Freelance Writer : Terrain Parks : Creative Direction

Unpublished: Bear POV

Yet Another Attempt To Get A Few Months Sleep While All My Food is Dead

By Ben Wannamaker

While seeking extra weight in the late summer months – finding my winter warmth in the mountain’s diminishing berry supply – a custard and raspberry danish (which I smelt before I felt) is dropped from the sky and stains my coat with flaky. 

I constantly bear with the world’s interruptions.

The young and loud glacier skiers squeal at the desserts fortitude-ious trajectory; lucky for them, they’re in a flying chair safely above, because we both know I wouldn’t be having these barely berries for breakfast if they were any inch closer.  Grumbling deeply, I’m hungry from wasting time finding a quiet patch of grass to use as a shower-head and as I roll around like a dreaming dog I notice something: under my increasingly thicker and thicker hide, the shape of my spine has – of late – become barely definable: so winter would be approaching and once again I must attempt to get a few good months sleep while all my food is dead.

But I can’t get any sleep. It’s early winter and I’m below four meters of cold crystal insulation that socks my den in. That’s not the agitating alarm clock though, because my body’s warmth of breath (coupled with the den-concealing tree of mine) has created a spaciously deep pit under the soft, white world above. It’s warm, spacious and the snow simply acts as an evaporating glass ceiling that drips rhythmically from the bottom up, lulling me to sleep: I hibernate beside my buried tree. Well, I try to.

Hibernation is incrementally, intentionally trying to commit oneself to a subterranean suicide: the purity in which I must meditate in order to slow my heart rate / blood flow down is probably astoundingly inconceivable to those over-stimulated bipeds who plane about the alpine ocean above, whom I’ve conceived millions of accusations about them from down here. Assumptions really. As I stare wide eyed at the roots abounding from my ceiling, I’m sleepless and my breath gets throw off: the men, women and children keep me jumpily awake, like the rooster who needs to notify the rest at the immediate moment that they can conceive perceiving the day itself.

All the deadened giggles that come soon after the morning bombs blow up are from my obnoxious tenants – human bipeds, I assume – their softened inquisitions, muted hooey and muffled exaggerations made while skimming about all day, up and down, this way and that is absurd and senseless. All of it. They don’t hunt or procreate on skis, but instead, mysteriously get as close as they can to hurting themselves: going as quickly, as blindly, and off the highest possible rocks into the endlessness of my prowling ground – and just about as manically as they can.  

This one seems mad to me. But maybe it’s because my eyes just hurt so bad. After months of R.E.M sleep and in an elaborate dream that was two weeks and running: my golf-ball sized orbitales are strained and my surprised-eye muscles have been largely overused. Maybe I’m unnecessarily cranky, but there before me this one fine morning, was a man’s face. I supposed his face was as red as it was because it was upside down? I’m not a doctor: but a bear lying on it’s keg-like stomach. I tilted my head and sniffed his panting, terrified, and increasingly reddening tomato-face. He tried to scream at me, but instead coughed and his eyes rolled back into his head. (I was jealous of this last action; for I wished that I, too, could be so deep in sleep that my eyes would rewind into my mind like a dying deer’s did, the last second before it succumbed to being my meal.))

Instantly he left and some snow tumbled onto my snout from the tunnel that formed in light of his abrupt absence, Sky was now in eye-shot. He’d been helped out from a few good friends and screamed that they all “needed to not waste a fucking second and get the fuck out of the forest” and too, that he’d thank them later for being such lifeguards.

I heard eight quick haphazard clicks before once again, I began the ritual of slowing my heart’s percussive soundtrack into a dull waltz, and I fleetingly hoped never to bare another such private invasion again.

Silent sushing is nothing but a mother’s milk to me. It’s the claiming kind that wake me up. Some skiers whistle and that’s ok if they can carry a tune; it’s the form junkies that suck me from my state most often, to be told. Instructors. The enlightened. They make my skin crawl and mouth water with the sheer amount of discussion that takes place and I, the bear, simply cannot: because all I want to do is sleep, until my fruit food finally bares itself. 


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