by Debora Geary
Pink Snowbunnies in Hell:
A Flash-Fiction Anthology
Edited by Debora Geary
Kindle Edition
Copyright 2011 Fireweed Publishing
Copyrights to the individual stories remain with their respective authors.
Thanks to Glendon Haddix at www.streetlightgraphics.com for the excellent cover, and to Anne Victory at www.victoryediting.com for the excellent editing!
Table of Contents
Domestic Disturbance, by T.L. Haddix
Wedding Heaven, Ltd, by A.J. Braithwaite
When, by Robin Reed
Where’s JoJo? A Bunny’s Guide to Family Dysfunction, by Julie Christensen
Wingman, by Nathan Lowell
It Finally Happens…, by Heather Marie Adkins
Careful What You Wish For, by Barbra Annino
Of Demons and Bunnies, by Nichole Chase
Pink Snowbunnies are the New Pink Ribbon, by Jimi Ripley
One Wrong Turn Deserves Another, by Asher MacDonald
Marissa’s Tattoo, by Steve Silkin
Eulogy, by Suzanne Tyrpak
The Taste of Pink Snow, by Susan Helene Gottfried
Revenge of the Peeps, by Camille LaGuire
Love in a Time of Bunnies, by Coral Moore
The Bunni and the Bird, by Penny Cunningham
The Recession is Hell, by Randi Rogue
Pink Snowbunnies Acrostic, by Molly Black
Don’t Mess with the Meadow, by Rex Jameson
A Gift for a Very Special Girl, by Debora Geary
Domestic Disturbance
By T.L. Haddix
Deputy Jason Hudson was almost off-duty when dispatch paged him back out.
“What’s your twenty, unit sixteen?”
“Ten minutes out, just passing Heartfield,” he answered. Heartfield was Olman County’s latest subdivision.
“Sixteen, I need you to turn around and head back out to Frazier’s Grove. We’ve had a report of a six-oh-eight with an eight-ten. Fire department is responding, ten minutes out.” The dispatcher relayed the address.
Jason sighed. A domestic disturbance with fire involved. The two were never a good combination. “Isn’t that Mick Helton’s address?”
“It is.”
“Ten-four, dispatch. I’m heading that way.” As he turned around and flipped on his light bar, the radio crackled again.
“Sixteen, be advised that the suspect is wearing a pink Easter bunny costume and is carrying a flamethrower.”
He slowed down and reached for the radio again. “Ten-nine, dispatch. Repeat that, please. I know I didn’t hear you correctly.” The dispatcher repeated the information, and he could tell she was trying to not laugh. “Carrie, is this a joke?”
“Negative, unit sixteen. Proceed with caution.”
Jason was tired. It had been a long four days, and he was looking very forward to having the next four off. The last thing he felt like dealing with was some practical joke dispatch was playing, but he couldn’t ignore the call. He accelerated. “Ten-four, dispatch. Sixteen out.”
A few minutes later, it was readily apparent Carrie hadn’t been kidding. As he pulled up in the Helton’s driveway, Jason saw that the large shed in the backyard was fully engulfed in flames. Dancing around the burning structure was a man dressed in a pink rabbit costume. Sure enough, he had a flamethrower strapped on his back.
Jason radioed back in, then got out of the car. Mick’s grown daughter met him as he reached the old farmhouse.
“It’s Daddy. I’ve tried to talk to him, but…”
Every few seconds, Mick would give a maniacal laugh and pull the flamethrower’s trigger. When the resulting stream of fire shot out, his laughter gave way to triumphant howls.
“What set him off this time?” Jason thought about the best way to approach Mick as the daughter answered.
“He had a big ol’ fight with Mommy. She’s in the house. That’s her potting shed he’s torched.”
“She okay?” Sirens sounded in the distance, and he hoped it was the fire trucks. If they didn’t get the flaming shed under control soon, the woods behind it could very easily go up as well.
“She’s fine. Mad as hell,” the daughter answered.
“I’m going to try to talk to your dad. Stay back, okay?”
She nodded. “Just make sure you get his attention before you get too close. I hollered at him earlier and the bird bath bought it when he turned around too quick.”
Jason shot her a stunned look and moved closer. As he did, Mick turned around and spotted him. Unfortunately, he had been in the middle of another fiery spurt, and the flames followed the direction he looked. A stream of fire shot in Jason’s direction, but he wasn’t close enough to get burned, though the heat was uncomfortable during the few seconds Mick held the trigger down. When the man realized what he was doing, he dropped the flamethrower’s gun to his side and stomped across the yard toward the driveway.
“Jason Hudson! Didn’t see you there,” Mick apologized, his words slurred. “Sorry about that.”
“You want to take that thing off?” Jason’s hand hovered above his weapon, just in case.
“Sure, sure.” With movements clumsy from the alcohol, he dropped the flamethrower on the ground and grinned as he came closer. “You gonna take me in?”
“Afraid so, Mick.”
“Okay, then. I could use a good night’s sleep.”
Jason walked the now-docile man to his cruiser as the fire trucks drove up. “What the heck were you doing here, buddy?”
“Well, see now, my wife. Dorie? She says I drink too much. Says ‘pink snowbunnies will ski in Hell’ before she’ll let me back in the house. I was just giving her what she asked for.”
Jason was speechless. He pointed at the snowshoes the other man wore. They were attached to the costume feet with duct tape. “Okay, but why snowshoes?”
