Alma Mater Omnium Vulpes

by Laila Amado

According to the book I’ll bring home from the library tomorrow, time is nothing but a rotating spiral. This is the year of the fox, the fifth of nine hundred cycles. Last summer, I stepped off the platform in a university town, and the train moved on, wheels chugging along the steel rails; my pockets juggled loose change and torn up paper, and I didn’t know how or why or whatever, and whatnot, and why shouldn’t I be a student of celestial mechanics, ancient philosophy, and the language of outdated machines? Up on the ceiling, in the auditorium where voices echo, where you said, “You cannot seriously think that the quantum entanglement in a curvature of spacetime is the way forward for our relationship to progress,” and I said, “Why the hell not?” and someone in the row behind us said shh, and the lecturer cleared his throat and continued as if nothing had happened, in that auditorium, up on the ceiling, unkindness of ravens spans the stars. Down in the town, clouds unravel on the spires built to uphold the fog and falling sky. Shadows stretch from campus to the river. Time hurries back across the quad. Fingers searching for the truth find lies, quips, quivers, candy wraps, and leeches in the mud. Dawn spills citron. College dorm rooms smell of fear and easy prey. I see a vixen in the mirror, bloodied feathers stuck to my lower lip.

Laila Amado is a nomadic writer of very short fiction and occasional poetry. Her works have appeared in Swamp Pink, HAD, the Deadlands, and elsewhere. In her writing-free time, she can be found staring at the sea. The sea, occasionally, stares back. Follow her on Bluesky @amadolaila.bsky.social and on Instagram @laila_amado.