Pink Snowbunnies in Hell: A Flash Fiction Anthology (6 page)

Love in a Time of Bunnies

By Coral Moore

There wasn’t much I wouldn’t have traded just then for a drink. I wrapped a bandage around the burned fingers of my right hand, gritting my teeth at the pain from the cloth rubbing against my blistered skin. “Fluffy pink snowbunnies will ski in hell before I try that again.”

Jeremy looked up from the hole he was digging. A crease wrinkled his dirty forehead. “Is that like a snowball’s chance in hell?”

“No.” I made a disapproving sound and gestured for him to continue. “It’s more like when pigs fly.”

He muttered, “That doesn’t make much sense.” The muscles of his tanned back flexed as he lifted another shovelful of dirt out of the four-foot-deep hole.

“Because everything about this situation makes sense.” I scanned the area around us. Nothing but bare earth for twenty yards in every direction, thanks to my exploits with the flame thrower. We’d see them coming this time. I flexed my scorched fingers and winced.

“I just think it’s in poor taste, considering.”

I sighed. This was why I’d broken up with him. He had zero sense of humor. “Considering that we’re being hunted by mutated rabbits that run as fast as cheetahs and eat anything made out of meat?”

“They’re hares.” When I scowled, his expression turned into a full-fledged pout. He was lucky he’d been born so damned good-looking. It was hard to stay mad at him when an adorable set of dimples showed up every time he’d done something wrong.

“Anyway, a snowbunny isn’t a rabbit
or
a hare. It’s one of those girls that hangs out on the ski slopes.”

He was thinking so hard he looked like he was going to strain that huge brain of his. “What about the fluffy thing?”

“It was a multi-layered metaphor.” I shouldn’t have bothered trying to explain. He had the creativity of dough that refuses to rise, the kind that sticks to your fingers when you knead it. “Never mind. Want me to dig for a while?”

He looked me over with a quick sweep of his eyes and nodded at the bandage. “How’s your hand?”

“Good enough.” Actually, it still hurt like hell, but it wasn’t fair to make him do all the work. I pushed myself to my feet and dropped into the hole.

As he passed me the shovel, a shy smile curved his mouth.

“Stop flirting,” I said, a little sharper than I really meant. “I’m not taking you back.”

Just like that, the pout was back. “Even if we’re the last two people left alive?”

I pushed the blade of the shovel into the dirt near my feet. “Don’t you think you’re being a tad melodramatic? I mean, how many of these things could there possibly be?”

He sat on the edge of the hole, long legs dangling in. “They reproduce fast and are viable almost from birth. Do you really want to know how many I think there are now?”

“I asked, didn’t I?” When he fell silent I glanced up.

The calculator in his scientific mind worked at top speed; his dark eyes flickered back and forth. A few seconds later, he said, “Probably no more than half a million.”

The shovel slipped from my fingers. “What?”

He shrugged. “They aren’t all here. They spread fast, like locusts. After they eat everything in an area they move on.”

I bent to pick up the shovel, trying to wrap my mind around the huge number. “Well, they haven’t eaten everything here yet.”

“That’s why some of them are still here.” His voice had gone quiet near the end.

“What are the chances you’re trying to scare me to get in my pants?” I turned to him, regretting the joke at once when I saw the hurt look on his face.

“You know me better than that.” His expression softened as his eyes searched my face. “I wouldn’t turn down an invitation, though.”

I smiled; I couldn’t help it. “Maybe if we live through sundown.”

He jumped into the hole and reached for the shovel. His fingers brushed the back of my good hand. “Give your hand a rest.”

I didn’t pull away from the warm touch. A trickle of sweat rolled down his bare chest and drew my eye. I’d forgotten the intoxicating, musky smell of him when he exerted himself. “You always did take good care of me.”

His fingers traced over my wrist. “I tried, but you enjoy making it difficult.” He took hold of the shovel and lifted his chin. “Go sit down.”

We traded off digging for the next few hours, though Jer did most of the work. When the pit was done, we filled the bottom with brush and then poured gasoline over the top. After covering the pit with more brush, we settled in to wait.

As soon as the sun touched the edge of the horizon, they came. The mutated hares swarmed their prey like piranha, making up for their small size with numbers and ferocity. They tore over the open ground, making horrific squealing noises. Sharp canine teeth that never stopped growing bristled from two hundred hungry mouths.

Thankfully, the twisted creatures weren’t intelligent. The first few fell into the pit, and the others poured in after them. They could probably jump out, but in the confusion they started turning on each other.

