyre
Against the night and winter’s end.
Beside the marshes, the year’s bonfire
Will rise and fall with the wind.

Water

Stream and river, pond and open broad,
Wait silently for spring. The snow
Bleaches all colour; hedgerow and reedbed,
Trimmed and tight in winter’s throe,
Withstand the wind and killing frost.
Within the marshes, the water’s flow
Will rise and fall with the moon.

David M. Simon (@writesdraws)

Patty Anne is already having herself an epically bad day at The Main Street Diner, even before shit goes south.

Pete, proprietor and cook, had originally scheduled her for the day shift, and she was looking forward to a date at home with a tub of Jeni’s Brown Butter Almond Brittle ice cream and the Real Housewives. Then Sherri had called off sick (still drunk from the night before, most likely), and she couldn’t leave Mitzy to work the night shift all alone, so she agreed to work a double. Mitzy was a great waitress, and a total sweetheart, not to mention she made all the legendary pies in the place, but she was just a couple months shy of sixty-seven, and nights were busy. The Main Street Diner (which confused out-of-towners, because it was actually on 9th Street, but the locals all called the town’s main drag Main Street, go figure) was the only place in their small town open past supper time, and they tended to stay crowded all evening.

That second shift turns out to be a real ass kicker for Patty Anne and Mitzy both—bad tips, difficult customers, dropped plates, and feral kids running amok thanks to free-range parenting.

By eleven o’clock, with an hour left until close, Patty Anne is at the end of her very short rope. Her friendly smile, the one she practices in the mirror, is nowhere to be seen, but there’s a distant light at the end of the tunnel. Only one table occupied, way back in the corner, a young couple sharing a strawberry shake like they stepped right out of an Archie comic book.

That’s when the diner door bangs open, ringing the bell, and a pack of obviously very drunk boys from the State College the next town over stagger in on a wave of obnoxious laughter. Mitzy shakes her head and says, “Any table, boys.”

Patty Anne sighs—drunk teenagers, and especially drunk teenage boys, suck. Of course they sit—teenage boys don’t actually sit, they sprawl, they lounge, they drape themselves over chairs—in her section. She glances at Mitzy, who’s trying her best not to laugh, and manages a tired smile herself. She tries to hang on to that smile, but she can feel it evaporating from her face as she walks over to the table. There are five of them, dressed in the kind of careless dishevelment that costs serious coin. She knows from experience that level of affluence rarely translates into good tips. As she always does when approaching a new party, Patty Anne immediately assigns names to each of them, to help her keep orders straight—Ginger, Malibu Barbie, Sunglasses, Johnny Cash, and Casper.

Patty Anne passes out menus. “Can I get you fellas started with something to drink?” Her plan is to keep this professional, get them out of here as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Sunglasses jumps up just inches from her, kicking his chair back in the process. It tips, clatters to the floor. He leers at her and says, “I gotta go drop a deuce and drain the vein. Coca Cola for me, babe.” He saunters off in the direction of the men’s room. The rest of them call out their orders, a mix of Coca Cola and milkshakes. Patty Anne’s getting a bad vibe from these guys. She gets their drinks after a brief detour to the break room next to the restrooms.

“Ready to order?” Keeping it professional, still hoping for a halfway decent tip but not feeling very optimistic.

Malibu Barbie, an oversized, football-player type with longish dirty blonde hair and a smile Patty Anne guesses works on brain-dead young girls, scrapes his chair around to face her. “What do ya recommend, gorgeous?”

“Um, you can’t go wrong with one of Mitzy’s pies. Tonight we have banana cream, pecan, apple, peach, and strawberry rhubarb.”

The kid grabs Patty Anne around the waist and pulls her into his lap. “I’d rather have a slice of this sweet ass!” She struggles, throwing elbows, finally slides off his lap to the floor as the other boys laugh. Johnny Cash is laughing so hard he sounds like he might puke up a lung.

Patty Anne climbs to her feet, spins around. She reaches into the pocket of her apron. “Fuck you!” She sprays him full in the face with pepper spray. Malibu Barbie drops to the floor screaming, choking, hands rubbing his eyes. His friends jump up, all of them yelling at once. Mitzy screams for Pete.

Pete pushes through the swinging kitchen doors, the Louisville Slugger that he keeps back there in hand. “What the fuck is going on?”

“This bitch pepper sprayed me!” the kid sputters, still coughing, snot running down his face. His buddies yell their agreement, waving their arms and pointing at Patty Anne, punctuating their attacks with colorful obscenities.

