The Chainsaw BearsErin Elizabeth Smith
The chainsaw bears hate their parents. They are not the first – the violence in birth, the grown thing they were stripped and shaved of its limbs until they are remade into a canvas of splinters. This is childhood, the steady gnaw of gasoline- powered tools forming the body into the likeness of beast, the teeth lifted beneath a smile that is not of their species. Why would anyone make them like this – the hulking that is not rage or famine or lust. The claws filed to soft nubs, and nothing to do but stare into the doors of open-air restaurants, hungering not for the mustard-gilded fries or shine of ice in a wet glass. Wanting just to press their nose into a warm teat, to be the cub they were never carved into.
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