Pink Snowbunnies in Hell: A Flash Fiction Anthology (2 page)

When

By Robin Reed

When the Chicago Cubs win the pennant,

When Beetle Bailey makes lieutenant,

When the Energizer Bunny stops,

When Dunkin’ Donuts has no cops,

When solar panels are installed for all to see,

on the headquarters of Exxon, Mobil, and BP,

When every state takes down every tollbooth,

When an accused Congressman tells the truth,

When socks and sandals are never worn together,

When the weatherman accurately predicts the weather,

When reality TV producers display good taste,

and stop making fools of people to sell toothpaste,

When all war has truly ended,

When every lonely person is befriended,

When you can lose weight eating McDonald’s fries,

When hedge-fund managers can tell no lies,

When Disney makes a film that’s X-rated,

in which Donald Duck and Snow White go at it ‘til sated,

When all these impossible things happen and many more, as well,

Then pink snowbunnies will ski in hell!

Robin Reed has had science fiction, mystery, and horror stories published online and in print anthologies, using pen name Robin Morris for horror. See her Amazon author page at
http://tinyurl.com/3ny9adz
.

Where’s JoJo? A Bunny’s Guide
to Family Dysfunction.

By Julie Christensen

“Mommy, where’s JoJo?”  My eyes met my husband’s across the room.  We both knew JoJo was behind the La-Z-boy.  I had thrown him there and hoped that out of sight meant out of mind.  But my little boy had a mind like a steel trap.  And he was persistent.  The night before, his plaintive voice had repeatedly come through the baby monitor asking “Where’s JoJo, Mommy?”  Then he’d gotten descriptive.  “Where’s pink JoJo, Daddy?”    

JoJo.  A gift from my Aunt Alma, a.k.a. Toxic Queen and Creator of Nightmares for Children.  My mother’s sister, Alma seemed to derive special pleasure from frightening children with tales of what would happen to them if they didn’t stop picking their noses.  “A green monster in your nose will bite off your fingernail!”  If they didn’t eat their peas, “You’ll get scurvy, which will make your skin turn yellow and your bones snap just from jumping.”  If they had an accident in their underwear, “No one at preschool wants to sit next to someone who wets her pants.”

Alma was bearable before the kids were born.  My husband and I could laugh privately at her constant stream of criticism.  Years ago, we’d played private drinking games where we’d have a drink every time she said something critical.  Her face could have been beautiful, but the corners of her mouth were turned permanently down, like she was always expecting the worst.  She’d lived above our garage for ages.  We tolerated Alma because she meant no harm.  She’d been raised by a neglectful, bipolar mother.  My own mother had killed herself when she was only thirty-five.  Alma was all that was left. 

But after kids, we felt less sympathy for Alma’s challenges.  If my three-year-old daughter ate all her dessert, Alma would call her “Porky.”  Talking to Alma, threatening her with not being invited to dinner, publicly contradicting her, made no difference.  She’d laugh and tell us we were overly sensitive coddlers.  And then Alma brought home the pink bunny.   

Soft and frilly, the bunny held my daughter’s interest for a day.  My son’s face lit up when he saw the bunny and he quickly adopted the discarded toy as his own.  Alma could not understand why my daughter wasn’t interested in her gift.  One day, after eyeing my son giving a toy bottle to the bunny, Alma turned to my daughter and said, “That bunny called me at work today and said you shouldn’t get dessert unless you play with her.”  My daughter’s eyes widened in shock or fear at the news of the bunny scheming against her, but her response, “I don’t want dessert today, anyway,” made me feel both pride and a sickening guilt that I wasn’t keeping her safe from Alma.  I suddenly realized that keeping Alma around my kids not only didn’t preserve my mother’s legacy, but it was destroying my own legacy to my children because I wasn’t keeping them safe from harm.  As I was grappling with this idea, Alma turned to me and said, “That boy is probably gay.”

“Go to hell, Alma.”  I didn’t recognize my own voice.  I almost turned to see who had spoken.  I was horrified by myself and my lack of control.  Alma was as shocked as me.  The room was dead silent. 

Then my son said, “Yes, go to Hell, Alma!”  He had no idea what he was saying.  He just repeated back my words, as he often did.  I burst out laughing.  I couldn’t stop.  I think the strain was getting to me.  “Go to Hell, Alma!” he said again, laughing in anticipation of more positive feedback from me.  Then my daughter, never one to let her brother be the only star, started saying it too.  “Go to Hell, Alma!” and then they both laughed like hell.

