Writer

Excerpt From Captive: A Modern Fable

 

By  Jennifer Foxhoven (Published under Jennifer Alexander)

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Once upon a time, that is how these stories usually begin. A little bird was gliding on a warm summer breeze. She sang her salutations to all the creatures of the forest and they greeted her in kind. She had flown far ahead of the rest of her flock and decided to rest for a while in the woods nestled deep in the middle of a range of impassable mountains. The forest was ancient; full of gnarled trees as thick as elephants entwined with swaggering skeins of Spanish moss that danced like ghosts in the wind. This was a world untouched by the tarnishes of mankind, for the most part.

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There were no roads or paths through this forest. No gift-shops or gas stations to clutter the landscape. However, there was a cabin, just one. It stood on the left bank of the river right past the waterfall. A lovelier spot never existed. The river was always full of fish and the trees there offered berries so sweet they could be called ambrosia. The smell of wildflowers lingered on the air and birdsongs haunted the winds.

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Old Hank had lived there for longer than even he knew. Time seemed irrelevant since he had come to the mountains. The family he had once loved was but a distant memory and loneliness was all that was left. He had grown old. His clean shaven face long ago became a tangled beard and now the beard had turned from black to gray. Crow’s feet lined the rims of his pale blue eyes and a long scar marked his left cheek. He walked with a wooden cane, limping slightly sometimes. His clothes were made of animal pelts as were his shoes. Virtually everything he owned he made himself: from the bow that sometimes hung off his arm to the belt that held up his pants. He prided himself for having conquered the wild and believed that mankind’s greatest gift was his ingenuity.

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One day he was walking by some nearby trees full of succulent berries when he heard a squeaky little voice,

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“These are the sweetest berries I have ever tasted.”

Hank looked around,

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“Who said that?”

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“I did,” the voice replied. Hank craned his head and turned to examine his surroundings but he did not see anyone. The only thing he saw was a small bird. He gazed at her,

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“Did you say that?” Hank narrowed his eyes, focusing all his attention on the little creature. She wore plumes in bold shades of purple and scarlet as if she were related to some rare tropical flower.

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“Yes, my name is Kona,” she chirped.