Deathly Delight by Katalina Szewczyk

Prompt: springtime secrets

​In the abandoned forest clearing, no one knew that Barlow the bear was gravely injured, not even Barlow himself. His ears still rang from his spectacular fall and the resounding crash of broken branches and crackling leaves.

He lay there under the pine tree, stunned into silence. His mighty paws had always been his failsafe, so this fall came as a shock. In his excitement for the coveted honey, his springtime secret, he had forgotten himself completely. His first lucid thought crept over him like a snail: the bark must have been slippery with sap. He tentatively shook his head to clear it.

A bed of young, prickly ash had received him. The thorn daggers had lacerated his flesh, and creeping, oozing blood matted his dark fur. As he took a slow, shallow breath, the memory of Brutus surfaced. One year ago, he had entered the other bear’s home range in pursuit of blackberries, only to find the huge grizzly expiring, a bullet buried in his chest. As a human smell wafted closer, horrified Barlow scarpered. Mostly, he had been shocked by the vast amounts of burgundy blood seeping into the spongy soil.

Now, Barlow felt a shiver of real dread. Perhaps he, too, only had a short while before he joined Brutus in the Great Bearyond. Inadvertently, a grunt of pain escaped him, and hearing it, a spark of resolve lit within him. Not me, the steely voice whispered. I always find a way.

To his left, something bright green—a large patch of moss—stirred in him a long-forgotten memory. In his cubhood, his mother had been pierced by a sharp rock in the river rapids. She had sought out moss, packing it tightly into the wound with her muzzle. After resting a long time, she had walked with a limp—but she had not groaned and died like Brutus. Barlow’s gaze softened with visible relief.

Heaving his aching body, he stood, trembling as he gauged his feeble strength. Reaching salvation would be a slow slog.

Then, a syrupy aroma rose, tickling his nose as he slowly turned to look to his right. Oh, sweet mercy! A puddle of thick, lonely honey twinkled in the sunlight. Incredibly, the hive must have come down along with the tumble of bear and branches. The familiar longing stirred inside Barlow; his vision clouded with desire.

Every atom of common sense in Barlow yearned for the saving moss. But his foolish heart thought only of the honey. After all, the liquid gold would soon be absorbed by the eager earth. The enduring moss lay motionless. Shifting sluggishly, he paused. For a moment, the final decision weighed on him miserably.

​As the sun cast long shadows across the clearing, the pull of the honey proved breathtakingly strong. The last glimpse of Barlow the bear was of his treacherous paws dragging—not left, toward life, but right, into his sweet pool of deathly delight.

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Katalina Szewczyk spends far too much time wrangling words into stories, essays, or sad poems—usually with little success. When not losing these literary battles, she can be found staring dramatically into the distance, probably hungry, with sore wrists and an aching back, still waiting for inspiration to stop ghosting her.