A man becomes curious about why so many foxes are moving into the city. That’s the starting point of ‘Foxes’ an intriguing story by Stephen Connolly, this month’s featured writer.
Born in Canada, Stephen grew up in Scotland and South Africa. His short stories have been published in various magazines, anthologies and broadcast on local radio. His stage and radio scripts have been performed at the New Venture Theatre, Brighton, the Alma Tavern Bristol, the Actors Guild in London and on the Bath, Salisbury and Stroud Fringes.
In 2015 Stephen graduated with an MA in Scriptwriting for Film, Theatre, Radio and TV from Bath Spa University. His radio play ‘Sky Pilots’ was joint winner of the BBC Solent Radio Playwrights competition and was broadcast on BBC Radio Solent in April 2018. This was followed by ‘The Destiny of Shoes,’ broadcast by Off the Rock Productions in 2019.
His first full length stage play ‘Parzival’ was selected by Bristol Old Vic for the Open Session Writers program for a year of support and development. It will be produced in the Weston Studio Theatre in Spring 2020.
To read more stories go to somewhere-else-writers.org
Foxes
By Stephen Connolly
I was sitting at my desk, thinking whose turn it was to make
coffee, when I saw the Fox. Seriously, a Fox. Trotting along the
pavement outside, tongue lolling out. Smiling. No signs of fear,
no sense of being pursued. It crossed the road at the lights and
disappeared round the corner. Nobody else noticed it, not even the
people on the pavement. Maybe they just didn’t care. Or even
recognise it for what it was.
I’d never thought about foxes, much. I’d see one now and again.
Late at night, sometimes. Heading to the 7/11 for milk, I’d see
these eyes reflecting car headlights. Dog I’d think. Until I saw
the bushy tail. Or during the day, walking to the station, a heap
of dirty orange fur lying on a road where they’d misjudged the
traffic.
I started keeping track, almost as a joke. One behind the Kebab
shop down from the flat. Two in the park, eyeing kids on the
swings. Three tearing cardboard out of that skip in the station
car park. And once I’d started looking I saw them everywhere.
Behind the council offices, in that bus shelter opposite the
laundrette, down on the wasteland by the dual carriageway. Rolling
around in the supermarket carpark.
I admit, I did get a little obsessed. Did I really see one in
the library, staring out at me from non-fiction? Surely I dreamt
that?
With the first one there was a jolt. Genetic maybe, a hunter-gatherer’s learned response to a predator. In fairy tales foxes are not to be taken lightly. A kind of pocket wolf.
But I’ve got used to them. When I see one sitting quietly near
the door, as the train rattles into the city centre, my only
thought is: do you get a special status? Like a guide dog?
There’s a lot more around than there used to be, have you
noticed? What do they do here? How long is it going to be before
they’re holding down jobs, paying taxes, running for mayor?!
And it makes me think: when did I last leave the city? I mean, really left it, got in a car and drove until the city was far behind me. Out to that grey, wet place, where fields live. What does it look like now? And what are they doing there to drive all these intelligent creatures away to the city? There’s people queuing at the 7/11. Maybe – just maybe, after all these weeks – they’ve finally got some milk
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