Does that bear want to eat me?
Don't forget your bear spray!!!
I caught a nice string of salmon to take home for dinner.
But there’s a great huge bear blocking the trail.
My dog Max growls, deep. Hackles are up.
We change course, moving sideways and away.
I know better than to dance with a grizzly.
Damn-it!! The bear swings his head and catches our scent.
The stench might be and Max – we could both use a good bath.
But maybe just the fish. Gutted fish stink. Hard to miss.
The bear turns in our direction and lumbers towards us.
Oh, God. He’s not charging. Yet.
But he is definitely coming.
The rangers say to stand your ground if you are charged.
But shit!
This fella is big and old and probably mean.
And standing my ground doesn’t sound so good.
Cause I’m an idiot who forgot his bear spray.
And I think I’d lose that fight.
I have only one chance to distract him so we can try to run.
But I think it is a good one.
I’m gambling that he’s after the fish – fish won’t growl or fight back.
Or talk to the bear like it’s a dog “Hi boy, here you go, aren’t you a handsome fella?”
Which is supposed to confuse the bear and keep it from attacking. Maybe.
So instead I fling the whole string of salmon right at him.
Our dinner…his now if he takes it.
"Look bear, nice juicy salmon right there in front of you!!!"
He lowers his head to sniff - and that’s my cue to get out of there!
I don’t need to wait around to see if he eats it all.
But we do detour - fast - away from him in a big arc
Trying to avoid coming face to face again. Once was plenty for me.
I move cautious but steady.
Max slowly stops growling and settles down.
And as we move further away and deeper into the trees
I can still hear the bear snuffling and eating
Crunching through scales and bones.
Six big salmon will take him a little while.
In the end,
We made it out and no-one got hurt.
That’s a miracle right there!!
But Max and I are going to be having
Burgers from the diner tonight. With extra fries.
And I picked up a whole case of bear spray.
As the commercials used to say: “Never leave home without it.”
Author's note: I'm actually exploring three different narrative styles for the *same* story. I have a Haiku (Bear, fish, run) that is the simplest, then this poem in free verse and then a short story told with humor. I'm interested in which receives the most reader response and engagement...which version do you think is better? Let me know!
About the Creator
Jill Harper-Judd
I've been writing poetry and short stories since childhood....but my life has often been chaotic so (mental) space to write can be hard to find. I am a lover of words and the worlds we can create with them. I seek beauty in all things.
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins7 days ago in Fiction
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