Pete’s a big guy, played D1 ball back in the day. When he walks toward them, slapping the bat into one beefy palm, they don’t back down, but they do back up. “And what did you do?”

“He didn’t do nothing!” says Casper.

“He was just being friendly,” says Johnny Cash.

“He didn’t deserve that,” says Ginger.

“Yeah, I didn’t do shit,” Malibu Barbie chokes out.

Pete takes another step towards them and looks at Patty Anne. “What about it, Patty Anne? Was he just being friendly?”

“Hell no. The asshole grabbed me, pulled me on his lap. He deserved that and more.”

“I saw the whole thing,” Mitzy says. “The kid put his hands on Patty Anne.” The young couple have left their corner table and are watching the show from around the corner of the lunch counter.

“That’s good enough for me,” Pete says. “You sorry sacks of shit get out, all of you. You’re not welcome here ever again.”

By now Malibu Barbie  has mostly regained his composure. “You sure about that old man? You think you can take us all on?” He goes nose to nose with Pete. Patty Anne takes several steps back.

The bell rings as Sheriff Murphy strolls into the diner. Murph works out of the cop shop a block down on Elm, and stops in most nights for a slice of pie. Patty Anne often teases Mitzy that he’s more interested in her than the pie. Mitzy’s husband was a fellow officer with Murph until he dropped dead from a massive heart attack three years back, and they’ve known each other for years. The important thing right now is that he’s here.

Murph quickly takes in the scene—Pete with baseball bat in hand, the four guys facing him, arrayed in fight formation—and casually moves his hand to the but of his gun. “What’s all this, then?”

Pete answers. “These gentlemen are causing trouble, so I asked them to leave. Not a big deal as long as they get out now.”

“How about it, fellas? Do we have a problem?”

The boys grumble, and Malibu Barbie starts to argue, but Casper stops him with a hand on the shoulder. “We’re leaving, officer. No harm meant.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Murph says. He glances back over his shoulder and smiles. “Evening, Mitzy. How about a piece of that banana cream pie?”

“You got it, Murph.”

A heavy metal napkin holder whistles through the air, catches Murph in the back of the head. He goes down hard, head bouncing off the lunch counter on the way down with a sickening crunch. Sunglasses strolls up dusting his hands together. “Direct hit,” he says as he joins his friends.

Pete swings the bat in a vicious arc, just missing Sunglasses. “Back the fuck up, all of you,” he says. He bangs the bat on a table, the sound shockingly loud in the diner. They back the fuck up.

“Why’d you do that, Bobby?” Casper asks Sunglasses.

“He was gonna run us in. I can’t get in trouble again, my old man will kick my ass.”

“Like he’s not gonna kick your ass now,” Ginger says.

Pete bends down to check on Murph, but Mitzy beats him to it. She checks for a pulse, lays her head against his chest. “Murph, come on, sweetheart, wake up. Pete, Jesus, I don’t think he’s breathing!” Pete puts two fingers on Murph’s neck, shakes his head. Mitzy pulls Murph’s head into her lap, starts wailing.

Pete climbs to his feet using the bat like a cane. “You fucking killed him.” He advances on the boys and they scatter, circling him, while Patty Anne stands over Murph and Mitzy. She’s going to protect them whatever it takes, even if she has no idea what that may be. Pete yells to the young couple, still watching from the corner, “You two, run down to the police station on Elm. Tell them there’s been a murder at the Main Street Diner. Bring back whoever’s on duty.”

“I don’t think so,” Malibu Barbie says. “Mike, go guard the door. You two lovebirds stay where you are. Don’t try to be heroes. Don’t make for the door, and don’t even look at that phone on the wall behind the counter. Capisce?” Casper goes to the door, pinning the couple in place with a hard look. The girl hugs her boyfriend and shakes her head, crying. They stay put.

Sunglasses, Malibu Barbie, Ginger, and Johnny Cash have Pete surrounded. He spins around like a trapped animal, swinging the bat, while they dodge him, looking for an opening. He’s winded, slowing down.

Mitzy lays Murph’s head gently to the floor. She stands abruptly and fast-walks towards the restrooms. “Where you going, bitch,” Malibu Barbie yells at Mitzy.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she says, and keeps on walking.

“Let her go,” Johnny Cash says. “The old lady’s harmless.”

Pete glances back to make sure Mitzy is okay. That’s the opening Sunglasses is looking for. He scoops up a chair and in the same movement swings it around and bashes Pete across the back. Pete drops to his hands and knees, and the four punks descend on him, raining vicious kicks. Pete crawls under a table, trying to escape.

