Pink Snowbunnies in Hell: A Flash Fiction Anthology

by Debora Geary

  Of Demons and Bunnies

  By Nichole Chase

  “George, it was just a figure of speech.” Gary stood gaping at the mountains of snow.

  “But you said that pink snowbunnies would ski in Hell before Tom got the promotion.” George shrugged his thick shoulders.

  “George, you let pink snowbunnies into Hell.” Gary scrubbed a hand over his eyes in frustration. “The boss is going to flog us.” His right eye twitched as one of the pink fur-balls flew off of the ski slope and landed in a pot of boiling oil. The hot liquid splashed onto Gary’s horns and he shook it off in disgust.

  “I want to know how you managed to get snow down here.” Gary’s friend Matt kicked a black hoof at the fluffy white stuff in curiosity. “It isn’t even melting, Gary. How does snow not melt in Hell?” Matt scratched his temple with a long, black nail before leaning down to poke at the snow.

  “Better question, where did you find pink rabbits?” Gary paced back and forth in front of the snow. “Did the Easter Bunny abandon babies in a park somewhere?”

  “Purgatory.” George tossed a snowball from hand to hand, looking smug. “Someone told me there was a store selling pink bunnies that guaranteed promotions.”

  Of course it had been purgatory. That place was an endless line of outlet malls that sold random junk to angels and demons. A stand that sold pink bunnies would likely cater to either Heaven or Hell’s minions. It was probably the only place you could find a store that sold pickled lamb’s liver on one rack and silver linings on another.

  Gary sat down on a steaming boulder and covered his eyes. This reeked of heavenly humor. Those stupid, nosy, white vultures must have been eavesdropping again. They would think it was hilarious to show George a bunch of pink bunnies and plant this stupid idea in his mind. Could he turn this around in their favor before the boss saw all of these damnable happy bunnies? Lost in thought, Gary almost didn’t see the pink critter that sailed through the air and hit his best friend in the back of the head. Unperturbed by the furry projectile, Matt continued to kick at the white fluff, making noises that sounded more and more like giggles.

  “I don’t get it. I thought we all wanted Tom to get the open management position.” George’s voice rose plaintively. “I just wanted to help. I like Tom.”

  Gary didn’t answer. Instead, he reached back and scratched the scaly spot just above the base of his forked tail. He should have never made that comment in front of a goat demon. They were entirely too literal, and, in George’s case, just plain stupid. Something tickled Gary’s leg. When he realized that it was a bunny sniffing him, he jumped back and curled his lip in disgust. With the kick of one cloven foot, he sent the bunny flying away with a squeak. Feeling a little better, he looked up at the mountain of snow and started formulating a plan.

  “Matt, get out of that damned snow!” Gary shouted at the other demon. George walked over to Matt and pulled him out of the white powder. Gary scowled at his longtime friend, repulsed. There was a snow angel with a forked tail and horns outlined where the other demon had been rolling around.

  “George, grab the biggest pot you can carry and bring it back here.” Gary looked at the snow and cracked his knuckles. It was time to get down to business.

  Once they had managed to capture the last furry creature, the three demons sat slumped against the giant cauldron, gasping for breath. The dull thuds from inside of the pot rang through their fiery little pit of hell.

  “What are we going to do, Gary?” George asked. “I don’t want to eat the bunnies. I like the bunnies!”

  “We’re going to make those angels wish they weren’t so nosy.” George got to his feet and looked at the mountain of snow. “And maybe mark off some of the names on our Christmas list in the process.”

  ***

  Saint Peter knelt down and poked at the box sitting in front of the gate. The red-and-white striped wrapping paper smelled faintly of sulfur.

  “It’s from our neighbors downstairs.” Peter looked over his shoulder at Bob, who shrugged.

  “Well, it is Christmas. The perfect time to end a family feud.” Bob leaned over Peter’s shoulder and tugged at the ribbon. “C’mon on, Pete, open the box!”

  “What on Earth are those?” Peter stared at the fluffy pink fur that filled the package.

  Bob pushed the sleeves of his white robe up to his elbows and reached through the gate, careful not to let his wings get caught. He snagged one of the objects out of the box, holding it up for Peter to see.

  “Pink bunny slippers.” They looked at each other in horror, the faint sound of laughter drifting up to their ears.

  Nichole Chase is the author of Mortal Obligation, book one of The Dark Betrayal Trilogy. To find out more about Nichole and her projects, check out her website and blog. www.nicholechase.com.

  Pink Snowbunnies

  are the New Pink Ribbon

  By Jimi Ripley

  Jackie took a deep breath, steadying herself with the pungent smell of fresh ink on newsprint. She tugged at her jacket. Turning her back to the bustle of the newsroom, she knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  The metal handle felt warm against her icy fingers. She tiptoed into the room. “Jackie Davenport, sir.”

  “Sit down,” the man said. He didn’t look up from his computer.

  Jackie’s eyes darted past his silvered hair, took in the orderly stacks of newsprint, and finally anchored on a carefully centered plaque: “Raymond Pierce, Editor.” So this was her new boss.

