Killing the Bear Born into fury, starved and angry, inhabiting the mountains shiftless around Shasta, he seemed when you met him that summer day . . . You had come there, alone, from your home city to escape its troubles, the mad-making politics that poisoned most of the galling country: a presidential oaf, half cunning fox, half demented bear, and the rest of the barbarians not only you loathed with a lucid hatred, and few ways to disgorge it. So you went to the mountains. Brought sleeping sack, tent, bare necessities, fire needs, a week’s worth of food, a lamp, a knife; hiked an hour and a half into the Sierra through oak and pine woods, manzanita, brush land, meadows of yellow grass, by creeks of runoff from the winter’s snowfall, until you found a place near a rock pile, flat, at once cozy and open, near a stream and a view of a majesty of mountains and no sign of humanity for miles … You stopped, took a deep long breath—the first you’d taken, it seemed, for months. Your nerves, tense so long, slackened. You felt you were home at last. You whistled while setting up your tent, felt the squirrels watching you, sat for hours by the fire as the long, high, deep sky of summer evening almost imperceptibly faded into night and stars you had not seen since childhood… It was a rude awakening when sun pried your eyes open to the sight of an old grizzly staring blankly at you: huge, mangy, hungry, unsure on his legs, or the courage of terror (despite a distracting irrelevancy, “Are there even grizzlies in the Sierras?” almost tripped your reflexes) never would have driven you to your first thrust. The knife was near your sack: a butcher knife it was, just sharpened before you left; hard, new, shining. You grabbed it as the bear trundled awkwardly at you, and, yanking out of the sack, you screamed like a banshee, and, foolishly enough, ran at it. The beast stopped, puzzled by the naked monkey waving a bit of glitter with a pathetic shriek. At full height, he roared as you plunged the blade into what felt soft as a pillow. A paw swatted you with contempt. and you fell over the dead campfire, smearing you with a warpaint of ashes; yet still holding the knife. He came at you, claws out. Leaping up with a new shout, you swung the knife in wide arcs, the beast baffling a moment, then slipped behind a sycamore as he clawed away its bark, then pulled it down. Slipped your foot at the edge of the stream; you cried in anguish and anger, sure it was over as the bear bore down finally upon you, his teeth bright, his breath in your face, his eyes as cold, shining as stones. Terrified, hysterical, you shouted out your last cry and thrust the knife at the throat. It sunk to the haft; blood spurted over your hand. The bear’s roar choked to a gurgling, the mouth froze, startled, the eyes, blank, black, stunned, as the light vanished from them; they looked almost sad. You felt almost sorry as he sank over your legs, groaning a sigh as you pulled out the knife, and fell back into the stream. You hauled your legs slowly from under the dead hulk. Then pulled yourself from the flowing cold water, and stood on the stream bank, gazing down at the beast, the overthrown king of the woods. Then something curious happened: you heard a voice. Strangely, it was as if the grizzly spoke from the dead body. “Human: between you and triumph is no more than between you and your destruction: the difference is the act. Shall the way of your life be like the ice on a lake or like the arc of an arrow? “Be cunning and patient, and when the time comes to strike—and it always comes – be swift, and be certain. Most of all, remember: keep your knife always sharp. And close.” Then you heard the singing of many birds. Your eyes opened to the flickering of shadows above your head, and you looked, surprised, around you. You lay in your sack, the tent undisturbed. A zephyr shook it. You crawled out to the cool morning. What a dream! you thought. Yet you were not sure. You looked carefully about you, half expecting the grizzly. Nothing appeared but a few squirrels; a robin landed on a grass patch and flew off. There are dreams so vivid they seem more real than waking, the reality of waking could you but see the real. But when you wake, you sleep, and when you sleep, you waken: the lessons of that other world are ones that you fail to learn at your peril. Who can be sure? No one. Yet the hungry bear that now is coming toward you is vulnerable to one (you know, now you have woke), to one, single, lucky, well-timed, well-delivered, coolly administered, unfearing stroke. _____ Christopher Bernard is an award-winning poet and novelist living in San Francisco. His book The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award in 2021. In 2025, his first novel, A Spy in the Ruins, is celebrating the twentieth anniversary of its original publication.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Short story from Bokijonova Madinabonu Batirovna
Unwritten Letters
She thought about writing a letter for a long time.
