NEWSLETTER

Simon Crump was born in Leicestershire. After crawling out of the middle of the Midlands he found himself being an internationally exhibited artist and lecturing in fine art and photography. His first novel, My Elvis Blackout, involved the King stapling his hands to counters to get out of doing the washing up and getting mugged by his monkey who also happened to be his driver. “Goodbye” is a new piece of short fiction involving bears and breakfast.

Story read by: Danielle, a woman of mixed Geordie and Middlesboro extraction (aka, accent heaven). Click here to open the player in a new window

In Dawson city men took to the hills to search for the arctic hare.

In the forest Michael convened a meeting with the three bears he’d shared a cave with all summer. They’d been good company, a little monosyllaballic perhaps, but polite enough and fairly clean.

But they were always asking him questions.

Day after day they’d ask him questions. The same questions.

• Who’s been doing this, who’s been doing that?

• Who’s been eating my breakfast?

• Who’s been sleeping in my bed?

• Who’s been stealing my paperclips, using my filing system, my carbon paper, my floppy discs? etc.

When in truth they didn’t have any breakfast, or any beds or any carbon paper, or office supplies, or really anything much of anything in the cave to steal or use, or to be asking him these constant “who’s been?” questions about.

Finally the constant questions got to be too much for Michael. He called a family meeting and sat the bears down around the kitchen table.

“So who’s been calling a meeting in our cave then?” growled Papa bear.

“And who’s set the agenda for this meeting?” grunted Momma bear.

“And who’s been using my duplicating machine to print out this agenda?” squeaked grizzly junior.

“Enough with the questions already, bear people,” Michael said firmly. “I’ve had a whole goddam summer of this shit and I think it’s time we laid down some ground rules.

“Rule one. When I ask you a question, you answer it. You do not attempt to answer it with another question.”

“Really?” said the three bears in unison. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

The bears were just about to go to sleep for the winter anyway. One more great big feast of blueberry and salmon and they’d be out for the count till spring. The last thing they needed now was confrontation. They were sick of Michael anyway. And he knew it.

Michael seized his musket and flounced into the forest.

The communication trench that led from the cave to the forest floor was worn, and as baby bear reared up against a stump to scratch himself, Michael chose his moment. Baby bear was tall for his age and it only took one shot. Baby bear crashed to the floor, still alive and breathing shallowly. Momma bear took him in her arms and Poppa bear threw his great arms around them both as they watched their child’s life ebb slowly away.

“Why have you done this, Michael? Why have you done this?” roared Papa bear to the ashen trunks and the autumn winds.

“Enough of your fucking questions,” Michael roared back. And then he shot them both. One after the other.

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