“Oh my God, stop!” Patty Anne screams.

Mitzy reappears with a small revolver in her hand. She advances on the four, tears gone, a determined look on her face. They stop attacking Pete, but they stay huddled around him. “Hey Bobby, look out, I think you pissed the old lady off,” Malibu Barbie says to Sunglasses. Then to Mitzy, “Bitch, what are you gonna do with that peashooter?”

Mitzy stops just a couple of feet from Sunglasses. She raises the gun, hand steady, and shoots. A small hole appears in his forehead, and he slumps to the floor. Malibu Barbie, Ginger, and Johnny Cash scramble away from her, tripping over chairs, running into tables, only stopping when they reach the wall. Mitzy keeps advancing, gun still raised.

“Lady, stop, okay?” Ginger says. “We didn’t mean for anything to happen.” He starts to cry.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Malibu Barbie says, but he’s pressed up against the wall like he’s trying to vibrate right through it.

Johnny Cash’s eyes dart between Mitzy and Sunglasses’ body like he’s watching a tennis match.

Casper sprints through the diner door and never looks back.

Patty Anne helps Pete to his feet, gets him to a lunch counter stool. As she bends to pick up his Louisville Slugger, Malibu Barbie makes a break for the door. “No fucking way,” Patty Anne screams, and heads him off at the pass. She swings the bat, catches him full in the throat. He drops, curls into a ball, and she hits him again, and again. He rolls to his back, groaning, and Patty Anne slams the bat into his crotch. “Still want a slice of my sweet ass?”

“We’re going for the police,” the young woman says, and they run to the door.

When the police arrive, guns drawn, they find two dead bodies; two young men cowering against the wall with Mitzy pinning them with her gun, her arm ramrod straight; Pete slouched on a stool, head in his hands; and Patty Anne standing over a severely injured Malibu Barbie, baseball bat at the ready.

Image by Michelle Raponi from Pixabay

The Governess

Joseph P. Garland (@JPGarlandAuthor)

Image by Николай Егошин from Pixabay

Firefoxen

Louise Sorensen (@louise3anne)

I live at the edge of town, right next to the first of the beef and dairy farms, and a national forest.

A month or two ago, a white fox vixen with three white kits settled down by the creek at the bottom of my garden. There’s a rock lined pool down there and I have a perfect view of the pool and the family from the comfort of my patio. One morning a day or two after they arrived, the mother and the kits had a little swim, then dried off in the hot summer sun, and made themselves at home.

I wasn’t too crazy to see them there, though, because I had a coop with a few chickens for eggs in it, and I didn’t know if the foxes were just passing through, or going to stay a while.

Very soon after moving in, Mama fox killed one of my oldest retired hens. The family ate it on the shore, drank to their good health from the pool, and picked their teeth with the feather quills.

I immediately packed up the rest of the flock, eight in total—not so easy as it was like herding cats—and took them to a friend’s place down the road. I asked her if she’d seen any foxes, but she said no. Her dogs, she said, would rout any varmints that trespassed. I took a good look at her dogs, big white ones that guarded her sheep, and agreed. She had nothing to worry about, but I decided to keep my cats in the house until the foxes moved on. Hopefully taking away their source of food would encourage them to seek better hunting grounds.

There was no way I’d harm the little family. Foxes have a hard enough time around here as it is, with predation from fools and coyotes. I just didn’t want them to take it out on my poor chickens.

It was about the first week they’d been there that the mama fox left her kits at dusk and went for a night on the town. I know she left because not only was she white, and flitted around the property like a ghost, but her fur glowed like the moon and I could see her in the darkest dark.

She arrived back at dawn. I’d had a hard time sleeping, gave up on it as a poor job, and was drinking my second morning coffee in the early light watching her babies frolic by the pool when she returned.

Her tongue was hanging out and she was panting heavily, but smiling ear to ear, as though she had done a hard night’s work and was very pleased with herself. She had a dip in the creek, then after half an hour, she hauled herself to her feet, yipped at the kits, and they all took off towards the forest. The hunting is pretty good in there and it wasn’t long before they were all back, and enjoying a breakfast of fat, wild rabbit. Then it was siesta time and they bunked down like they hadn’t a care in the world.

It took me a while to notice, and I couldn’t tell you how I missed it at first, but we all see what we expect to see sometimes, and sometimes not what’s really there. Instead of a glowing white, the little mama fox’s coat had a fiery sheen to it. As if the tips were edged in flame.

