Bare Earth
A shallow grave for me
We’d ranged deep into Nunavut, island hopping into the Canadian Arctic searching for them. For months our boots crunch dry grit instead of snow as we stared out at a sea without ice.
“Gotta turn back,” said Geoff, “supplies are shot.”
We broke camp that day, joking to keep our spirits up.
“There’s always next year.”
Not with the Geographic liquidating like the ice.
When bad weather hit we hunkered down — I woke up alone.
“Geoff? Anyone?”
That’s when I saw her first, hunting. Me.
She’d caught my scent. Hungry, exhausted, with a cub waiting somewhere.
I kept distance between us. There was no calling home, so I documented the sighting. Photographs, video, voice notes, everything.
They told us no attachments — no names.
After the second day, I called her Val for Valkyrie. She brought death when she was lucky. Val and I stalked each other.
I captured her proud beauty, her strong frame jutting through her coat.
My footing slipped— the crack of bone was a death knell.
Stranded and alone, a funny little seal hobbling with a rifle in its hands.
She ignored the warning shot.
I couldn’t aim it at her.
At least she’ll eat.
I fired.
A story based on our weekly prompt:
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