by Laura Bernardeschi Nelson
By Laura Bernardeschi Nelson
The afternoon sun hung low over the Garden, casting long, skeletal shadows across the gravel paths. The air held that peculiar stillness that comes just before dusk, when even the breeze seems to hesitate. High above the grit, perched on a weathered stone plinth worn smooth by time and indifference, sat the Vixen.
She was a streak of copper against the dull greys and greens, a deliberate interruption to the Garden’s monotony. With slow precision, she licked a stray hair from her paw, her golden eyes scanning below—not with concern, not with fear, but with the distant curiosity of someone observing a problem they had no intention of solving.
Below, in the damp hollow where sunlight rarely intruded, lived the Badger.
The Badger shifted in the moss, his body heavy with self-importance. Dirt clung to his fur in stubborn patches, as though even the earth itself had grown tired of him but could not quite let go. He scratched at the ground with unnecessary vigour, each scrape louder than it needed to be.
“Do you see her?” he hissed suddenly.
The Rats froze mid-scurry, their small bodies tightening. One of them dared to glance upward, then quickly looked away.
“See who?” one asked cautiously.
The Badger scoffed. “Don’t pretend ignorance. Her. Up there. Sitting as if she owns the horizon.”
Another Rat squinted. “She’s just… sitting.”
“Just sitting?” the Badger snapped, spinning toward them. “That’s exactly the problem. She does nothing—and yet insists on being seen doing it.”
The Rats exchanged glances. None of them fully understood, but they nodded anyway.
“Yes, yes,” one squeaked. “Very suspicious behaviour.”
The Badger resumed pacing. “She thinks she is something… refined. Something beyond this Garden. ‘Art’, she calls it.”
“What’s art?” a younger Rat asked.
The Badger paused, thrown for a moment. Then he waved a dismissive paw. “Irrelevant. The point is—she thinks she is better than us.”
Above, the Vixen’s ear twitched. She had heard every word.
She didn’t react. Not yet.
From behind the Badger came the uneven, laboured breathing of the Pug.
“Master,” the Pug wheezed, approaching with determined effort, his short legs working twice as hard for half the distance. “I sensed… agitation.”
“You sensed correctly,” the Badger said, without looking at him. “A grave injustice is unfolding.”
The Pug’s eyes widened. “Shall I… bark at it?”
“No, you fool,” the Badger snapped. “This requires strategy.”
The Pug straightened, or at least attempted to. “Strategy,” he echoed, as though tasting the word. “Yes. I am very strategic.”
The Badger leaned closer, lowering his voice. “She has produced something new.”
The Rats leaned in. Even the Pug leaned so far forward he nearly toppled.
“A painting”, the Badger continued, voice dripping with disdain. “A seascape.”
“A sea?” one Rat whispered.
“In the Garden?” another added, alarmed.
“Exactly!” the Badger said triumphantly. “Absurd! Pretentious! She presumes to understand tides, depth, movement—things far beyond her station.”
The Pug frowned. “But… have we seen it?”
The Badger hesitated for a fraction of a second. “That is not the point.”
“Oh,” the Pug said quickly. “Of course. Not the point.”
“I,” the Badger went on, puffing himself up, “have studied water extensively.”
The Rats blinked.
“You have?” one asked.
“Yes,” the Badger said firmly. “Puddles. Many puddles. Deep ones.”
“Ah,” the Rats murmured, impressed.
The Pug nodded vigorously. “Very wet. Very advanced.”
The Badger turned sharply toward the plinth. “This cannot stand. She must be corrected.”
The Pug’s chest swelled. “Allow me, Master. I shall deliver the correction.”
“You?” the Badger said sceptically.
“Yes!” the Pug barked, then coughed. “I shall climb the plinth and inform her—firmly—that her blue is incorrect.”
The Rats gasped softly.
“That is… bold,” one said.
“Very bold,” another agreed.
The Badger considered this. Then he smirked. “Very well. Go on, then. Show us your… usefulness.”
The Pug beamed.
And so began the Race of the Ridiculous.
The Pug charged—or rather, shuffled rapidly—toward the plinth. Mud splashed under his paws as he pushed forward with surprising determination.
“I will not fail,” he muttered to himself. “I am not merely… decorative.”
Behind him, the Badger called out, “Remember—confidence! Critique her like you mean it!”
“I shall!” the Pug wheezed.
He reached the base of the plinth and looked up.
It was taller than he remembered.
“Right,” he said. “Simple.”
He placed his paws against the stone and pushed.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, this time with a small grunt.