A few minutes later, I saw what had to be another trick of the sun, or an hallucination from too much coffee, or maybe I was dreaming, but very clearly, I saw one of the kits disappear, and in its place was a little tanned cupid, all baby fat and big smile. I blinked, and when my eyes opened, I was looking at a fox kit again.

I shook my head and wondered what it was they were putting in the caff these days.

Later, on the six o’clock news that night, there were multiple reports of fires. Fire at the local dog track. No dogs were injured, but the owner and a couple of the staff didn’t get out of there in time. I didn’t give it a lot of thought, except that it was admirable of them to sacrifice themselves to get their beloved dogs out.

The next reports of fire were of four houses burning down in town. In a town of six thousand, this is an awful strange occurrence, and it wasn’t even heating season. No stoves or furnaces were on to cause a fire. There were one or two deaths in each case.

The third report was of an engine fire in a van full of people. Everyone but the driver got out safely.

I would have given a lot to have had someone to talk to about what I’d seen of the foxes, and the fires of the night before, but I had only the eight cats. They weren’t interested in discussing the matter and all yowled for me to let them out. But I didn’t.

A few days went by without event.

Then mama fox went out again at dusk. This time her kits accompanied her.

When she came back the next morning, her coat was a vivid orangey-red. More the colour of fire than anything else. The kits were all a shade of blood red. They looked bigger and rangier too. More like skinny coyotes than baby foxes.

I switched on the radio with trepidation. There were reports of fires in houses, cars, people on the street, all over the place. Miles from my home. I wasn’t sure if I should think that the fox family was causing these fires, even the ones so far from home, or if other fox families were responsible for the fires so far away, or if I was insane for thinking the foxes had anything to do with the fires. The sudden fires and the disappearances and then return of the foxes and the changes in them had me utterly spooked.

Not wanting to hear any more, I almost switched the radio off.

And then I heard, “Early estimates a hundred people killed by fire.” My finger paused by the off button. “Police have made a connection between the fire at the dog track and…” I sat down and listened intently.

Police had uncovered a burial ground of dogs right inside the kennels. Many of them showing signs of having been in dog fights. Any dogs that had been living in the kennels the night of the fire had been released by someone somehow, and then the buildings had been set on fire, starting in the office, where the owner and two of the staff had perished in the flames.

Unable to listen to any more doom and gloom, I turned the radio off.

Avoiding bad news was impossible though, as the TV News that week was full of interviews from people talking about the victims of the fires. Turns out the greatest similarity between them was animal abuse. Young boys who tortured animals, some I even knew, though I never suspected they hurt animals. When pets in our area disappeared, one young fellow was always front and center helping to look for them. He would never help looking for a missing pet again.

That all happened about a month ago.

And then there was a week of quiet. The foxes went hunting in the forest, dragged their kills back to the pool, swam and sunned themselves. One time they even brought home a small deer. On this rich diet the kits weren’t looking as gaunt and coyote-fearsome as they had been, but their coats were still blood red. I thought maybe they’d gotten into some red paint, as it didn’t seem to be fading.

It was exactly three weeks ago—I know because it was exactly August first—when there was an horrendous rape and murder in town. Whoever did it got away.

At dusk that night, the whole fox family picked up and headed down the road to town.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. Images of fire and flames and suffocating heat filled my head.

I was fuzzy and bleary minded when I got up at dawn, afraid to look out at the pool.

After a couple of strong coffees, I went outside, sat in my favourite chair on the patio, and checked on the foxes.

The babies had undergone a terrible transformation. They had lost all their fur, were three times the size of their mother, and were grey skinned and gaunt.

The mother looked like she’d been through a fire herself. She was pitch black from the tips of her toes to the end of her tail. Except for her back. That was the gold and red of pure fire, and scintillated like living fire as she moved. She caught my eye. Hers were twin flames. My temperature rose and I had to fight to get release from her gaze. Only then did I start to cool off.

The TV News that night reported many cases of spontaneous combustion of human beings. One person, a local ne’er do well who’d raided my chicken coop twice, was said to be a suspect in the rape and murder of the day ago. His wife swore up and down that he’d been at home all night, but the police had found a bloody knife and garments from the victim in their front yard. Where the body of her husband was also found, barbecued to a cinder.

I got the crazy idea that the fox family had cleaned up animal abusers in the area, and were starting on the rapists.

I gave myself a strong mental review for any possible actions I may ever have committed that would qualify me for foxy retribution. Outside of eating the occasional chicken, which I raised myself by the way, and a fondness for fish and chips, I couldn’t think of anything that should worry me.