But she never did.
She couldn’t even remember how many times she had picked up a piece of paper, twirled a pen between her fingers, searching for the heavy words in her heart. It felt like if she wrote them down, the weight inside her would become lighter. But the words never came.
It was as if each letter had to be torn from her heart, as if every sentence reopened an old wound.
So, she didn’t write.
Maybe she had to accept the emptiness inside her not as love, but as just another trial of fate.
For the first time, she had opened her heart, longing for affection. She had never received enough love from her family, always felt like an outsider, and had learned to swallow her feelings. And when she loved, she loved with her whole being—with every emotion she had carried since childhood.
The one she loved gave her warmth. He filled the empty spaces in her heart. A heart that had never known tenderness finally felt it for the first time.
But… life was cruel. Fate had chosen a different path for them.
She was in another land. Another city, different people, a foreign world. And more than anything, she needed warmth. But that warmth only existed in one person. He was the one who comforted her, who didn’t let her feel lost. With him, her world was bright.
But time passed, and she had to return home.
And when she came back… everything had changed.
They loved each other. But now, they could no longer protect their love. Distance, fate, reality, people—everything stood between them like a wall.
They parted ways.
From that day on, her life split into two.
On one side was her old self—the girl who longed for affection, who dreamed, who found happiness in little things.
On the other side was her new self—cold, distant, and perhaps even afraid of love.
She started living without love. No, not without love. She was alive, but inside, she was empty.
Because when she loved someone, she loved forever. That was just who she was.
She would watch her favorite movie over and over again.
She would listen to the same song for weeks.
She would wear the same outfit, refusing to replace it.
And when she loved someone—she loved them always.
That’s why she never buried her love.
She never spoke of it, never shared it with anyone.
She kept it inside.
Like an unwritten letter.
All she had left were memories.
The photos of them together.
The matching watches.
And the most precious thing of all—the flowers he had given her.
They were still with her.
The drawing he made never left her side.
Time passed. But she didn’t change. She buried herself in studies, set new goals.
She didn’t let anyone get close to her.
She became like a rose with thorns—beautiful from a distance, but ready to wound anyone who dared to come too close.
The letters she wanted to write were never written.
But they remained in her heart.
Every heart carries such unwritten letters.
Some people eventually burn them.
Some keep them forever.
And she… she is still keeping them.
Unwritten letters.
Unspoken words.
And now… she is afraid to remember.
Because remembering hurts too much.
Bokijonova Madinabonu Batirovna was born on 19th of May 2004 in Beshkapa mahalla, Qoshtepa district, Fergana region. She is currently a 3rd year student of the Faculty of Philology, Fergana State University, Russian language and literature. Several of her stories have been published in various magazines.
Poetry from Maniq Chakraborty
The stars of the eyes are dense fog
In the stars of the eyes,
the dewdrops are accumulating in the dense fog,
I am losing my way in the darkness,
I am crossing the Indus.
The stars of the blue sky are searching for dreams in the folds of the clouds,
I am looking for a life without a life.
In the middle of the road, at the end of the day,
my body and soul are helpless,
The song is lost from my voice due to pride.
Poetry from Mahbub Alam
Happy Bangla New Year – 1432
Every year 14 April before rising the sun
Bangla New Year Pohela Boisakh starts
With its new light of hope and aspirations
Singing out the song by Rabindranath Tagore
Eso he boisakh eso eso ( welcome o boiasakh welcome welcome)
Chayanot, an artist group at the Ramana Botmul, Dhaka
In so colorful dresses with so many folk songs by others too
This traditional day is celebrated by the whole country
And the other countries of the world where Bangalees live
Regarding its own cultural views, it’s an extra taste of life
Following its past glory, it reflects the people’s ways of life.