  After ten long breaths, Jackie stopped counting. Pierce finally pushed back from his keyboard and peered at her over the dark rims of his glasses. His brown eyes locked with her green.

  “Sit down,” Pierce said.

  Jackie jumped. Hard wood bit into the backs of her thighs. She folded her hands over her notebook as she tried to will away the flush that tightened her cheeks.

  “That’s better. Glad to have you on staff.” An unexpected smile rewrote his somber expression.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I have an assignment for you.”

  Jackie fumbled for her pen. She hadn’t expected an assignment on her first day. Her notepad was a confidence prop.

  “I do hope that your written vocabulary proves more copious.”

  The heat spread up her forehead. She was sure that her face matched the color of her hair.

  “I don’t bite, newbie,” Pierce said. “I saw your work in the university paper. It’s good. Relax.”

  “Yes, sir.” She looked down and noticed her white-knuckled grip on her pen. “Sorry, Mr. Pierce, it’s just so amazing to be here.”

  Pierce stopped Jackie before she blathered inanely. “I need you to complete a two-hundred-word human-interest story by Friday.”

  Her pen paused mid-stroke as the assignment registered. She was supposed to be a science writer. Realizing he was serious, Jackie dutifully noted “human interest” on her paper, resigning herself to her role as newbie “Jill-of-all-trades.”

  “Thank you,” Pierce said. “That will be all.” He turned back to his computer.

  Jackie left his office puzzled, but determined. Having never written a human-interest story, she mulled over the assignment as she headed for her cubicle. When she passed the break room for the second time, she realized she was lost.

  This was not good. She already felt out of place. Overdressed in a black suit and heels, her feet were already beginning to hurt. She would not ask for directions to her own cube. She glanced around, surreptitiously looking for a landmark. The block letters of the EXIT sign beckoned.

  Outside, exhaust-laden air sapped her remaining energy. She squinted against the summer sun and headed for the green sign advertising a familiar sandwich shop.

  Lunch afforded opportunity for a few Google searches via her iPhone. Mr. Pierce would get his story. But first, Jackie needed to take a little trip.

  Four days later, with the pungent smell of ink and the background hum of the newsro
om to welcome her, Jackie knocked on the familiar door.

  “Come in,” Pierce said.

  Jackie turned the cool handle and strode over to sit across the desk from him.

  “Have a—” Pierce looked up from his monitor. “Ah, Jackie, what can I do for you?”

  “I have your story, sir.”

  “Story?” Mr. Pierce looked blank for a moment and then he smiled. In fact, the smile could almost have been a grin. “Oh, yes, the story. How did that go for you?”

  Jackie pasted a bland expression on her face. “I found a very fascinating topic.”

  Pierce didn’t quite raise an eyebrow.

  Jackie placed the neatly typed story in front of Pierce. “Two hundred fifty-five words.”

  Pink Snowbunnies Are the New Pink Ribbon

  The Pink Snowbunnies are breast cancer survivors “experienced enough to really know how to live,” according to Judy Tidwell. The five women recline on the deck, dressed in hot-pink swimsuits and sarongs. They are taking a breather during their training to compete in the Barefoot Nationals on August tenth at Barefoot Ski Ranch in Waco, Texas. “We even get to wear our bunny ears during the slalom,” said Betty Copeland.

  The women met during cancer treatment and bonded over their love of snow skiing. “It gave us something to focus on to get through the chemo,” said Jo Meriweather. “We planned a snow-skiing trip for when we were well enough. When we bought matching hot-pink snowsuits, the pink snowbunnies were born.” The women are the epitome of health as they enjoy the shared story. Diane Stubeck points out that, of course, they had to accessorize with “bunny ears.”

  “Trying barefoot skiing was a harebrained idea; no pun intended,” said Judy. The pink snowbunnies groan in unison.

  “We had no experience, but it was hotter ‘n hell,” said Ruth Polder. “So we talked a water-skiing instructor into letting us try.” The conversation devolves as each tries to tell the best learning-process story. “Trial and error—lots of error,” Jo said. The snowbunnies laugh.

  “We’ve been competing for three summers now,” said Betty. “We don’t place, but we have a whole heck of a lot of fun.”

  “And we raise money for breast cancer research,” said Jo. “Pink snowbunnies are the new pink ribbon.”

  Pierce’s face was a story in itself as he read—from skepticism to surprise, then a smile quirked the corners of his lips. Jackie struggled to maintain her equanimity.

  “My travel expense form.” She set another piece of paper beside the first. “I trust my story will be in tomorrow’s paper?”

  “When pink snowbunnies ski in hell,” Pierce said.

  “Texas, sir,” Jackie said. Somehow she managed to keep a straight face as she headed for the door.

  “Jackie?”

  She turned.

  “Welcome to the Chronicle.”

  “Thank you.” She gave her grin free rein as she stepped into the newsroom.

  Jimi Ripley is the author and editor of numerous nonfiction publications; she will soon release her first novel, