When Bears Attack...

Title: When Bears Attack (Because I couldn't think of anything better...)

Notes: 1. Here’s a burning question I have… I don’t normally write in present tense, but vaguely remember a discussion in school once about using past tense in order to set the stage for the story. I seem to have inadvertently done this, but I would really like to know if this is correct, technical-wise. Someone please tell me before I go completely mad! 2. Is the rating sufficiently high?

Words: 497


The geyser erupted in a glorious explosion of wet, sticky rain. A viscous river of red flowed upon the ground. I watched as carnivorous flies, attracted by the iron scent filling the air, alighted upon its surface, only to be pulled under and carried away by the torrent of crimson.

“Stupid!” I mutter. “You should always wear a life jacket when rafting.”

“Maybe they would’ve been better off with a kayak,” I add, returning my attention to the source of the scarlet flood all around the island upon which I am sitting.

“You look good in red,” the island, the Boy, tells me, smiling weakly. Well, he is more man than boy…I blush as I tug at the hem of my pink dress. There is a Pollock-worthy red splatter upon the pink.

I pull at the pink bow in my hair, releasing the satin ribbon. Tying it securely around the stump that remains of the Boy’s arm, I choke the geyser there. But they were a set. A geologist would say “hotspot.”

My island groans as I shift position on his chest so that I can firmly place a black maryjane on the stub of his other arm. The geyser stops spurting, but the river continues to flow.

It looks like he wants to say something, so I lean in close to hear his labored whisper.

“Everyone knows that Da Vinci was a great mind!” I exclaim, sitting up once more. “Not very profound last words!”

“No,” the Boy hoarsely corrects. “Not ‘great mind’, ‘great mime.’”

“Oh,” I respond, trying to picture Ol’ Leo pantomiming ‘trapped in a box’ or ‘pulling on a rope.’ I fail. “What did he mime?”

“Flying,” the Boy answers without missing a beat, a goofy grin on his ashen face.

“Of course,” I concede, grinning as well.

“You should have let the robot fight the bear,” I lament.

“Robots aren’t good for anything but intertemporal bell boys!” the Boy snaps.

It was a clean severe, at least. Maybe the arms could be reattached. They are lying in the snow a few yards away, being kept on ice.

“How is the other guy?” the Boy asks.

“I don’t know.”

I get up, leaving my island, to wade through the ocean of blood. The great furry mountain lays ahead on the horizon.

It smells, but not just because it’s dead. And I hate it! Not because it took the Boy’s arms, not because the Boy may not live, and not because my pink dress is ruined along with my bow… I hate it because of its eyes. No one has eyes bigger or browner than mine!

“No one!” I scream as I kick it repeatedly until it shatters into thousands of little pieces. Picking one up, I examine the potsherd.

“Middle Woodland, AD 100 to AD 400.”

One edge is jagged and threatening. I test it on the back of my hand, drawing blood. It’s sufficiently sharp.

“Down the block, not across the street.”