The time is for growing new leaves in the branches of the trees
And falling down the old to the ground
The roads and fields with grey leaves decorated like the carpets
That spread to shake hands having a new connection within
The moderate weather farewells the winter season
Saying Good Bye to the decay and infirmity
Coming out from home people sing and dance
The processions with the masks in the faces
Holding so many posters and placards in hands
Reflects the wonderful past
By the way the shops are designed for Halkhata
(Halkhata means paying the debts of the clients it closes the old khata
and opens the new one)
The clients are served with some sweet foods in the shops
Now the things can be seen rarely in the rural areas once hugely in yesteryear
Some play with sticks by the way in a circle
The children make fun in Nagordola (Go round in a circle)
Some prepares soaked rice for breakfast in the morning
Enjoying with green chilies, onion, salt, potato stuffing and fried fishes etc.
The procession with the masks in the faces reflects the past
With the use of fine arts it demonstrates the traditional things
Like the horse carriage, bullock carts, palanquin and so many others
O the last year, go away from us burning the trash in mind
And blaze out the new soft sun with the glory of newness
The perpetual blessings to work.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
13 April, 2025.
Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.
Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh
City of Others
Three flash-fictions,
More than 90% contents was created by AI [prompt]
1. The Ministry of Lost Things
On the third sublevel of City Hall, where ventilation schematics have long since been swallowed by time, there is an office no one ever asks about.
The Ministry of Lost Things.
It appears on no building plan, yet boxes are constantly being delivered there.
Inside: socks, buttons, names of dead cats, lost dreams, forgotten keys to apartments that no longer exist.
The Minister is a pale man in a dark suit, with a face that seems slightly unfinished — as if the sculptor gave up halfway through.
He never lifts his eyes. He only whispers:
— What have you lost?
The clients vary. Some are looking for umbrellas. Some — for childhood.
One man returned for three years in a row, looking for his lost sense of humor, but each time he received only a receipt… and the faint sound of laughter behind the wall.
— We don’t return things, — they told him.
— We only register the absence.
One day, a child came in. He held a handful of air.
— This was my imaginary friend, — he said. — He disappeared when I grew up.
The Minister looked up from his papers.
For the first time ever.
— You don’t understand, — he said. — You disappeared.
And he just stayed… waiting.
2. The Letter That Never Arrived
Every morning, Edith came to the post office looking for a letter. Since 1957.
She would arrive precisely at 9:03, in a gray coat with a pearl button, walk up to the window, and say the same phrase:
— “Perhaps today.”
Young clerks came and went, aged, retired.
Only Danny — now gray and hunched — remembered that once, in 1957, she really did receive a letter.
She opened it, read it… and froze.
The next day, she came again.
— “Perhaps today,” she said, as if nothing had happened. And she kept coming.
No one knew who the letter had been from.
No one knew what it said.
And she never told.
On her table at home stood a crystal vase. Inside — carefully folded, yellowed with time — was the envelope. Opened. Empty.
3. Dream Registration
A new department opened in the city. Not for complaints, not for taxes. For the registration of dreams.
— Not a storyline, but the right to one, — explained the clerk.
— So that no one later appears in your dreams without permission.
The first to come was a man who, every night, dreamt of the same woman. He didn’t know who she was, but every time he woke up in tears.
— I want to keep her for myself.
— Describe her.
He described her eyes, her voice, the moment of farewell. Without a word, the clerk handed him a form: “Dream No. 14382. Registered. Claims denied.”
Then came a woman who hadn’t dreamt anything in a long time. She demanded compensation.
— For the void.
— That’s not for us. That goes to the neighboring department.
In the corner sat a boy, drawing something on his palm.
— And what are you waiting for?
He didn’t look up.
— I was born in a dream. No one registered me.
By evening, a man in a suit arrived. There was a stamp on his forehead.
— I am a foreign dream. Someone invented me and then forgot about me. I want to be free.
The clerk sighed.
— That’s against the rules. If you become real — who will be held accountable?
— And what if no one answers? — asked the man.
Then the lights in the room went out, and no one ever woke up again.
Story from Jim Meirose
Embedded Bonus Book
OK. OK. This here flows the muspascat-taculan room used for musing up only.
There you go here you are pull that up and sit click down as;
This flows get inside now please yes Mommy yes the muspascat-taculan room used for musing only.
