A new short story by Laura Bernardeschi Nelson

The Vixen sat quietly on the edge of the silver river.

The water moved fast, so smooth it looked like a ribbon of green silk sliding through the land. Everything on her side was clean. The ground was firm, the air light, and every step she took felt natural, effortless.

She had chosen this place carefully.

Across the river, the world was different.

There, the ground had given up. Mud stretched in every direction, thick and swallowing, pulling down anything that tried to move with purpose. Nothing was stable. Nothing stayed clean.

And yet, that was where the others remained.

The Sheep was the loudest. She ran in circles, her hooves sinking and slipping, her voice rising above everything as if volume alone could create control. On her head sat a large, puffed blonde wig, so exaggerated that a pair of pigeons had quietly made a nest inside it.

She did not notice.

She never noticed.

“We must control the speed,” she kept repeating, even as she tripped over her own wool. “If I don’t understand how she moves, then it is clearly wrong!”

Above her, perched with restless energy, the Crow worked constantly. His eyes never stayed still, and his voice moved even faster.

He didn’t observe.

He adjusted.

Each time reality contradicted him, he simply replaced it.

He had already declared the river dry twice that morning.

It was still flowing.

Below them, half-submerged in the mud, the Hippopotamus attempted something far beyond her nature: invisibility.

She had decided she was now a spy.

It was not going well.

Every time she tried to lower herself quietly, the ground trembled. Mud shifted outward in slow waves, touching everything and everyone nearby. She whispered to herself as she moved, as if saying it softly would make it true.

“I am light… I am unseen…”

She was neither.

In one massive paw, she held a small glowing device, tapping at it with great concentration and no precision.

Not far from her, the Rats emerged in small groups. They carried their own glowing screens, their eyes wide and tired.

They had been watching.

Always watching.

They whispered excitedly to each other, sharing fragments of what they had seen, repeating the same details until they felt important.

They had measured time. They had counted movements. They had stared long enough to feel something, though they could not say what it was.

The Pug struggled between them.

He moved faster than anyone, and yet he seemed to go nowhere. His short legs worked constantly, his breathing always just behind him. He tried to help the Rats, then the Sheep, then the Hippopotamus, never finishing anything before rushing to the next task.

He nodded often.

He agreed with everything.

He believed, deeply, that he was holding everything together.

No one had told him that.

The Badger stood slightly apart, avoiding the worst of the mud when possible. He kept his posture upright, his expression serious, as if he were observing a system that required his judgement.

In reality, he contributed very little.

But he spoke as if everything depended on him.

From time to time, he adjusted his stance, careful not to slip, careful not to fall, careful above all not to appear uncertain.

Back on the clean bank, the Vixen watched.

She felt no anger.

Only amusement.

There was a rhythm to the chaos. A strange, repetitive dance. The Sheep spinning, the Crow correcting, the Hippopotamus sinking, the Rats whispering, the Pug running, the Badger pretending.

None of them noticed that nothing ever changed.

The Vixen lowered her gaze to the river and dipped her paw lightly into the green reflection. Then she lifted it and traced a slow circle in the air, as if sketching something invisible.

The movement was simple.

Complete.

On the other side, the mud shifted again as the Hippopotamus lost her balance and created a slow, heavy wave. The Sheep slipped, the wig tilted, and for a brief moment, everything stopped.

Then the noise returned.

The Vixen watched a moment longer.

Then she stood.

While they struggled to define her, measure her, and control her, she had already moved beyond them.

With a single, clean leap, she disappeared into the trees.

Behind her, the mud continued to move.

The Sheep resumed her circles, the Crow his corrections, the Hippopotamus her failed invisibility, the Rats their observations, the Pug his endless effort, and the Badger his careful distance.

The dance went on.

Exactly as before.

La Volpe e la Danza del Fango

La Volpe sedeva tranquilla sulla riva del fiume d’argento.

L’acqua scorreva veloce, così liscia da sembrare un nastro di seta verde che attraversava la terra. Da quella parte tutto era pulito. Il terreno era stabile, l’aria leggera, e ogni passo aveva una direzione naturale.

Era un luogo scelto.

Dall’altra parte, invece, il mondo si arrendeva.

Il terreno non reggeva più. Il fango si estendeva ovunque, denso, appiccicoso, pronto a trattenere qualsiasi cosa tentasse di muoversi con decisione. Nulla restava pulito, nulla restava fermo.

Eppure, era lì che gli altri rimanevano.

La Pecora era la più rumorosa. Correva in cerchio, scivolando a ogni passo, mentre continuava a parlare come se la voce potesse sostituire il controllo. In testa portava una parrucca bionda, enorme, così gonfia che due piccioni avevano deciso di viverci dentro.

Lei non se ne accorgeva.

Non si accorgeva mai di nulla.

Continuava a ripetere le stesse cose, anche quando cadeva.

Sopra di lei, il Corvo lavorava senza sosta. Non osservava davvero, ma correggeva. Ogni volta che la realtà lo contraddiceva, lui la cambiava. Aveva già deciso più volte che il fiume era asciutto.

Il fiume continuava a scorrere.

Più in basso, immerso nel fango, l’Ippopotamo stava cercando di essere invisibile.

Aveva deciso di fare la spia.

Il risultato era disastroso.

Ogni suo movimento faceva tremare il terreno. Il fango si spostava in onde lente, toccando tutto e tutti. Sussurrava a sé stessa mentre si muoveva, come se bastasse dirlo piano per renderlo vero.

Non funzionava.

Vicino a lei, i Ratti uscivano dalle loro tane con piccoli schermi luminosi. Avevano osservato a lungo. Troppo a lungo. Condividevano dettagli, ripetevano le stesse informazioni, cercando di dare un senso a qualcosa che non riuscivano davvero a comprendere.

Il Carlino si muoveva tra loro senza sosta.

Correva, ansimava, cambiava direzione continuamente. Cercava di aiutare tutti, senza riuscire a completare nulla. Le sue zampette corte lavoravano il doppio, ma lo portavano sempre nello stesso punto.

Annuisceva a tutto.

Si convinceva di essere indispensabile.

Nessuno glielo aveva mai detto.

Il Tasso restava leggermente in disparte, cercando di evitare il fango più profondo. Manteneva una postura controllata, come se stesse analizzando la situazione dall’alto.

In realtà, non faceva quasi nulla.

Ma parlava come se tutto dipendesse da lui.

Dall’altra parte del fiume, la Volpe osservava.

Non provava rabbia.

Solo un divertimento silenzioso.

C’era una specie di danza in quel caos. Ripetitiva, prevedibile. La Pecora che girava, il Corvo che correggeva, l’Ippopotamo che affondava, i Ratti che osservavano, il Carlino che correva, il Tasso che fingeva.

E nulla cambiava.

La Volpe abbassò lo sguardo e sfiorò l’acqua con la zampa. Poi sollevò il movimento e tracciò un cerchio nell’aria, lento, preciso.

Dall’altra parte, il fango si mosse ancora quando l’Ippopotamo perse l’equilibrio. La Pecora scivolò, la parrucca si inclinò, e per un attimo tutto si fermò.

Poi ricominciò.

La Volpe rimase ancora un istante.

Poi si alzò.

Mentre loro cercavano di capirla, misurarla, controllarla, lei era già altrove.

Con un salto leggero, sparì tra gli alberi.

Dietro di lei, il fango continuò a muoversi.

E la danza ricominciò.

Uguale a prima.

Thanks for reading