Jer struck a road flare alight and tossed it into the pit. The gasoline caught with a low whoosh. Screams of the dying bunnies rose into the darkening night with the smell of burning fur.

I sidled closer to Jer, slipping an arm around his waist. “The bunny barbeque was a good idea.”

Amusement crinkled his eyes when he smiled at me. “Not so sorry you’re stuck with me now?”

“Not even if we’re the last two men on Earth.” I pulled him closer and covered his mouth with mine.

Read more short stories by Coral Moore and find out about her upcoming releases at 
http://www.chaosandinsanity.com/
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The Bunni and the Bird

By Penny Cunningham

This was my first time at a meet. Mike the Bat had vouched for me, so I was in. Didn’t hurt that I had a Firebird between my legs—every man from here to the edge of the country wanted her and I bet they only let me in to try and sneak a free ride, but she was mine. I paid for her with every last coin I could save; she purred only for me.

I had never seen a big group of us together before. The noise was monstrous; it shook your whole body till bits of you started falling off. The smell of fuel and grease covered everything, which was probably a blessing. I was pretty sure none of the guys here had washed since their first time. I asked Mike about it and he said that the stench was permanent, like an invisible tattoo.

Eyes looked me up and down as I entered the bar, scouting me out. Most turned back and a few even smirked as I walked past. Mike introduced me to some of his group. He pointed a thumb at a small man sitting at the edge of the semi-circle. With his bright red head of hair, he looked like a match.

“This here is Flaming Pete.”

Next, a bloke who wore a braided beard and a nose ring.

“That’s Mikhail the Viking.”     

After him, a lanky chap who had his blond hair bunched on the top of his head so it looked like he was constantly having bright ideas.

“Scrounging Shamus. And this,” he said, gesturing to the last man in the line-up, “is Jeff.”

Jeff waved.

“This is the guy that came with that beautiful red thing outside?” Shamus asked, his jealousy barely disguised.

“Indeed,” said Mike. “She’ll blow your brains out.”

“You mean you’ve had a go?” Flaming Pete was balancing carefully on the edge of the bench, completely overexcited.

“Oh yeah…” Mike’s voice drifted and his eyes glazed over. I decided not to mention I’d only let him touch her. I guess I’m a little possessive, but then if you had her you would be too, I promise you.

It was going pretty well. The guys were in awe of my Firebird and I managed to crack a few jokes without spilling anyone’s drink. I was actually starting to enjoy myself. Mike called over more, even stranger, people.

“Gemini Dave, Beachyhead, Psycho Marv, Nik the Spanner, McHats, Hapless Jim, Gloves, Kyle the Magic Man…”

“What about him?” I pointed to a blob of a man who sat on his own at the other end of the bar. He was just about the only person left I hadn’t been introduced to. Mike pushed my head into the table and whispered.

“Don’t look at him. If you look, he’ll come over.” His voice was making my earlobe tickle; I stifled a giggle.

“What? What you on about?”

“That’s Bunni. Don’t make him mad, whatever you do.”

“Really? Looking at him will make him mad?”

“I’ve seen him break men for less. That gorgeous bird you’ve got out there won’t stand a chance if Bunni takes a disliking to you.”

“Mike… I’m getting scared now.”

“Too right, mate.”

There was a pause. No one wanted to break the silence, but it had to be done.

“Mike? Can you let go of my head now?”

***

The mood had been brought way down. I was shaking like a newborn giraffe. Mike bought me a drink to calm me down and Shamus offered to get a round in. This made Mikhail laugh. Mikhail’s laughter is a tidal force; it knocks you round the face with a stinging slap and leaves you infected. Within a few moments, everyone was rolling around in stitches. All except Bunni.

It was late now and the beer had been flowing freely for most of the night. That might explain what happened next. Or it could be the death wish I never knew I had. Either way, it was my turn to order and I made my wobbly way to the bar. I eyed up the silent mass that was Bunni, hunched over a pint glass that was nearly empty.

“Fancy another?” I asked, all smiles and good intentions. At once the room went silent. Bunni didn’t move.

I shuffled closer and said a little louder, “Did you want another, mate? I’m buying.”

I could hear frantic whispers from the other side of the room. Bunni’s eyes flickered and he slowly began to rise. Seeing Bunni unfold himself from the shapeless blob on the barstool was mesmerizing. Each muscle seemed to shake itself awake and instantly solidify into something akin to a breeze block. He gained about two feet in height and stared down at me with terrifying bloodshot orbs. There was a rumble that started in his chest and eventually came out as a growl. Bunni wasn’t happy.

“I am not your mate,” he snarled.

I couldn’t answer—I could barely move. Bunni leaned down to my eye line, his humongous nostrils breathing fire.