This the muspascat-taculan room used for only. Canada’s the root source of most rotary conversations knuckle-knuckle insert size medium plath cementeriannatipn here and return in ten minutes
This muspascat-taculan room get inside now please dinner’s ready get inside yes Mommy yes used only.
This room click only. (and once in hair-up yes bones oh yes doctor Smith oh yes and oh yes yes yes yes doctor Smith doctor Smith yes yes yes go by that time it’s not hard set up immediately call for heavily armed back up head’s great, great uncle *what’s that spell what’s that spell* why Gregor that spells there’s a Gregor in the house eh get inside now please dinner’s ready why the hell’s heavens s’ you taking o long want a whipping do you must be looking for a whipping get inside yes Mommy yes eh eh e there a—ooooooooo GREGOR IN THE HOUSE A ONCEANDFORALLIAN GREGOR IN THE HOUSE sure it hurts what you think sure it hurts, but we got to do it anyway okay all-rat yer-ass sure sure sure it’s I got to do it anyway you happy now get inside now please dinner’s ready why the hell’s heavens s’ you taking o long want a whipping do you must be looking for a whipping get inside yes Mommy yes Sneezie, it’s not we got to BackWhang! BackWhang! do it it’s just ME got to do it not we but ME ME only and not we but but I can’t see the difference’s a rat anypipe, since we go in they’ll do nothing just watch me do want a whipping a good beating then a whipping do you must be looking for a whipping get inside yes Mommy yes everything Yes I built three new warehouses BackWhang! on time and in budget no no liar liar it was US did it all you just sat-fat, and watched hey hey Yes I built ten thousand approximately little Black Bakelite boxes on time and in budget | buy me a set of size large purplish trousers | no no liar liar it was US did it all you just sat-fat, and watched hey hey we keep the whippings and the beatings in there BackWhang! but be sure to set them down slowly on our universally credited silver-starred pallets Yes I launched thirteen huge hulls at my shipyard on time and in budget click click click no no liar liar it was US did it all using such devices keeps them fresh keeps them holy you just sat-fat, and watched hey hey no no yes yes no no its maybe maybe no no its yes yes yes yes no no no apportion these back there properly please we forgot we forgot but better late than never
tight slacks or tight trousers big sofa or davenport rocker-recliner please we’re here for hats not hose (particuluplarre)
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! there we’re sure that’s enough if there’r spares do not trouble to return to inventory for NO its not yes yes no maybe pay two dollars please ; .. ,, I want to keep them fresh and holy Mommy just like you do I also want to too
- 1 2 3 4 I pock-mark do not get the gas you need to get the gas I don’t the seals have been broken they can’t be reinventoried so just donate just d. gas you usually do so go get it if we need it that is if you get it when we don’t need it an accident may push out some stem and BLAST’s what may happen so—avoid that at all costs. why is it as I look at you I can actually see your whole brain stem ding!
before eating that one there needs a series of evenly spaced good heavy beatings
h ‘”]{+ GET GAS getting gas’s below me oh yah that there’s way up-top you and looks like they’re getting gas ha ha ha when mother calls and you don’t come in expect a good slap in the face (the bare minimum) Barry swivel! swivel! like this Daddy? “ ., yes like that {behold the McIntyres’ brand new Wok} swivel swivel Wow! Look! Are those fighter planes? do {of which they are so proud} the gauges say we’re full UP yet do day Daddy what do the gauges say ar ne beeo enough in, DADDY? is that you Barry? Is that really, really you?
are we in deep enough now
swivel-pivot
I hope so
no you don’t son hope doesn’t count as a strategy round-about here and environs
Nancy!
What?
