Fox Disturbed/Flying Backward/A Different Kind of Glow
by Ariana Hernandez
University of the Incarnate Word
Ariana Hernandez is a student at the University of the Incarnate Word, pursuing a double major in Communications (with a concentration in Convergent Media) and English. Her academic journey is enriched by minors in Creative Writing, Music, Art History, and History, reflecting her deep passion for storytelling and the arts. Expected to graduate in 2028, she aspires to further her studies at Emerson College, where she plans to join the Writing, Literature, and Publishing program to refine her craft and immerse herself in the literary world as a fiction editor and author.
I
Fox Disturbed
We are no one. Nothing. We, the humble viewers of the lives of many, never see our own, but we need not; we are happy with this life. We, the universe, watch, as surveyors of life and of death, unconcerned with the limitations of the physical world. Here we see: our journey takes us to the life of a pre-teen girl. Surrounded by lush, dense deciduous trees among a sea of dark green and fog. A nameless girl rode her pale blue bike down a residential street. The sun was nearing its depth, and she knew she’d better be home soon. But the air felt peaceful, and the sky was kaleidoscopic and lovely, so how could she bring herself to leave, abandoning what was beautiful? Her knuckles were reddening, and her lips were dry, but the soft wind on her face compensated for these discomforts.
On this evening ride of hers, she saw children playing with bubbles while their parents watched from their porches. She saw butterflies flocking south, and on the telephone poles, she saw many little birds. We watch as the girl cruises through the neighborhood with a slight upturn of the lips. She loved these rides through unfamiliar places; they made her feel cultured in an odd sort of way. The sun was fully set; the girl noticed this and prepared for the ride home. The road was winding and precarious, but she took it gradually, going at the modest pace she set. Then, in the near darkness, she saw something on the road: a looming mass of some sort, but she could not yet tell what it was. The girl took her feet off the pedals and ceased movement. Setting her bike down gently on the side of the road, she went to investigate. As she approached, she could begin to see the foreign mass more clearly.
It was a fox. With fur, like a warm cascade of rust and flame, and proud ears and sensitive whiskers. It was a very unfortunate fox, who happened to be the victim of man. Its eyes were open, staring blankly into the distance. Its snout was dry, and the coat was stained deep red and black. She saw its mangled body disfigured in the street, and she stared, tears welling in her eyes. The scene was horrid and upsetting yet she could not pull her eyes away. Rather, she wept and stared at it in equal measure, not out of pity for the creature but because she knew how invaluable animal life was. In her head, she knew that it was always this way: people do not value animal life over their own. Or at least, this is what she would have thought if she had cared. Instead, after a few moments, her face straightened, pupils completely covering her eyes, suppressing her thoughts. She turns back from the fox, that poor creature on the road, and her legs carry her back to her mount, her stride never once wavering. The girl never called for help; she merely re-mounted her bike and drove back home, the moon flowing close behind her.
If only life could be that simple, that easy. And why shouldn’t it have been? She was nobody. What did it matter what she did or did not do? The nameless girl did not think twice about that poor mangled fox, never wondered what became of it or anything of the sort; she was uninterested and wildly unmotivated. She was so indifferent that she took her bike for another ride the following evening. Only this time, she elected for a different neighborhood as she grew bored of the previous.
Wheels on uneven pavement, happy families throwing footballs, blowing bubbles, grilling dinner, and having fun. This was what she saw. This was what she always saw, and, whether she realized it or not, it started to disgust her. Sufficiently annoyed by her sightings, she retreated home with her tail between her legs, and it was just as well considering the time of night. We can see her disdain for the world around her but can do nothing but watch as the girl turns on her front light and pedals a bit quicker. She briefly shuts her eyes to soak up the cool night air and taste the salt on her lips from her own sweat.
We find ourselves amidst a cadaverous scene. Mechanical noises find themselves in her ears, and foreign light protrudes into her closed eyes. She winces at the discomfort and opens her eyes. All she meets is harsh light. She thinks of the happy families playing games, cooking, laughing, and blowing bubbles. She thinks of the little birds and the butterflies and how they are completely and utterly meaningless, every single one baseless in their entirety. Nothing worth knowing should be boring, she thinks as she lay motionless in the asphalt.
“Everything is meaningless,” she repeats softly, under her breath until she could no longer form words.
An unknown figure approaches the girl, his face in his hands as he takes in the scene. The figure's breath catches in his throat as he takes in the harrowing scene before him. The girl's hair, now matted and stained with a deep crimson, clung to her pale face like a veil. Her limbs, twisted and contorted, lay at unnatural angles, and the bike chain had torn through the delicate fabric of her clothing and exposing the raw, tender flesh beneath. Though we are not present, we can smell it; the air is thick with the metallic scent of blood. The figure's heart pounds in his chest, as he too weeps, neglecting to divert his eyes from the spectacle. The boy walked back from whence he came, and the sound of machinery found itself present once more, if only in the mind of the night and the soft light of the moon. We don’t pretend to know.
