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Pause. James looks to Marcus, who shrugs his shoulders. JAMES: Ah, yes. So . . . these bears. Do they offer much inspiration for you? Anton remains seated, but his words are semi-lost due to his distance from the microphone. ANTON: Amongst many other things. JAMES: I’m sorry? Please, into the microphone. Anton stands. ANTON: If murdering my entire tribe and raping their corpses may count as inspiration, then I suppose yes, Mr. Jameson. Anton sits. Pause. James’ throat gulps. JAMES: Would you care to share a poem with us? ANTON: (Standing) Of course. This first on is entitled "The Bears." JAMES: Hmm. ANTON: “The bears. They come for me. Their crowded, controlling eyes eat away at my tent, as their salivating mouths eat away at my neighbor. My son. Young, and alive. The bears have taken him from me. My family and home is awash with the blood of those I know, with only the spit and excrement of the bears to trade for it. And my son. A ragged doll for their sexual musings. The bears. Next, they come for me.” A long pause. Marcus eyes the floor, unwilling to move. James nods in sympathy. JAMES: Absolutely beautiful. I did adore the symbol of the son throughout. ANTON: The what? JAMES: The idea of youth lost. Perhaps we’ve all been taken by bears, eh, Mr. Anton? Anton’s eyes squint and wander for a moment. ANTON: I suppose? JAMES: Tell me, when did you leave Alaska? ANTON: . . . before I came here. Anton sits and continues standing and sitting between each bit of dialogue. James stops for a moment. JAMES: And this poem was written . . . ANTON: On the trip here.


Vortex 39 - April Online  
Vortex 39 - April Online  

The University of Central Arkansas'sVortex Magazine of Literature and Fine Art is an undergraduate run publication, publishing students from...