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Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Contest Entry · #1769232
After printing a poem in the school paper, Brandon and Keith reevaluate their friendship.
“When the bear dances, the honey flows like rain from a cloudless sky.
With honey comes rigid rainbows of opal hues and the urge to fly.
The bear doesn’t dance often, but if he did, we’d drown within that sticky sap.
Mostly, he sleeps and his yearnings are hid inside his dreams, which we cannot tap.
So we only speculate about the manner of the supposed dancing bear.
And he is a crafty, clever planner, only dancing when we’re not aware.”

“You son of a bitch!”
“What?”
“I saw that stupid poem you submitted to the School Quibble. I read it this morning. That dancing bear poem.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So, it’s about me!”
“What? No—”
“Yes it is. I told you I don’t jack off that much, but when I do, there’s a lot of.. stuff. And you decided to write a sick, stupid little joke to make fun of with all your nerdy, dumbass friends.”
“Keith, I didn’t mean anything like that by it. I was going for a rhyme, something unique. And dancing bears: everybody loves ‘em!”
“Yeah, I bet. Just… Just stay away from me, Brandon. Go back to your stupid, fat friends.”
“They’re not fat.”
“Well, you are. So, yeah. Go away. I’ve gotta get to practice. Just… leave me alone.”

“He thought it was about him?”
“I guess. I don’t know why. Like everything’s about him these days.”
“Why’d he tell you that? About him, I mean? About his… stuff?”
“I don’t know, Kayla. We were just talking. Topics were shifted. And guys talk.”
“You asked him ‘cause you have a crush on him, Brand.”
Shut up!
“No. It’s cute. And he obviously likes you. Or he wouldn’t have cared about the poem. Or associated it with himself. Or even told you about how much he ejaculates. He wants you.”
“He said I was fat.”
“Oh, he defiantly wants you! You should meet him by his car. After his practice is over. You know we get out before the jocks.”
“I don’t know. He was pretty determined.”
“Won’t know ‘til you try.”

“Hanner! Throw it right! Like you got a pair!”
“Sorry, Coach. My mind’s runnin’.”
“Throw it right or you’ll be running!”
“Keith, you see that shit in the Quib? The dancing bear? Funny as shit, right? I mean, dancing bears?”
“Yeah. Funny.”
“Dude, what’s up?”
“Nothing, Johnny. Just not feeling good. Might have to cut practice early.”
“Coach’ll make you make it up.”
“Don’t care.”

“What’re you doing out here, Brandon? Get off my car. Go home.”
“Just seeing if you were okay, Keith. I left the Quib early. You’re leaving practice early too?”
“Got a lot on my mind.”
“And a lot in your—”
“Don’t. Stop it. Get away. I got stuff to do.”
“Fine. Loud and clear. G’bye.”

Brandon : You won’t answer your phone? – 9:45 PM
Keith: nuthin 2 say – 9:51 PM
Brandon: You’re texting style drives me crazy! – 9:52 PM
Keith: dont reed i t – 9:59 PM
Brandon: I like you – 11:22 PM
Keith: i’m nut gay leve my alone – 6:44 AM

“Well? What’d he say?”
“Nothing. Don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Oh. That bad?”
“I just… don’t wanna talk about it. I have a new poem for the Quib. Another dancing bear one.”
“Great. Everyone loved the other one. Almost.”

“Dancing bear, all alone, will die while clutching his cellular phone.
Awaiting calls or messaged text, he keeps in mind whose heart he’ll break next.
Honey will dry, attracting ants while the bear spouts, not cans, but can’ts.
Rain falls from this bear’s eyes as clouds pepper pristine skies.
Dancing beast, singular noun, your actions could depress a clown.
I’ll move on with honey in mind. Dancing bear, I’ll be just fine.”

“God, Brand. Depressed much?”
“Shut up. Put it in. I gotta get to class.”
“Okay. Take care.”

“Keith, you read that shit in the Quib? About the dancing bear again? Man, that Brandon fag’s messed up or something, ya know? Keith? Keith… are… are you crying?”
“Sh-shut up, Johnny. I’m just thinking about stuff… with my grandpa. He’s sick.”
“Oh, man. Sorry.”
“Tell coach I can’t come to practice today.”
“Sure, dude. You need anything?”
“No. Just… I just need to go home.”
“Okay. Take care, man.”

Word Count: 713
© Copyright 2011 Than Pence (zhencoff at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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