Still nothing.
“Perhaps… a different angle,” he said, repositioning himself. He leapt.
His nose hit the stone with a soft thud.
“Ah.”
He slid back down.
From behind, the Rats tried not to laugh.
“Again!” the Badger barked.
“Yes, Master!” the Pug said, scrambling up once more.
He jumped. Missed. Slipped. Tumbled backward into the mud with a wet splat.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the sky.
“I nearly had it,” he said weakly.
The Badger approached, unimpressed.
“Move,” he said.
Before the Pug could respond, the Badger stepped onto his back, using him as a makeshift platform.
“Oof—Master, I am structurally limited—” the Pug wheezed.
“Hold still”, the Badger snapped.
From his slightly elevated position, the Badger craned his neck upward.
“Vixen!” he shouted.
Above, the Vixen finally looked down.
“Yes?” she said calmly.
The Badger faltered for half a second, then recovered.
“I have conducted a review,” he declared loudly. “An audit of your… work.”
“Have you?” she said.
“Yes,” he continued. “In consultation with the Rats—and the Pug—we have reached a consensus.”
“A consensus,” she repeated.
“Yes! Your colours are inappropriate. Excessive. Disruptive to the Garden’s… tone.”
The Vixen tilted her head slightly. “And what is the Garden’s tone?”
The Badger opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Muted,” he said finally. “Appropriately muted.”
“I see.”
“And furthermore,” he added, gaining momentum, “your so-called seascape demonstrates a fundamental misunderstanding of water.”
“Does it?” she asked.
“Absolutely!” he said. “I am, in fact, something of an authority.”
The Pug, still beneath him, managed a muffled, “Hear, hear!”
The Vixen’s gaze shifted briefly to the squashed Pug, then back to the Badger.
“And who, exactly, is ‘we’?” she asked.
The Badger hesitated. “Me. The Pug. The Rats.”
The Rats waved nervously.
“We are the observers,” the Badger said. “We see everything.”
“Everything?” she asked.
“Yes,” he insisted. “We monitor your… activities.”
“And what have you concluded?”
“That you are unnecessary,” he said bluntly.
There was a pause.
The Garden seemed to hold its breath.
Then the Vixen spoke.
“You spend so much time watching me,” she said softly, “that you’ve mistaken observation for significance.”
The Badger stiffened. “We are significant.”
“Are you?” she asked.
“Yes!”
The Pug, struggling beneath him, added, “Very significant.”
The Vixen stepped closer to the edge of the plinth.
“You dig in the dark,” she continued, “and call it depth. You whisper to each other and call it consensus. You stare upward and call it critique.”
“That is unfair,” the Badger snapped.
“No,” she said. “It is accurate.”
The Badger’s footing wavered.
“You are not observing me,” she went on. “You are orbiting something you don’t understand—and resenting it for not shrinking to your scale.”
The Pug blinked. “I… don’t think I orbit well,” he muttered.
“Silence”, the Badger hissed.
The Vixen straightened.
“I don’t need your approval,” she said. “And I certainly don’t need your audit.”
With that, she turned.
The Badger panicked. “Wait! We are not finished!”
“I am,” she replied.
She stretched, her body lengthening in one fluid motion. Then, without hesitation, she leapt.
For a moment, she was airborne—cut cleanly against the gold of the setting sun. A perfect arc. Effortless. Unreachable.
Then she was gone.
Silence settled over the Garden.
The Badger slowly climbed down, stepping off the Pug without acknowledgement.
“Well,” he said stiffly, “that was… inconclusive.”
The Pug remained in the mud. “I think my back has… opinions.”
The Rats shuffled.
“Did we win?” one asked.
“Of course we did,” the Badger snapped. “She fled.”
“Oh”, the Rat said. “Right.”
The Pug struggled upright. “Master… shall we pursue?”
The Badger looked toward the wall, then quickly away.
“No,” he said. “It’s… beneath us.”
The Pug nodded, though he didn’t fully understand.
“Yes,” he said. “Beneath.”
They stood there for a while, in the deepening shadow.
Then the Badger cleared his throat. “This was your fault, you know.”
“My fault?” the Pug said, startled.
“Yes. Poor support structure. Very disappointing.”
“I tried to be… less square,” the Pug said apologetically.
“Try harder next time,” the Badger said.
“Yes, Master.”
The Rats resumed their quiet scurrying.
And in the hollow, as darkness finally settled in, the Race of the Ridiculous continued—unchanged, unchallenged, and entirely unwon.
Thank for reading.