The Baby Black Bear
Mother has been gone for so long thinks the baby black bear with the sunken eyes looking down from up in the tree, but not in such words of ‘man. He feels this sentiment more than he thinks it; feels it in the hunger which stopped rumbling his tummy more than one moon ago – just how many moons he does not know, as the days and nights have lately been blending together in the mind of the baby black bear – feels it in the fatigued breaths he draws weakly into his nose and lets go through his dry mouth, feels it in the chill of the early morning winds which cut through his bristly fur coat as if he were still a blind and bald cubling moments after being born unto the floor of that dark and chilly cave.
She will come back to get me thinks the baby black bear as he rests his head against the branch his claws will no longer grip into, but not in such words of ‘man. Mother has always come back for the baby black bear when she’d stash him in the trees like this; on the brightest nights and the darkest nights when the white and black wolves come howling, on the twilit nights in between when the gray wolves are about, and during the days when the husky ‘man is afoot, traveling the wood with its spear and bucket – the baby black bear always stays in the trees until Mother comes back and shakes him out, because he cannot climb down on his own. It’s been more than one moon since Mother roared at him to go up the tree, and usually she would follow behind him, but she charged away this last time… But still, she will be back. Mother always comes back to get the baby black bear.
I will take a nap, for I am tired, and I will wake to Mother’s roar thinks the baby black bear as he settles deeper into the nook ‘tween the branch and the tree, but not in such words of ‘man. He is very hungry and very thirsty, and his mouth is very dry. His tummy is very empty and his paws are swaying in the cool morning winds. His eyes are tired but his eyelids are not heavy, and he does not close them to the rising sun. It’s very pretty in the mornings when it peeks through the burnwood trees, and now the baby black bear can see his Mother lumbering towards him in its glow, here she comes walking on the rays of gold. He knew she’d come, but she’s taking so long, and he’s very, very sleepy. Her roar will wake him up, just like it always does, and so the baby black bear shall nap ‘til she gets here.
Thus the baby black bear drifts away with the sun in his eyes as it rises over the endless wood.
This has been the first subchapter of the fifth chapter of The Face of Fear, a novel about bigfoot written by the writer in Untitled Bigfoot Project. Here is everything you need to know about it:
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
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If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~