Neglect shrouds the bungalow. Abandonment. Crouched at the hill’s crest, the structure is slowly engulfed by a silent chaos of overgrowth and tangled tree shadow. From dark unpaned windows, beneath low-hanging eaves, the house peers vacantly down the hill. The air of neglect extends beyond the bungalow in a radial arc. Sere, unmown grass slopes down and away from its front door. Pale seed heads nod and bend, dip and shush with wind. Wildflowers, their petals blanched of color, float over the grassy sea like moths. And, standing chest-deep amidst this lawn-turned-meadow, are four scrawny bears. Arranged at equidistant points in a rough square, their coats are lank and straw-brown, and they are heartbreakingly thin. Their dark eyes consider me where I stand, far below, and then, as if they are a single unit, they begin to bend slightly at their wrists and ankles, flex at hips and shoulders in a pulsating fashion. They remain, otherwise, rooted in their paws, standing in the derelict lawn, staring. Eyes as wide and dark as the bungalow above them, grass and fur commingling, they stand and stare and pulse.
2 thoughts on “Four Bears — A Dream”
fascinating! i wonder what the bears were trying to say. obviously the mood is foreboding, and the bears are not doing well. they seem to want to communicate with you. not only have you created haunting narrative, but it is poetic as well, evidenced by passages such as “Pale seed heads nod and bend, dip and shush with wind.” Reading that sentence aloud gave me the chills. and the drawing complements the writing very well. (It seems as it your “dream machine” has suddenly begun to function again.)
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Sometimes dreams are sneaky…the word play in this one struck me immediately — “four bears” standing in for “forebears”. I grew up next door to my grand aunt, who lived in a little bungalow that my great grand parents had moved to during the 1910’s/20’s. The dream has a melancholy aspect, the past being consumed, fading, shrinking while I watch.
My “dream machine” (love that!) is sputtering in fits and starts. I’m capturing stronger images, but cohesive dreams remain spotty. I miss them, really. The stories I tell myself while sleeping. *sigh*