Graddieo-o-oooookslaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan. Meestah Bo-Peepula’s windows (yah?) grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr couch glandular couches meest’s glandular couches the name of the {which will in their service serve up all future dishes wonderfully hot} conditions who’s condition why your condition of course you’re the one strapped to the machine not I see I am here and you are there and taken together we may be presumed so | Up there! Look up there! They’re so loud! Must be fighter planes! | but that does not mean it is I with the condition by my God and by my word I had such a terrible condition as you, why—I’d immediately drop everything and go get my head examined eh eh eh eh they say quite often to the deviating in some sometimes every very minor way, crap g’eon shit go get your head examined DOC we think here quite securely you need your head examined, yes, no indifferently (write this down skoal) there {I got a date w’ a bunny out back o’ the laundromat} yours appears to be still on (write a checkmark under agency name there skoal {Christ, Ross, a checkmark cannot be an agency name reconsider *} while the patient goes on strapped in patiently waiting having faith in DoC Pantunnio’s pock-mark sheepskin “hung on their wall” saying in script this that and ten others this is indeed the son of God Yup, yup; yup yup yup yup yup yupyupyu[pock-mark pock-mark pock-mark pock pyu[yu[ in that paragraph there honey that’s there go read it |split| tgilasr-trinckular-r-r-r-ianne JESUS Christ, my back itches God DAMN God-d-d-DAMN there’s a tree by this here you may rub it ? this here what this here ? Is your name Lillian James? If so, then, I’ve that there this here ? oh oh those this here’s over there wait no I will go I will go I will go o’er there I will get one * say wise in the cemetery by the Louthurralianne’s churchery I will go get one see? See those there? I swear to God it was one of these graves right round here like a record baby round round right round + oh and so I need that large of a surgery Doc? how far out around when one says right round here how right round are we talking? “?. are we talking just one next grave all around ‘vry direction but {excuse me my friend here and I would each like a few more “injections” of that please and/or thi(a)nk you} why the hell’s such a simple condition required that huge of a surgery Doc doublecheck that out please Doc uh oh please this one here ah I {yes almost just almost but this grave here’s where ‘e count needs to start from +oh yah and okay just shut up and stand corrected surgery Doc? shit surgery Doc? that’s the problem with you and this pack-o-chaps with you, you can’t Navarronned ‘lly just (the guns just the guns) shut the hell up and simply stand corrected o no no n no no now 998&&&$ yes it does matter which grave gets dug in the center ‘cause the anomaly’s there’s that years back in a visit the marker was a quietly unusual wrought iron custom-made cross full of curlicues. See? See? And all painted black in a suit of glossy Rustoleum you know you can picture the kind of black painted wrought iron curlicues what when you rub your finger down them you detect tiny bumps tits and otherwisely defectivities all over the wrought iron, and there was so, so much more to see and to know about it what an interesting grave marker what an interesting on’ BUT it is gone now.
What? My God, no. That is terrible.
Yes, terrible, And, where it is now is, a mystery.
Sure is yes, sure is.
I really want to see it but it seems no longer there.
What a pity.
No longer there.
A pity.
Not there.
Pitiful.
Yes. BackWhang!
Yes.
Yes pitiful Party! Oh, *## simply stand simply stand simply
Poetry from Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa
Foresight Hindsight Intention
Foresight
Favored Dream
Opportunity
Risky Chance
Excitement
Spiritual Hope
Impatience
Gaiety
High Expectations
Take off
Hindsight
Depression
Realization
Emotional Regret
Anguish
Decided Repentance
Once saw a huge chance in life
A dream is a foresight’s wife
Hope to end a current strife
Excited with jewelled knife
Look back seen in clearer light
Could be this could be that bright
Jewelled knife cuts one’s hindsight
One did wrong or one did right
Excitement that builds passion
Regrets grew to depression
Wisdom learned a lesson
All depends on intention
Foresight shows possible way
Hindsight shows another way
Intention weights worth of clay
Wiser for a walk next day
One cannot see the future
Heart shows only its nature
Allow not past to torture
Foresight from hindsight mature.
Ramblings
Brain freeze
Cursor sneeze
Words wheeze
Sherlock’s quiz
Yahoo! Google
Interacting doodle
Gray matter noodle
Uncut fur of poodle
Images of toony
Searching coony
Howls of moony
Dance of a loony
Tippy tipsy tap
Mouse hook to lap
Links of maze map
Disconnected wap
Steaming coffee
Melted bar toffee
Sugar cubes fee
Webbed surfee.
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.
Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.