Destruction of the Bear’s House

A short story I wrote a while back. I recall writing it – tongue in cheek – a satire on life today.

Destruction of the
bear’s house

I knew her well, that supposedly sweet little innocent with those long blonde ringlets
surrounding those huge blue eyes.  But I know what really happened.  I know
how she destroyed our lifestyle – that evil little girl called Goldilocks.

Once, long ago bears ruled the North American forests.  Oh, come
to think of it, we still do – provided you don’t meet a human with a gun.  We lived in the dark, eerie pines, hearing the winds blowing through their needles and sleeping to the sounds of water rushing over the pebbled streams.  In the winter, we hibernated and no one dared disturb our sleep. But the comforts of a nice bed are thoughts of the past.  Once, long ago we too lived in houses.  But thanks to Goldilocks we don’t anymore.  If only she had just come into our house, even without an invitation, eaten our food,
slept in our beds then left.  But she didn’t.  Oh no, she didn’t.  Instead she started screaming like a banshee – acting as though we were intruders – in our own house. Her shrieks brought the others.  Some of them had long, brushy beards, some were clean shaven, but all of them were much larger and more menacing than the supposedly sweet little Goldilocks.  And she just stood there as though she wasn’t an intruder – watching as they slaughtered my parents and destroyed our house.

I’m ashamed to say I ran into the forests and hid like a coward.  But those
men with their rifles flashing like blowing fire were too much.  The booming sound still rings in my ears. I cried like the baby I was and I trembled in the brush for days.  Finally I went to the river and scooped out a few fish when my stomach wouldn’t stop growling.  But for a long time I didn’t go back and felt guilty for that too.

Then one day I gained a little courage.  Would my parents still be there?  Could I bury
them as being civilized it is what I should have done?  Guilt was again a heavy burden in my pounding heart.

I crept through the underbrush, my weight cracking and breaking the dead twigs and
foliage.  Approaching the house I was silent in anguished horror.  Our
beautiful house was no longer beautiful.  Walls were starting to crumble and the roof was sagging.  My parents were not there and I should have known they would take them for their fur coats or whatever it is they do with us.

Howling in anger and despair, I turned back to the forest and slide into its’ welcoming
embrace.  Never again did I go back.  Part of me feared those men with guns.  Part of me couldn’t bear living the life I had once experienced with my parents.  It
is a memory, only a memory forever buried in my heart. That’s the reason I won’t build another house.

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