Alma had been around my kids since they’d been born, but she didn’t get children.  She took offense.  She was always blameless, in her mind.  She stormed back to the garage apartment.  When my laughter subsided, I realized that I never wanted her back in my home again.  I tried to tell her kindly when I visited her later that night, but there’s no kind way to tell someone they are unwelcome.  She moved out two weeks later, addressing all communication to my husband and never speaking to me again. 

And then she died.  Suddenly.  Shockingly.  Of a blood infection.  The news was so stunning, so unexpected, that I couldn’t believe it.  I cried for days.  But our minds have a way of dulling grief over time.  In a few weeks, something switched and I was back to normal.  I felt uncomfortable with my ability to move on.  I deeply regretted the way I’d thrown her out.  The bunny, through no fault of its own, had become an ugly reminder of how my short temper and Alma’s pride had resulted in her dying alone in a hospital.  So I’d thrown it behind our La-Z-boy.  But my son hadn’t forgotten. 

“Mommy, where’s JoJo?”  My little boy was standing in front of me, dressed in his dad’s cowboy hat, his sister’s dress, and my purple shoes.  I was still sad for Alma, but I was happy she wasn’t around my children.  I was happy my little boy could dress however he liked and my daughter could pick her nose.  I retrieved JoJo from behind the chair.  His face lit up and he cradled JoJo in his chubby, loving little arms. 

I looked at my husband.  “To Alma,” I finally said, holding up my water glass.

My husband held up his empty hand.  “Goodbye, Alma.”

With a very serious face, our son turned to us and said, “To Alma and Pink Jo Bunnies in Hell.”

We laughed, and after a minute, I wiped some tears from my eyes.  

Julie Christensen is the author of Murder Beyond Words, Searching for Meredith Love, and The Truth About Dating.  She blogs at
julielivingthedream.blogspot.com
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Wingman

By Nathan Lowell

Stacy Arellone sipped her drink, studying the mirror behind the bar.

“He’s still there, Jillian,” she said.

Jillian used one index finger to draw loops in the condensation rings. “So? You gonna go with him?” Jillian McAllister didn’t look over her shoulder.

“Pink snowbunnies will ski in hell first.”

“You’ve said that before.”

Stacy gave her friend a cold glare.

Jillian gave her a sideways grin in return. “He’s just sweet on you.”

“He’s a troll!”

Jillian lifted her glass and let a small ice cube slide onto her tongue while she considered the troll in question in the mirror. “I don’t know. I think he’s kinda cute.”

“He’s been chasin’ me across three systems. Every time I get off the ship, he’s there.”

“Can’t blame him for that, Stace. He doesn’t pick the ports. That’s home office’s doing.” She gave a small shrug.

“You’d think he’d take a hint, wouldn’t ya?”

“He’s leaving,” Jillian said.

Stacy looked up at the glass and saw the slender spacer heading for the door. He walked a bit crookedly, carrying the extra alcohol none too gracefully. As he stepped out of the bar, a scruffy-looking man in a stationer coverall levered himself off the bulkhead beside the door and followed.

Jillian stiffened. “Did you see—?”

Stacy’s glass snapped onto the bar and she headed for the door.

“Stacy!”

“See you at the ship, Jill.”

“But—”

Stacy turned the corner and headed down the passage, her eyes scanning the crowd. She caught a glimpse of the scruffy man. For a moment, she thought she’d been wrong, then a gap in the crowd revealed the half-drunk spacer stumbling along ahead.

“Hill, you idiot,” she muttered.

She picked up her pace, but the crowd clotted and blocked her path. When the way cleared, neither Hill nor Mr. Scruffy were in sight.

A small movement caught her eye, a door swinging shut. The sign read
Stairs
.

She pushed her way through a trio of chattering spacers and hit the door hard. It banged open.

Mr. Scruffy had his arm back, winding up for another punch to an already-bruised Spacer Brandon Hill. A squat, oily-looking guy in a stained coverall held Hill by the arms. They both started at the noise.

“Well, well, well,” Mr. Scruffy said. “Lookee what we got here, Orville.”

The squat man grinned. Stacy decided that it was not a good look for him.

“This isn’t your fight, girly,” Mr. Scruffy said. “Why don’t you go powder your nose or sumpthin.”

“You have my friend there,” Stacy said. “Why don’t you let him go?”