“I said I am not your mate, pal.”

I managed to squeak a reply. “…Okay.”

That didn’t go down well. Bunni’s jaw crunched and his face turned red with rage. There was a scream from Mike.

“Pink Bunni! Pink Bunni! Bunni’s gonna blow!”

As one, the group tried to exit from the same door. Chairs went flying, beer went everywhere, people were trampled and kicked in the chaos. No one got out in the panic and I was still stuck to the same spot on the increasingly damp floor. Bunni grabbed my collar.

“Don’t ever think you can come back here. If I see you again, I’ll take that pretty little bird you got outside and ride her till she breaks.”

Things get a little hazy after that. I don’t quite remember what happened, but Mike told me it went something like this:

The rest of the gang were still trying to escape any which way they could. Windows were broken, guys were cowering under tables, Flaming Pete and McHats were trying to use Jeff as a human shield. Then, all of a sudden, there was an almighty roar.

“You’ll be skiing down the frosty slopes of Hades before you lay a finger on my bike, you pink-faced twat!”

Everything stopped and turned toward the source of the noise. There I was, glowing with defiance and hefting the better part of a bar stool I’d managed to wrench from the floor…

***

Bunni doesn’t go to that bar anymore. In fact, no one has seen Bunni since that night. Even Mike won’t tell me the rest of the story.

Penny Cunningham is a first-time author and thinks flash fiction is the bee’s knees! She looks forward to getting more writing out there in the future.

The Recession is Hell

By Randi Rogue

A fiery… something streaked by, flew off the precipice, and screamed bloody murder “AHHHHHHH!” all the way down. 

Pfft! Quiet and distinct, the impact sound wafted up from the pit as the fiery whatever hit bottom.  I couldn’t figure out which form of torture the flaming streaks and plummets represented, which sin had led them to that particular fate.  It wasn’t in Dante’s
Inferno
, that’s for sure. 

The man in front of me moved forward a step, so I did, too.  The motion rippled through the seemingly never-ending line behind me.  The familiarity of it was surprisingly comforting, considering I was relatively sure I was waiting in line to be admitted into hell.

“AHHHHHHH!”  Pfft.

How did I know it was hell?  Well, despite the numerous clues to the contrary (snow underfoot, frost chewing my extremities, shiver fits, absentee sulfur stench, etc.), there were a few undeniable factors. 

One, I was dead.  I committed suicide after I was indicted for screwing several thousand families out of their retirements, college savings, and health-savings accounts.   That was the most public of my sins.  I had many others.

Two, I was naked and shivering, covered in my own filth, and behind about a gazillion other naked, shivering, stinky men in serious need of a treadmill, plastic surgeon, and hair plugs.  If I factored in the exaggeration of time that one feels while excruciatingly bored in a very long line, I’d still guess that I’d been trudging along for at least a couple of weeks now.   At most, I estimated I’d covered five miles.  Terribly inefficient.  Patience was never a virtue I possessed.  Not that I had many.  If any.

Three, health care à la Prometheus.  The rocky path cut my feet within the first couple steps.  A hundred steps later, they turned black and began oozing.  Swarms of ants, worms and flies made their dinner of my wounds.  Then, without the care of a quality doctor, I healed—wham, bam, thank you ma’am—right there in the waiting room.  And it hurt.  It happened as soon as bone showed through the gore.  Between one step and the next, the damaged flesh pulled together, plumped, and pinked.  Two or three paces later, I stepped on a sharp edge of stone and the process began anew. 

Four, the décor.  All sharp rock.  Where absent of the snow and frost, soot and ichor-coated.   Claw marks decorated every surface as though people had tried to scratch their way out.  I doubted it worked any better for them than it had for my wife’s pampered Persian.  Still, the symmetry of it did draw the eye from the thousands of naked, shivering, stinky, unfit men around me. 

“AHHHHHHH!”  Pfft.

And that.  Five, the cacophony of terrified screams from the fiery streaks, huffy discomfited sighs of my linemates, and the infinite pleas for mercy in the distance.  Thready and tinny, hollow and thin, those latter noises were sticky with the misgivings of hope.  Tacky.  Tainted what could have been a cozy existence in acceptance of my fate.  Instead of the calm content of an early winter’s night with hot chocolate, it was an iniquitous Christmas Eve with a jalapeño in my cup. 

“AHHHHHHH!”  Pfft.

Weeks passed, my feet split and healed, frost chewed up to my knees, and the fiery streaks raced by closer.  I glimpsed pink stuff between the flames, so I guessed they’d been bloodied and frozen before being sent on their merry screaming way.  Something lit up like a concert pyrotechnics accident flopped on their heads.  Intrigued, I watched for clues as my vantage improved. 