II
Flying Backward
The world is grey, and we are in a bare apartment with modern furnishings and no character. With the implementation of hospital lighting and stainless steel, the room we find ourselves in is bleak to say the least. We see a man, or the shape of one, pouring himself a glass of water in his dark, monochrome kitchen. He stares at his glass then takes a sip. We can see that he is a man of solitude, a hermit sequestered away from the world. He’s a neat man, an orderly man, the kind of man who would faint from seeing a speck of dust. He makes his bed every morning, and irons the sheets to keep them smooth and without wrinkles. This is how he lives: everything in its place.
On this cool, November night, the man enjoys his solitude. He sits and reads a book, when suddenly sounds of shattering glass startle the man. The man rises from his seat and locates the origin of the commotion, his feet nippy from the chill air let in by the broken window. A small creature of bright green and red emerges from the shards: a hummingbird. The man jolts, directing his attention to the small bird before him and hurries to ensure its safety. The bird seems quite receptive to the man’s efforts and permits the help. After the initial panic, the hummingbird sits in the man’s hands for some time, its tiny chest rising and falling rapidly.
“You shouldn’t keep your windows so clean,” wheezes the hummingbird, “People like you are responsible for the inquiries of several of my closest friends.”
The man stands there, completely bewildered by the vocalization of the bird in his hands. He says nothing, he simply stares at the creature in both confusion and curiosity. Finally, he brings himself to speak.
“Are you alright? How did you break the glass? How are you speaking? I must be losing my mind,” says the man.
“Yes, yes, I can hear myself too,” said the hummingbird with a hint of sarcasm, “Other than a bruised ego, I guess I’m fine.”
“But how?” the man sets the bird down on the kitchen counter.
“I don’t know; I suppose the glass must be weak.”
“No, this is impossible. You’re a hallucination, you must be.”
“Fine, reject my existence, ignore what is right in front of you, I’m sure you know best.”
“Why would I believe in what I can’t possess?” said the man.
“What a sad way to live. What about love? Truth? Compassion? You may not be able to possess these things in the physical form, but they are worth far more in the figurative form.”
“I didn’t know hummingbirds were so clairvoyant,” said he.
“Clearly you don’t spend enough time in our company.”
“No, I guess not,” the man chuckled. “So, how did you get so wise?”
“Every day is a battle of life and death. I must choose either to live and endure pain or cease to exist, but such is life. This is the role I play."
The man empathized with the hummingbird. He was completely ignorant of the lives of hummingbirds. To remedy this, the man extended out his hand, it wouldn’t mean much, but it would be enough to ease his mind.
“You can rest here,” the man gestures to his finger, “If you want.”
The sound of sputtering wings ceases as the bird perched on the man’s pointer finger, tucking in its wings as it took a seat. The pair stared at each other for a while, taking notice of their differences. But when all is said and done, they’re not all that different. If not for the consciousness that they share and the willingness to pursue something greater than what they were given.
“I no longer think of love.”
“Why not?” the man offered no reply. “I see. So, you’ve been jilted before and now all hopes of finding love and happiness are gone.”
“I am happy. I live in a penthouse. I pay my bills. I have friends. I have a life. I’m content.”
“Content is not happiness.”
“And what would you know of it?”
“Maybe nothing, but I know what you described isn’t happiness, it’s merely living. Do you wish to merely live? Because I think that you can have more but you must want it. To yearn is to fully accept your human existence, or else you become something else entirely.” The hummingbird’s words struck a chord with the man. He had given up. He was just living. Without knowing it, he had become a slave to a way of life that would only make him unhappy.
“You must fly backward to regain what you have lost.”
“So, I must go backward to go forward? Isn’t that a bit cliché?”
The bird narrows its eyes in annoyance at the final remark, then offers a reply.
“If you go back far enough, you’ll wind up going forward. Funny how these things work isn’t it?”
“Funny indeed.”
The hummingbird gave the man a look as if to say, “you can take it from here” and zipped out the broken window, disappearing into the night sky, fighting to live another day. The man cleaned up the broken glass with a broom and dustpan and taped up the window. Tomorrow morning, he’d call to get it fixed, but tonight he decided to go for a walk. The air was icy on his nose and cheeks as they grew pink. He walked around and noticed all the colors. Orange, yellow, and red, everywhere he looked. The leaves of fall were a thing of beauty, a thing he hadn’t had the time nor the energy to appreciate in a long time. Amid the wilderness, he thought of the kindness of the hummingbird and hoped that he could one day repay him. The once bleak man walked soundly through the night with thoughts of romance floating around in his head.