And in any case, as far as I could tell, there was no sense running. They could find you anywhere.

I battened down the hatches, and prepared to stay in my home.

I did rearrange my patio chairs and put up a screen so I can’t see the foxes or the pool anymore. I never go down there anymore. Whatever happens at the pool, stays at the pool. Like Vegas.

When one of the cats got out, I almost had a heart attack, but the foxes left it alone. So now I’ve unlocked the cat door and they all come and go as they please. I just hope I never see one of those foxes come in. I don’t think my poor heart could take it.

I do hear some horrendous howling and possibly screams, but I can’t be sure, coming from the direction of the pool on full moon nights, but I figure it’s none of my business. Any deaths by fire have been connected to people who were clearly guilty of a vicious crime.

In the meantime, I think good thoughts and keep my nose clean.

And hope for the best.

Image by Džoko Stach from Pixabay

October Team Showcase

A Muse Bouche welcomes two new contributors this month.

Arlene Davies-Fuhr has a Masters Degree in English as well as a Masters in Theological Studies. Arlene enjoys writing poetry and has published a book on biblical psalms. Recently she wrote a three-act play and has published a children’s book about Zola: The Zany, Zippy, Zealous Pig.

In Don B. Smith‘s business and university teaching career he wrote dozens of proposals, reports, cases and teaching notes, all fact-based. He started experimenting with creative writing in 2019 to fill the empty hours after losing his wife of 63 years to leukemia.

Joseph P. Garland, as J.P. Garland, has done some editing and republished his romance Coming to Terms. Several excerpts from the book have been included in prior issues of the review. His Becoming Catherine Bennet is available on KU and also on Audible.com.  (First Chapters.) He has also adapted his AMBR submission of a few months back involving Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy entitled “Mr. Darcy’s Regrets” from June 2023 into a novella entitled The Omen at Rosings Park, also available on Kindle Unlimited and as an Audiobook on Audible.com. He has also started a newsletter and those interested in getting on the mailing list can contact him at JPGarlandAuthor@DermodyHouse.com. He has also published the pieces from AMBR in something called A Compilation.

Renée Gendron‘s Frontier Hearts is a Western historical romance set in the late 1800s in the District of Alberta, Canada. The series follows a variety of romantic leads as they arrive and thrive in Prosper, Alberta. Each book involves a different romantic pair, a mystery, and plenty of historical details to take you back in time to the Canadian Western frontier. Jaded Hearts. Golden Hearts. Silver Hearts

The Nearer Realm Tales is an epic fantasy romance series that combines humour, mystery, adventure, and romance. Each book features a strong cast with many recurring characters.  A Gift of Stars: Book 1 The Nearer Realm Tales is available for pre-order on Amazon.

Renée’s Heartened by Sport is a series of humorous amateur sports romances. Each novella features a new setting, sport, and romantic dynamic: Seven Points of Contact. Two Hearts on the Backspin:  Three Volleys to Love.

David M. Simon has published The Wild Hunt: Novella 2 of The Wild Hearts and Hunts Duology (Part 1 is Renée Gedron’s Ninth Star) as well as Trapped in Lunch Lady Land, a middle-grade fantasy adventure.

Louise Sorensen has contributed to numerous anthologies that are available on Amazon, and is the co-author, with Misha Burnett, of Duel Visions.

Joseph P. Garland, as J.P. Garland, has done some editing and republished his romance Coming to Terms. Several excerpts from the book have been included in prior issues of the review. His Becoming Catherine Bennet is available on KU and also on Audible.com.  (First Chapters.) He has also adapted his AMBR submission of a few months back involving Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy entitled “Mr. Darcy’s Regrets” from June 2023 into a novella entitled The Omen at Rosings Park, also available on Kindle Unlimited and as an Audiobook on Audible.com. He has also started a newsletter and those interested in getting on the mailing list can contact him at JPGarlandAuthor@DermodyHouse.com. He has also published the pieces from AMBR in something called A Compilation.

Marian L Thorpe‘s eighth and final book in her historically inspired speculative fiction series Empire’s Legacy, Empire’s Passing, is out in paperback and as an ebook. (Empire’s Daughter is the first part.) She has numerous titles available; they can be found at her aptly-named website, MarianLThorpe.com  or at Books2Read. Marian’s short story On Shining Wings is included in the anthology Historical Stories of Exile, published by Taw River Press. She is currently working on An Unwise Prince, the first book of The Casillard Confederacy.