Notebook 050

A small family of foxes lay strewn across the breezing sea of summer grass. The tiny little heads of the cubs gently pushed through the crowd of green as a warm breeze ran across the tips like thousands of little fairies jumping from stem to stem in a joyous stampede of ecstasy. The sun filled the sky in-between the two tall oak trees on opposite sides of the verge, cutting through with searing white rays to all that wasn’t shadowed. Considered typical in Oxton the faint tinkling the village stream could be heard, like a bag of marbles being dropped on the solid oak floors that lined the floor of every house in the hamlet. Not so typical were the three stripped bodies, decapitated and arranged so that they were all facing outward whilst their torsos faced together, forming a neat little circle; only attainable by displaying clearly the upper segment of the spine whilst twisting the head one-hundred and eighty degrees in opposition to its natural bearing. The cheeks and stomach caved in from decomposition. The three carcasses had been slowly heated since the sun rose, the foxes waiting till the flesh was soft enough to eat. They were ready.