III
A Different Kind of Glow
The scene has changed once more, and we have infiltrated the subconscious of a man we do not know; life is much more fun when we know nothing. We intrude upon a date between this man and a woman, also unknown to us. From our seat we can tell the man knew from the beginning he was born for greatness. Such things were instilled within him from his parents, neighbors, and relatives. So, when his natural talents appeared with an agitated fervor, he could do nothing but rejoice. He can see the glow from light, not just them being lit and noticing their brilliance, he can see their glow; they look like delicate rays of sunlight in the way they are configured. Sometimes the lights had a dim glow, and other times their glow would be blinding, and each glow told him something about the lights themselves and where they came from. For instance, a harsh, white glow indicated that the room wished to be clean, and a soft warm glow indicated the room wished to be welcoming. He is unsure of how he came to be with this gift but that did not matter, for now he has attained greatness, and would no doubt impress all he encountered.
“You’re not special, you know that right?” said the woman from across the table from him. She was a beautiful woman, and this was a good thing because if she were hideous, he would have left upon her first attempt at insolence. However, he collected himself and readied his thoughts; she simply did not understand his genius, maybe she sees a different kind of glow.
“Well, what is special?” he retorted, trying to regain control of the conversation. He cut the steak au poivre on his plate with poise and felt sure of myself as he did so.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but what you’re describing is just astigmatism, it’s an eye condition.” Astigmatism? There was no way that could be true, this woman is nothing but a liar. She wants to make light of my gift and denounce me he thought, setting down his knife and taking a sip of the Cabernet Sauvignon, he had ordered for the two of them.
“You simply do not understand, a window of light has opened for me to peer into its brilliance, not just anyone can be chosen.”
“Have you seen an optometrist?”
“I have no need. People are so quick to dismiss the fanciful. I know my destiny, this is my vocation,” He gestures to all around him, “I suppose that part of my calling is to help others open their eyes to varying possibilities,” he picks up the knife and continue cutting his steak.
“I see, well, have fun staring at light or whatever it is that you do. I think I’ll be heading out now,” the woman said as she drew her purse nearer and herself farther away from him. He sat there at that table for a good long while. The seat across from him was empty, but he did not feel like anything was missing. If he did not have faith in himself, then faith surely does not exist, and he knows it does because he was gifted for the sole purpose of achievement. He can communicate with the very property that heats and illuminates our land, he could be the bridge between the heavens and the earth. Wishful eyes reach the candlelight in front of me, the candlelight glows softly, almost whispering, as if it has something to say but is too bashful to say it. The rays of light gently sway in the ambience of the restaurant, and he loses himself in thought and in conversation with this candle; it has much to say.
Interview with the Author
1. What inspired you to write this piece? What was your thought process throughout?
Sensationalism and morbid curiosity have always fascinated me. Whenever disaster strikes, we instinctively seek out every detail, succumbing to the undeniable urge to immerse ourselves in tragedy and horror, even when we know it’s unnerving. I remember passing a decaying deer on the side of the road, its body breaking down to the point where its insides were visible. It was gruesome, but I couldn’t look away. That eerie obsession with the macabre became the primary inspiration for my first story.
On a different note, I’ve always admired hummingbirds, the only birds capable of flying backward. That peculiar fact stuck with me, and I knew I wanted to incorporate it into my writing. Another story in the collection stemmed from a conversation I had with someone who described seeing “lines in the light.” They were describing astigmatism, and the moment amused me. It made me reflect on how easily wonder and creativity can be lost in a world that often discourages both. These stories form part of my collection, We, the Universe. I wrote them to immerse myself and my readers in esoteric and magical experiences, exploring the strange and the wondrous.
2. What do you hope readers will take away from your piece? What effects do you want the piece to have on the person, community, or society?
I’ve only ever wanted to make people think. If I’m making them challenge their existing beliefs or even making them confused, that’s enough for me. Introspection is a skill that seems to be deteriorating, and I’d like to do my best to rectify that. Most literature today is all about instant gratification, and I resent that. The best things take time.
3. What is your favorite piece of fiction (short story, novel, flash fiction, etc.) that you’ve ever read? Why?
My favorite book is After Dark by Haruki Murakami. The novel takes place in Tokyo throughout one night and follows the sort of people that roam around after dark. The title comes from the popular jazz piece “Five Spot After Dark”, as Murakami is a well-known jazz fan (and even owned a jazz bar). Further, the novel’s structure is unique in that Murakami uses the narrative camera, giving a sense of intrusion and pervasiveness that I love. In the novel's opening, he writes, "Eyes mark the shape of the city. Through the eyes of a high-flying night bird, we take in the scene from midair." After Dark is Murakami's most cinematic novel to date, and perhaps that's what makes it so enticing.
4. If you plan on continuing to write, what are some goals/plans you may have for your future?
It’s always been my dream to write. I wanted to publish my works and have people recognize my artistry. I wanted to be great. However, that dream has slightly altered. Now, I'd like to be an established member of the publishing industry and then publish my novels. Currently, the industry is going through a rough patch in that the quality of literature has decreased due to the Pandemic. During the Pandemic, people became accustomed to consuming quick media, not having the attention span for anything more. I see the impact most in the creative arts such as TV, film, and literature. So, I'd like to do my part to circumvent these effects, which I can do as an editor.