Year of the Rabbit

Bunny By Maressa Mortimer

The fog lasted three days and when it lifted, she had gone.

It had been unexpected and harder than it should have been. Maybe if she had tried earlier in their marriage. Possibly before his ‘Honey’ had turned to ‘Bunny’; her assertiveness had drizzled onto the floor with the words.

He had been protective and kind; for example not wanting to burden her with banking hassle. “They can be awkward and even when going into the bank, there are so many forms to fill in. I will take it on for you, if you want.”

So sweet, and it wasn’t the only way he had hedged her in, until the hedge had turned into her iron curtain.

But she has broken free. The damp, dark mist matched her mood, somehow hiding her feelings at the same time. The bright sunshine doing its best to dry the glistening cobwebs warmed her soul, and she could feel her heart beating.

Part of her wanted to hide in the long grass, eyes closed, panting like their pet rabbit did when hearing people come into the back garden. She blinked. Her soft pet had never hidden from her, never feared life in her arms. Maybe she should imagine herself being held, and step out bravely.

Not to be Bunny, or even Honey, but herself. She took a deep breath, pushing the trembling rabbit from her mind, thinking back to who she used to be as a young qualified nurse. She could do this.

She looked up at the fresh, soft blue sky. The air smelled cleansed, just refurbished for her.

Turning her back on the misty remains near the trees, she ordered tea without sugar, just to remind herself of her new start without honey.

Caught in the Headlights By Jenny Sanders

flushed face, and disheveled hair. Clearly, she was late.

She jostled her way apologetically through the crowd, past the old clock, and hopped on the 8.36 as the doors clunked closed behind her.

Relieved, she paused to catch her breath. Should she turn left or right? Listening carefully, she edged forward.

No; from the right-hand carriage she heard a group of men loudly discussing football results. A woman was raising her voice on her mobile.

Averse to loud noises, Edith turned left and crept into a seat by the window, alert for other passengers. They were all busy with newspapers, phones, or taking the opportunity for forty winks. Following suit, Edith, having arranged her bags, hid behind her book. Reticent to be observed herself, she felt safer there while periodically peering around it to check that all was well.

The city was always a challenge for someone who preferred her small house in the countryside. Clapier Cottage was Edith’s sanctuary; her vegetable garden her pride and joy, where carrots and lettuces flourished.

Her nose twitched as the train pulled into Gare de Lyon; Paris smelt so different from home. Gathering her belongings, she jumped up and tripped along to le Café Bleu to meet her friend at the fancy restaurant she’d chosen.

Edith Lapine scurried down the steps of the train station, breathless and encumbered by bags. Careful observers would have noted her red eyes,

Greetings were made, cheeks pressed together, smiles exchanged, places taken, and menus opened. Edith’s equilibrium was upended as she read with mounting horror. Flustered, she abandoned her bags, sprang to her feet, turned tail and vanished, leaving her friend baffled before, glancing down at her own menu, she saw plat du jour: Lapin. Rabbit.

How could she have been so insensitive?

Rambo By Wendy H. Jones

“Mum, I can’t find Rambo,” Layla shrieked from the garden. About thirty seconds later she came careening through the door and screeched to a halt at her mother’s feet.

Abigail wiped her forehead with the back of her hand leaving a streak of passata behind; hot as Hades and she had to cook dinner for eleven hungry mouths. Having nine kids sounded like a good idea to her husband who wanted his own football team. What Abigail wanted was a cook and chief bottle washer, but her husband didn’t care about that. “Why did you go and call it Rambo? It’s a rabbit not a flaming lion.”

A pout appeared on her daughter’s face and she scuffed her shoe on the floor.

“Watch out for those sandals. We’re not made of money.” Abigail’s tone brooked no argument.

Layla took one look and paused halfway to kicking the cupboard door. “He’s brave. That’s why he’s Rambo.”

“He’s the shyest creature on the planet. Couldn’t get timider if he tried. You live in cloud cuckoo land.”

“I live in Bunny Street. You know that.” Layla stopped and then thought she’d educate her stupid mother even more. “That’s why we got rabbits.” They stood in silence for several seconds before the child asked. “What’s for tea?”

“You really don’t want to know. Surprise stew I’m calling it.” Her mother popped some more onions and carrots in the huge pot, which already contained meat simmering in a delicious tomato and garlic sauce. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll turn up by dinner time.”

“I hope so.”

Abigail muttered under her breath, “Oh, I know so.”