The Bear Witness

in

Smoke still rose from the pistol in Mark's hand as he turned to look out the window and found a massive bear peering in at him. Mark dropped the gun, his intended contemplative post-murder look over the remote mountain landscape forgotten.

The bear's mouth opened in an ursine smile. Though its mouth otherwise didn't move, it clearly said, "I saw that."

"Saw... saw what?" Mark struggled not to look at the still-warm body behind him.

"Murder."

Mark leaped backward, nearly tripping over his victim, as the bear invited itself in through the window. It sniffed the body, lapped once at the pool of cooling blood, and fixed Mark with beady eyes.

"You want it, you can have it." Mark groped behind himself for his pack. "I'm just going to hike outta here." He started edging toward the door.

"You won't get away with this," said the bear. Mark was growing accustomed to words emanating from its open mouth.

"Courts won't have any proof." Mark dared a grin. "Especially once you're done."

The bear stepped toward him. "You won't get away."

Mark blanched. He ran.

The bear's land speed nears 35 miles per hour. The bear didn't need nearly that much.

The Practice of the Gardener

in

The gardener turned on the faucet and let steaming water fill the basin. They'd been wrist-deep in soil all morning, and it covered their hands and had found its way deep into the crevices of their palms and fingertips and under their nails. The water, not quite scalding, darkened with everything they couldn't manage to wipe off before coming in.

The work was harsh and unending, requiring dedication and resistance to futility. Gardening has two parts: nurturing and protecting plants that bring health and beauty to the garden, and plucking out those that do not. It is the latter of those two that demands the most vigilance.

The gardener took the stiff brush to their skin, then their fingernails. The last part of the work was always to leave the gardening in the garden. If they failed to scrub clean the soil from their fingers, they risked others judging them for the depth of their dedication, and they couldn't afford to be separated from the garden, to leave it to itself. It would grow disorderly, overgrown with species invasive and unbeautiful.

They finished cleaning and opened the basin to let the water run down and away, soiled dark as blood.

The Bear of Bad News

in

Len ducked out of his tent and contained a scream, backpedaling so hard he fell on the damp, loamy ground. Only a tremulous moan escaped his throat, and he quieted himself after another pounding heartbeat, afraid of stirring the seven-foot slab of bear looming over him as though it'd been waiting for him to wake up.

"I have bad news." Len's jaw dropped. The basso voice had come from the bear's mouth, which seemed impossibly large as Len couldn't pull his eyes away from it.

"Wh... what?"

"He's cheating on you." This time Len watched the bear's jaw opening to "speak" and closing when it was done, though it didn't look like it moved to shape the words. It opened again. "It's not that he didn't want to go camping, just that he wanted the apartment to himself. Because he's cheating on you."

"I, uh, yeah. I heard you. I.... Maybe I'll pack up early and go surprise him." Len looked past the bear in thought. "And if he's not, uh... not, then I'll say it wasn't as nice without him."

"I have more bad news," said the bear. "You won't get home." Len couldn't contain the screaming that followed.

A Study in Perspective

in

Howard came home excited, the book tucked under his arm against the rain, old canvas binding feeling solid and real against his ribs. Setting it on the small desk beside his narrow bed, he quivered as he reread the title: "The Educated Man's Guide to Out-of-Bodie Experiences." With a smoldering focus, he opened the book and began reading.

He skipped the introduction and the tedious account of the author's travels in the "Near Orient." The older Howard got, the more his body felt like a shackle. He wanted techniques to loosen that bond, not century-old racism. Finally, he found the instructions.

The next day, Howard lit candles, burned incense, and crossed his legs on his bed, the book open in front of him. As instructed, he meditated, repeating a mantra in his head. Time blurred. He opened his eyes on a new perspective and swelled with joy. He could see himself, legs crossed and hands resting on knees, book open in front of him. He could sense things beyond the room.

Incredible! Amazing! Howard felt a flood of relief at the freedom from his body.

Howard realized he couldn't see to read the chapter on getting back into his body.

Liquid Pain

in

Pain radiated through his body, beginning at the throat and soon wracking him head to toe with agony. He contorted and writhed, muscles spasming with near-bone-cracking force, and the only thing he dared spare the willpower to control was keeping the clay bottle of liquid pain at his lips. He wouldn't be charged with drinking less than every last drop.

The person watching him with a cruel smile had long ago forsaken human appearances. They wore only a collection of rags tied in place with rough knots or with mud daubed and let to harden. The cruel smile faded, swallow after swallow, into a mild boredom, and their eyes wandered around the dingy dungeon chamber of stone and mortar. He was drinking, his conviction was clear, so he held no more interest for his captor. Or they had never been interested, and the mask of cruelty was too tiring, or too boring, to continue wearing.

He came to, alone in the empty room, after something akin to a blackout, with only mist-shrouded memories of licking at the rim of the bottle, lest he be accused of leaving a single drop.

"I have your family," they had said. "Drink every drop, or they die after the worst pain they have ever experienced, each of them watching in turn until the youngest is last." These dry words, flavored with malice that has been used too many times like a destitute family's last teabag, gave him his conviction.

He went home, crawling until he could stumble, stumbling until he could run, arriving to a happy home disturbed only by his fear, his appearance. They had never been taken, never been threatened or in any danger. His partner gave him a note, delivered by anonymous messenger.

"Now you know how far you will go."

The Cat and the Key

in

Linsa was young, and she was beautiful, and she was rich. Naturally, everyone in the village wanted to marry her. To fend off the onslaught of suitors, she put a ring in a locked box, and the key she hung from the collar of her cat, Sweet Button. "Whosoever shall catch the cat shall have the key to my heart," said Linsa, "and shall wed me with that ring."

Many tried, but Sweet Button was both swift and canny. When they snuck up on where she sunned on a roof, she leapt down faster than they could follow. When they surprised her in the street, she ran through a fence and left them behind. The one who came closest got a claw across the face for his trouble.

Miriam did not chase the cat, she sat near her. She did not sneak up on the cat, she relaxed in the cat's favorite spots and let the cat come to her. In time they became friends, and soon they were inseparable.

Linsa waited, and waited, and one day said, "You have the key to my heart! Why not bring me the ring?"

"Why should I?" said Miriam. "I have the cat."