“Who? Him?” Mr. Scruffy smirked. “He didn’t seem like much of a friend back there in the bar. You and your lil gal-pal didn’t give him so much as the time of day.” He glanced behind her. “Where is she, anyway?” His beady eyes narrowed.

“Calling orbital security,” Stacy said, hoping it was true.

“Jimmy—” Orville looked a bit uneasy.

“Relax, Orville. She’s bluffing.” He looked at Hill and back at Stacy. “Still, she’s a better catch than this.” He gave Orville a sideways toss of his head. Orville released Hill, shoving him toward the stairwell.

Hill stumbled, grabbing for the railing. He missed, but fell to the deck without rolling down the stairs. Stacy darted forward. Mr. Scruffy grabbed her, his bony fingers digging into her upper arm and snapping her around to face him.

“What’s your hurry, girly?”

Hill clambered back to his hands and knees, crawling away from the edge, his eyes wide and his face already swelling and bruising from the blow to his cheek. “Stacy?”

“Skip it, Hill! Get out of here.”

Orville reached for her other arm, but before he could close, silvery steel flashed twice. “She cut me!” Orville squealed, slapping a meaty palm over the gash in his left shoulder. “Be careful, Jimmy. That kitty’s got claws!” Orville’s high-pitched voice rang in the hollow stairwell.

Stacy’s blade flashed again, but Jimmy was ready for her, blocking her wrist with his free hand while giving her a good shake with the other. “Uh uh, girly. Not nice.” His mouth twisted into a cruel sneer. For just a moment a look of puzzlement flashed across his face, before Stacy’s other arm, the one clamped in his grip at the bicep, flexed and her other knife buried itself in his unprotected side.

He screamed and released her, clamping his hands over the wound as he backed away.

“What’s going on in here?” a voice boomed.

Orville turned and clattered down the stairs, Mr. Scruffy right behind.

Stacy turned to see a pair of orbital security guards standing with the door propped open, a scared-looking Jillian McAllister peeking between them.

“Those two thugs were trying to roll my friend here,” Stacy said, giving a nod to where Hill still crouched on the landing.

“So you decided to carve them up?” The guard on the left frowned pointedly at the knives she still held.

“Self-defense. They wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

The sound of a brief scuffle echoed up the stairwell. The guard on the right cocked her head as if listening to something and gave her partner a nod.

He nodded back, then frowned at Stacy. “Get your friend and get out of here.”

“What about them?” Stacy jerked her head in the direction that the two thugs had gone. “What if we want to press charges?”

“You gonna stay for the hearing?”

Behind the guards, Jillian shook her head at Stacy, her eyes wide in alarm.

Stacy sighed. “Can’t.” Her blades left a dark smear on the leg of her pants as she wiped them before slipping them away.

She turned to Hill. “Come on. Let’s get you home.” She helped him to his feet, guiding him out between the two security guards.

The tall one stopped her. “Any more trouble, and you’ll be guests of the Confederated Planets for a while. Clear?”

“We didn’t start—” Stacy began, but the guard’s expression stopped her. “Clear.”

“Come on, Stacy.” Jillian took her arm and the three of them headed toward the lift.

Stacy glanced at Hill. “Bonehead play, Hill. Good way to get rolled.”

“I don’t need you to nursemaid me, Arellone,” he snarled. His swollen face spoiled the effect, but he pulled away from her, staggering a few steps toward the lift.

Jillian and Stacy watched him go.

“Come on. We better get back to the ship,” Stacy said.

“And keep an eye on him to make sure he gets home okay?” Jillian said, an amused lilt in her voice.

Stacy glared at her. “What are you finding so funny?”

Jillian gave an exaggerated shrug. “Oh, nothing.”

“Don’t start with me, McAllister.”

Jillian arched an eyebrow at the struggling spacer ahead of them. “You took off after him fast enough.”

“He was in trouble,” Stacy snapped.

“M’hmm.”

“He coulda gotten killed.”

“But he’s a—what was it? A troll who’s been chasing you all over the quadrant? What do you care?”

“I couldn’t let him get rolled. He’s a spacer like us.”

“M’hmm.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jillian grinned. “I’ve known you a long time, Stace.”

“And?”

“And I think I better wax my skis.”

Nathan Lowell is the creator of the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper and Tales from the Lammas Wood. Find out more about the author and his works at The Trader’s Diary
http://solarclipper.com
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