Stories

Mr. Bear had seen better days. Patches of his fur were matted and sticky-looking, whether from jelly or paint, I was never sure. His once-white belly and paws were distinctly gray. His plastic eyes were dull and scratched, and his nose, which used to light up and play music when his paw was squeezed, looked like it had been chewed on.

That night while I lay in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about the announcement. About the plate next to Gregory’s Diet Cokes, which the teacher had piled next to the trash can, refusing to open a single one. When I finally fell asleep, it was fitful, tossing and turning, and I dreamt of itchy, hairy legs crawling across my bare arms, legs connected to bodies with no heads.