He didn’t know if he had a name. The very concept of names did not exist. Rather a memory fluttered at the edges of his emotions, the fuzziness of fun, a memory of rolling on the ground, play fighting with the other brown bear cubs. Overall an undefinable affection for others existed within this bear.
Then two years of isolation had wrapped itself around him like a winter duvet and through it Bruno (let you and I give him a name!) revelled in each and every season.
Through the colourful Spring, flowers erupted with dazzling displays and wildlife awoke around him. In Summer Bruno feasted on berries and odd morsels of elk meat however the midges became as bothersome as a thorn in his pad and the heat baked his fur. He sought shelter under the towers of spruce, a humming retreat of whispering shade and cooling plush moss. Autumn felt like the twilight of his life, a brightness remained yet the welcome bite of cold taunted his senses. Winter was Bruno’s favourite season, a time to strike out across the snow, sinking into it with a slightly satisfying scrunch, a caress.
Yet this second winter a loneliness gathered upon him just as the snow rested upon the fir tree branches, layer upon layer of inexplicable malaise.
The wolf, shall we say, Lobo, had been tracking Bruno for days. Rather ineptly Bruno felt, the wolf’s scent drifting across the landscape, his noisy traverse audible for all able to hear subsonically.
There he was across the frozen lake, a dusting of snow upon the icy tundra. Bruno stood still in the safety of the trees before stepping cautiously forward. Lobo mirrored Bruno’s stillness across the lake, and then he suddenly appeared from the camouflage of the dark trucks. Halfway across they were nearly nose to nose; Bruno and Lobo paused.
Bizarrely Lobo lowered his head into a subservient pose in front of the bear and meekly he inched forward to Bruno, his neck twisting away and with one final step rested his head upon Bruno’s neck and buried it into his thick brown pelt. Bruno reciprocated by bending his head forward and together the two wild beasts hugged in camaraderie.
The unique moment captured in a photo, their unity and togetherness preserved beyond the few seconds.
In a perfect synchronistic motion, they pulled away, as if on a general’s command to part ways, each stepping back a few steps, the longing yawning aching arch of friendship collapsing into the opening chasm. With a barely discernible nod between them, the bear and wolf returned to their lonely existence deep in the forest.
©Annika Perry, June 2023
Imogen popped one more Malteser in her mouth, cracking the honeycomb between her teeth. One of her front teeth wobbled precariously before slotting back into place.
Layla rolled back in shock, knocking against the tool table which sent a trowel flying into the air, the slimy sloppy brown mud on it trailing messily on the floor and landing by her side.
Layla followed Imogen down the path to the house, shaking her head in wonder. How did her mother’s mask from Gambia end up outside?
Layla woke with a start and reached for her phone. 00.00. Midnight. Scrambling out of bed she ran to the door when she suddenly heard an ear-piercing screech. Her mother. Then silence followed by a cough becoming louder and she edged away from the door as the footsteps came closer. Stumbling, she reached the wardrobe and lunged inside, tapping at her phone screen.
Recently I joined a local Creative Writing Group and the latest piece of ‘homework’ was to write a page or so around the prompt word of ‘Stuff’. Here is what I came up with.
Annika Perry 