Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-27094307-20151019054451

This is my first story I have shown to people who I don't know - not the first story I have written. I have written many stories, but this is my safest option to show to an audience. It may not be the most original, or the scariest, but I ask you to suspend your criticism for the short time it takes you to read this story.

Then please, once you have read, feel free to criticise it. Any feedback will be good. I appreciate all comments.

It is called, 'I am not scared'

''“I’m going on a bear hunt. I’m going on a bear hunt.''

''I’m gonna catch a big one. I’m gonna catch a big one.''

''I’m not scared. I’m not scared.”''

In my youth I used to play outside with a toy rifle, marching through the backwoods of my hometown in Ontario, chanting the lyrics to this song endlessly. Canada may be known for being a safe and friendly country, but only the true Canadians know how inaccurate that stereotype is. Every August was bear hunting season, and those who had any sort of confidence would participate.

I’d like to apologize if I’m coming across as rude or narrow-minded, but I was raised to adopt these ideas and live by them. My family was full of avid hunters; it was just our nature. What was also in our nature was the slaying of the North American Black Bear. Every August, my father and uncles would set out to kill one. When my brothers came of age, they set out to kill one. It was tradition. It was a rite of passage.

Now it is my turn.

And I marched through the backwoods of Ontario once again, rifle in hand, I found myself chanting the song of the bear hunt.

“I’m not scared.”

The damp soil silently crushed under my feet as I trudged through the thicket of branches and bushes. The forest was beyond beautiful; a massive scale of flora and fauna which surrounded me. Towering oak and hemlock trees were home to falcon and ospreys; raptors that swooped down on unexpected prey and snatched them up with their talons. It was a cliche, typical forest.

But in its beauty was an underlying sense of dread. Something that could not be explained, but felt. And it became stronger as I ventured further into the thick vegetation, making my way away from civilization. Away from help.

That feeling would have broken most people. Sent them away for fear of encountering some unimaginable horror in the forest. It was almost as if the chemicals in the air were filling my head with negative, depressing thoughts. Almost as if nature was telling me to retreat from this neck of the woods. But I pressed onward, knowing that, with my knife and gun, I was the apex predator.

“I’m not scared”

Eventually the thicket vanished; stopped dead in its tracks and exposed a clearing. The sun was beginning to set over the hills and darkness was engulfing the land. I decided to set up camp here. I dropped my gear and made my way to the river which cut through the clearing, inspecting the beauty of life that existed within the blades of vegetation and throughout the water. The fresh breeze blew through the forest, and the brisk air stung as I breathed it in. Sandpipers lurked in the reeds, looking for insects, and loons floated effortlessly along the top of the crystal clear water. The wide river was home to many predators too, just like the treetops. But out here, I was the only predator.

Funny, how the food chain tends to shift. Ironic it is when the hunter becomes the hunted.

In an instant, they fled. The sandpipers, loons, and even the insects seemed to retreat into the forest and vanished from sight, leaving me alone in the clearing.

Alone. Something I thought I was but evidently wasn’t.

A feeling of dread engulfed me. Fear consumed me and for a moment I was stiff. Like a statue. Like a corpse. Like the corpse I would soon become if I didn’t act fast.

I lied to myself, effortlessly, trying to remain calm; “I’m not scared.”

I regained my composure and slowly turned around. A heaving black behemoth was standing at the tree line, by my belongings, and my gun. Its empty eyes were fixed on me, looking at me as if I could cure its insatiable appetite. It rose onto its hind legs, smelling the air, feeling the atmosphere with its colossal paws. It opened its jaws, bearing off its bloodied canines. The beast roared. This monster was a miscreation of God, a 700 pound monument of blood and flesh that lived only to kill, and it was coming towards me.

And I was scared.

I ran. It followed me, causing tremors with each quaking step - its four legs making short work of my two. Death approached me as I fled, following the river downstream and into the trees, hoping it would lead me to some sort of civilization before I met my end.

Suddenly, my feet lost contact with the ground and a heavy feeling of vertigo struck me. I was falling.

I had tripped on a root of a tree, and fallen into a ravine. I rolled down the incline, colliding with rocks and branches until I made contact with the ground with the ground. SNAP! An incredible rush of pain surged throughout my body as my leg went numb – I lost all feeling from my thigh down. I screamed and cursed pointlessly, as if it would stop the excruciating pain. My shin protruded from the skin as blood pumped from the wound with each of my final heartbeats. A grotesque mess of mangled and flesh and bone. In this moment, I realized the true hunter had caught me.

As the concussion from my fall took its toll on me, I knew I wouldn’t be conscious when the beast claimed me as its feast.

“I’m not scared” 