“AHHHHHHH!”  Pfft.

The fiery streaks were definitely female.  The floppy things resembled bunny ears.   Weird.

“AHHHHHHH!”  Pfft.

They were skiing.  I saw one try to dive to the side, but only manage to raise one ski-fitted foot.  It flailed a moment before being sucked right back to the snowy slope. 

“AHHHHHHH!”  Pfft.

Hot, voluptuous women.  In sumptuous pink bunny costumes.  The linemate behind me pointed it out.  The epileptic shiver from that realization had nothing to do with the cold.

Still, blazing streaks of scrumptious snowbunny… 

“AHHHHHHH!”  Pfft.

I was so enamored of the fiery flop-eared tarts that I bumped into an icy stalactite.  It dripped yellowish goo that stank of sulfur and sizzled a burning line down my body.  When it healed, yellow crusties were left behind.  Dried sulfur snot had to be a sure sign of hell’s dominion. 

Then, for my visual pleasure, another gorgeous, flaming bunny-hussy skied by. 
“AHHHHHHH!”  Pfft.

Nope.  Had to be heaven.  My kind of heaven.

All sorts of wild imaginings churned in my noggin while waiting in that hellishly long line and watching the snow-sliding, flop-eared, blush-spangled vixens.  Easter-basket fantasies made me drool.  So what if they were charred like burnt marshmallows on sticks (two, since they were on skis)?  I pretended they were chocolate covered.… Yum.

“AHHHHHHH!”  Pfft.

Was that stubble on her chin?

“AHHHHHHH!”  Pfft.

Damn, she was gone.  It was probably just some soot, anyways.  No matter.  There was bound to be another one right behind her.… There she goes!

“AHHHHHHH!”  Pfft.

“Welcome to admitting,” greeted a li’l devil.  Head bent over a clipboard, his lackluster expression matched his voice: neither glee nor anguish, anger nor fatigue, though an amalgam of cozy irritation and pale amusement was apparent, nevertheless.  His red patent-leather ensemble gleamed like he’d bathed in molten lava and let it harden into a candy shell.

While he certainly was a sight, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the velvet curtain swaying invitingly behind him.  That had to be where they kept the tarted-up burning bunnies.  

Feeling slick and conspiratorial, I said, “Pink snowbunnies skiing in hell?  I’m sold.”

He thumped his red-hot pitchfork.  My lips sewed shut and my tongue swelled.  I couldn’t speak.  Hell, I could barely breathe.

His pointy tail idly scratched around one of his horns.  A forked tongue darted out to wet his blackened lips. 

“Welcome to admitting,” he restated in that same prosaic tone.  “Pardon our mess.  The recent financial crisis has cut our resources. We’re low on brimstone and the pilot light has gone out.  Your prescribed sentence has been temporarily suspended.  You’ve been reassigned to manually stoke the fires until regular systems have been restored.  To meet the demands of the cheap workforce, we’ve supplemented the appropriate protective attire with gag gifts from the haloers upstairs.  We apologize for the inconvenience and thank you for your cooperation.”

He put a check mark beside my name on his clipboard.  The stitches evaporated from my lips and the swelling reduced.  I gasped in a breath of air strangely scented like mothballs. 

I was angry.  Seething.  Apoplectic!  They’d tricked me by flashing me all those hot, bunnied-up strumpets.  And now this!

“I won’t lift a shovel for you!” I raged indignantly.  “Who do you think I am?  I don’t even speak spanglish!”

The li’l devil arched an eyebrow.  Steam puffed out of his nostrils.  He shifted and I flinched.

He laughed.  Fanged teeth dripped sulfuric saliva.  A merry twinkle lit his eyes.  “You’ll get along just fine here.”

Then his tail coiled around my leg, swooped me up, and tossed me through the privacy curtain.  Dozens of grubby li’l hands oiled me, perfumed me (why?), and dressed me in fuzzy pajamas with feet and a hoodie.  They buckled on boots, lit a match, and gave me a swift kick out some blackout curtains.  When I emerged, I was speeding down the slope, trailing flames from my backside, and wondering what in hell was bouncing on my head and sloshing against my chest.  I glanced down to see what gag-gift supplement they’d anchored me with and found…

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHH!” 

Pfft.

Randi Rogue is an award-winning writer expecting the release of her first urban fantasy novel in fall 2011. Discover more about her writings as well as her (hopefully) adorkable idiosyncrasies at 
www.randirogue.blogspot.com
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