Uncle Ernest by Espen S.

The sun is rising behind the hills. It is still early in the morning but all is perfectly normal near the Artic Circle. He saw a polar bear yesterday, in a dream. It was beautiful, white, with black eyes and it had a great hunger.

The next moment he saw the same polar bear lying along unswept gutters. Empty-bellied Ernest was ready for breakfast, and he thought about having some filet mignon. He saw the polar bear and he knew instantly that he would stay hungry until lunch.

Then he woke up.

The sweat had frozen his neck, like rivers going from the start of the scalp down to the deltoids. It was freezing and he knew he had to eat, that was why he had been dreaming about Ernest. Ernest was empty-bellied, just like him. He had to catch some breakfast. Perhaps he could kill a seal for lunch, or a polar bear – that would be a god-sent polar bear. Going outside the igloo was the worst time of the day, still, after living in this godforsaken igloo for almost three months. He felt the nausea coming; usually it came to him at this time when he had not eaten for days. Why did he ever do this? Was it something he had to, or just one of the regular mistakes that haunts him down, almost to death?

He felt in a dim indefinite way that need to go back and search out the slums and landmarks of his youth, just before the terrible accident; the wheel of the years had broken him. After this expedition he would probably have to go back to using a wheelchair again. Then he would like to die.
(In response to "Uncle Ernest," by Alan Sillitoe.)