Don’t Cry

Don’t Cry

by | Nov 23, 2024 | Writing

Don’t Cry

“It hurts, it really hurts.” I bite my lip, trying to contain the pain. The ground beneath me is damp, the air thick. It’s hard to breathe.

“Don’t cry,” he said, glancing around with eyes wide and alert. “If they hear us, we’re done for.” He gently cups his hand over my mouth; dirt drips down in the creases of his face.

“I won’t cry, don’t worry,” I assure him.

“You mustn’t cry. They’ll find you.” He whispers.

“I know,” I replied.

An owl cries in the distance. He turns to look for it, his dark eyes tell me his fear. 

I pushed myself to a sitting position and looked down at my leg. I was losing a lot of blood. If I didn’t get it taken care of, it wouldn’t matter if I cried. The metal claws were biting deeply into my leg. I thought they’d hit the bone. I leaned down to try and get the trap off, but I couldn’t manage it.

The damp leaves air their earthy scent, reminding us where we are. We hear a crack from a branch nearby. He stands quickly, looking all around. He pulls out his Swiss army knife, his weapon. We can’t get caught.

“Oh damn, this hurts,” I tell him, pleading with my eyes.

He pulls out one tool at a time on his knife. “Here, I think we can use this one. Do you think you can hold this tool tight in the hole here?” He points to the metal entrapment. The owl hoots again, its warning is louder, closer. “I think if you—

I whimper.

He looks at me, his eyes soften, moist with fear and determination, “Don’t cry, just don’t cry. We’ll get out of here, don’t worry.” He brushes my sticky hair off my face. The air is damp, it makes everything ache. “I need your help, though. I need you to push on this while I try to open the trap.”

“It’s burning,” and I yelp. The owl shrieks, a low, guttural sound that echoed through the forest like a mournful dirge—a sound that always seemed to accompany the patrols when they swept the woods.He listens for the sound of the enforcers coming, then turns to me, putting his hand on my shoulder. 

He encourages me with his eyes, his small smile,”I know. Don’t cry, though. They’ll find us.”

“I know, I know. I know. I won’t cry. It hurts, please hurry.” A drizzle falls down on us, we barely notice.

He hands me the knife and guides it into the hole. “Okay, hold tight now, keep pushing,” he says.

I push with all my strength. He takes both his hands with all his strength and might,  and pries the trap open, freeing my leg. Pools of sweat drip down his face, and he wipes it away with his shoulder.

“Okay. Let’s get this off,” he says, “Now pull your legs toward you.”

“Oh, that hurts!” I say, my face wincing, I bite my lip hard.

He looks at me, then rips his shirt off and ties it around my leg to stop the bleeding.The rain drizzles on his bare back. The owl lands on the tree branch above. Its brown and white plumage stained the color of dried blood. Its glowing yellow eyes fixate on them with chilling intensity, its gaze unwavering as if assessing its prey.

He pulls me up to stand, staying calm but quickening his pace. The owl swoops down toward us. 

I scream, he quickly puts his hand over my mouth and shushes me. “Okay, it’s okay. Now let’s get out of here,” he whispers, tightening his grip on me as he watches the owl with wary eyes. “It may be too late, but we can’t let them find us.” Faint voices rise in the distance, streams of light, cut through the trees. He lifts me on his bare back. “We’ll be quicker this way. Are you okay? We have to escape. Whatever happens, don’t cry.”

 

The Cast Iron Pan

The Cast Iron Pan

by | Nov 10, 2024 | Writing

The Cast Iron Pan

Lindsay picks up the cast iron frying pan with both hands, surprised by its weight. Nevertheless, she perseveres.
“Take one step closer, and I’ll hit you!”

The bear stands there on its two hind feet, its brow furrowed (as much as a bear can furrow its brow) at Lindsay’s threat. It opens its mouth wide, revealing sharp, sparkly white teeth.

“Rar?” it replies, its breathing amplified through the kitchen.

Lindsay looks up at the towering bear. I never thought I’d look up to a bear, she thinks to herself. Its claws are sharp like the knife in the sink. The bear’s scent overpowers the room—a mix of wet dog, skunk, damp earth, and fish. Lindsay plugs her nose. She cautiously steps back, practically tiptoeing, yet her heels touch the ground. I really wish I was wearing shoes. Practical shoes, like sneakers.

The bear continues to look at her, then goes down on all fours. Lindsay realizes she’s backed herself up against the counter. Can I reach the knife? Could I stab it without it mauling me first? No, the frying pan has more power. I have more of a chance.

She says aloud, “I am going to sidle slowly to the side here,” then mutters quietly, then if I can just get to the edge… I think I can make a run for the door.

The frying pan is heavy, tiring her arm, but Lindsay doesn’t notice. The bear takes a step toward her, huffs, and Lindsay gasps. She scrunches up her face and takes a deep breath—two, three, four, hold, two, three, four—and releases, blowing out a forest fire. The bear cocks its head curiously, then sits on its haunches.

Why does that bear look so freaking relaxed? Lindsay wonders. She lifts the frying pan again, first over her left shoulder, then switches to the right. That’s better. Her cell phone vibrates loudly on the counter, like an infestation of cicadas trapped in a metal chimney pipe. Lindsay jumps and lets out a small scream.

The bear says, annoyed, “Rar.”

Lindsay suddenly makes herself big and towering. She’ll stare the bear down—she read that’s what you’re supposed to do with a wild animal. The bear stands up on all fours again. Lindsay shrinks down, cowering. The bear looks at her; she bites her lip. It turns around, and she watches it closely, tightening her grip. The bear walks over to the door. Lindsay suddenly drops the cast iron pan on the floor with a crash!

The bear turns to look at the disturbance. Lindsay looks on in horror and quickly picks the pan up. The bear scratches at the door to go out.

How can I let the bear out?

The bear looks at her, sits down again to wait, and says, “Rar,” then lies down and falls asleep.

This is Lindsay’s lucky day. She snatches her cell phone and runs out the door with the phone and cast iron pan in hand. She dashes outside and, once safely away, collapses on the ground, holding the pan tightly.

She shouts, “Thank god for cast iron pans!” She gives the pan a big, loud kiss and holds it tight. Shaking, she says, “That’s it, I’m selling the house and moving to the city.” She takes a big breath and says, “Siri, call 911.”