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The Man With The Head of A Bear

It was shortly after midnight. The moon, almost full, shone brightly through the unwashed window of a cluttered room. The room was packed with dusty boxes, some unopened for years. Floor to ceiling, they stood, blocking off all space except a few narrow makeshift corridors and the lone window. A bare lightbulb lit the center of the room, casting mad shadows along the walls. A man with sallow features, a thin man, slightly balding, was digging desperately in this dim setting, digging through a large box in the back corner of the room. It was a cool night and the room itself had the wet feel of a room untouched by much sunlight and human care. The man was throwing winter clothes about, a few toys, gee-gaws and gadgets, a random spatula; all came recklessly from the box at his feet. Dust swirled around his features when he let out a sad sounding "Whoop" and pulled a large heavy black thing from the very bottom of the large box.

At that moment, the door swung open. A man stood in the door, looking very much like an older version of the man holding what could now be perceived as the head of a bear.

"Victor!" the old man shouted. There was panic in his voice. "You don't know what you're messing with!"

The young man was suddenly calmed, both hands clutching the giant black head. "No father," he said, "we have done things your way long enough. We are hungry and we have already lost the business. What is left? This?" He gestured around the clutter of the room with his glance. "No. We will do things my way."

"Victor, listen..."

But it was too late. Victor raised the bear head over his own and lowered onto his shoulders. A mask! The old man gasped. There was quiet, for about thirty seconds. Then the screaming started.

A few hours later, Victor's old father lay near the door, spread on his back, his entire throat and chest opened. He had never moved from the spot of his screaming. Never had a chance. Blood spilled and dried over the concrete floor. In one corner, on a handmade wooden table, was a single speaker radio, it's wavering blue light casting a spell as an old Peggy Lee song played softly. In the doorway, a man was dancing a slow waltz, casting macabre shadows on the wall. A man with his own father's blood soaked through his cheap oxford-style shirt. A man with the head of a bear.

(to be continued as the story develops...for real)

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post #265
bio: blaine

first post
that week

Category List
April - National Poetry Month 2008

Favorite Things
· Autumn's first apples
· What It Is! Funky Soul and Rare Grooves boxset
· Collected Works of Jack London
· Spring Migrants