“Couldn’t find any skis.”
As he cut the tape and helped get the snowshoes off so he could load Mick in the back of the cruiser, Jason shook his head. He closed the man safely inside and cast his gaze heavenward. He could just imagine the teasing he was going to get for this. The report alone was going to be hard to live down. It was going to be a long night.
“Why am I the only one who gets these calls?” he asked the sky. There was no answer, but he could have sworn the stars twinkled just a little brighter after he spoke.
T. L. Haddix is the author of Secrets in the Shadows, Under the Moon’s Shadow, and Shadows from the Grave, the first three books in the Leroy’s Sins Series, as well as various short stories and flash fiction. She’s now hard at work on the next novel in the series, and can be found at www.tlhaddix.com.
Wedding Heaven, Ltd.
By A.J. Braithwaite
You might think that being a wedding planner is a fun job. Happiest day of people’s lives, blah, blah, blah.
Well it isn’t. Not. At. All.
Usually people are pleasant enough to deal with in the early stages, but even the most easygoing bride and groom transform into Cruella de Vil and Josef Mengele as their special day approaches and the stress levels rise. And the proud parents-in-law-to-be (who are often the ones paying for everything) can be even worse. I was once slapped in the face by a mother-of-the-bride because her daughter had changed her mind about the color of the groom’s tie.
I try to gently tell the not-so-happy couple that they’re going to
have a wonderful day, regardless of whether the florist includes roses instead of peonies, or the Rolls Royce has to be replaced by a Bentley. But sometimes people get so fixated on the details they stop remembering why they’re doing this in the first place. I’ve been working at this job so long, it’s gotten to the point where I can predict the success of a marriage just by the way a couple acts during the run-up to their Big Day.
We’re not dealing with just one wedding at a time, you see. Usually there are at least twenty weddings on the go, at various stages, from the laid-back, just-beginning-to-think-about-its to the completely manic, ohmygod-it’s-tomorrows. The only thing that keeps me even partially sane is the support of my four colleagues. They make it all bearable and occasionally even enjoyable. Particularly when we analyze the latest pre-nuptial atrocities in the bar after work.
My chosen career is also problematic when it comes to meeting That Special Person. As soon as the words “wedding planner” leave my lips on a first date, I can see all sorts of alarm bells going off in the guy’s head, like he thinks I spend my working day secretly designing my own perfect wedding and am just waiting for some hapless dude to fit the purple tuxedo I’ve got lined up for him. Second dates don’t come my way too often. I’ve kinda gotten used to it.
Fridays in the office are the worst. The phones don’t stop ringing, and the questions come at me so quickly it feels like I’m running around trying to catch everything while being the only fielder on the pitch. This one Friday, things were even worse than usual.
“What did the Patels want for their bridesmaids’ flowers?”
“The animal trainer says he can do kittens or bunnies for the Fowler photo shoot.”
“Which hotel are we booking for the Willses’ honeymoon?”
“Gastros Catering has been closed down by the health inspectors.”
My replies come out in a staccato stream: “Pinks. No bunnies. Wills: Quay Inn. Hell.”
“That sounds like an interesting concept.”
I turn round to find a guy I’ve never seen before next to the reception desk. Nice eyes, I can’t help thinking, despite the growing panic caused by the closure of Gastros Catering. They’re the town’s top-end caterers and are supposed to be doing the food for the Sharpes’ wedding tomorrow. I try to focus my mind on what the new arrival just said, but can’t make any sense of it.
“Sorry, what?”
“The pink snowbunnies. Skiing in Hell?”
Now I really have no idea what he’s talking about. I glance at his left hand. Out of professional interest only, of course. No ring. Back to his face. His eyes are big and brown, with lashes so thick that I want to touch them.
I try to pull myself together. Even if he is talking nonsense, there’s no excuse for not being professional. I paste on the Wedding Heaven smile. “Can I help you?”
He hands me a business card. “My name’s Peter. I’ve just moved to town. I’m a caterer—been in business in Toronto for twenty years, but now I’m here, so I wanted to let you know that I’m available.”
My heart, which was already beating faster than usual (because of the stress of the Gastros issue, I tell myself), starts trying to shake itself out of my ribcage. I make a determined effort to keep my voice under control, but the words come out all breathy and far too fast.
“Peter, I’m Rachel. I’ve got a big problem with a catering job for tomorrow. The health inspectors have closed down one of your competitors. It’s a buffet for fifty people at four at the Country Club.” I look at him, trying to make my blue eyes as puppy-dog-like as his brown ones. “Can you help?”
A smile spreads across his face, creating cute crinkles around the corners of his eyes. “I wasn’t expecting to get work quite as quickly as that. But yes, I think I could do it, although I might need some help if they’ve got a particular menu in mind.”
Now I’m so relieved, I want to kiss him. But I’m all business. I retrieve the Gastros menu from the Sharpes’ file and we sit down to go through it.
“How are your cooking skills?” he asks. “This is all straightforward, but I’m going to need a sous-chef for the day.”
“I’m your woman,” I say.
I expect you’re wondering what our wedding was like. No peonies, no Rolls Royce. And definitely no snowbunnies. Just me, Peter, our closest friends and some truly fabulous food. In my professional judgment, this marriage is one that’s going to last and last.
A. J. Braithwaite is the author of The Roman and the Runaway, the first Hawley Lodge story. Find out more at www.hawleylodge.com.
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 fac
e 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.
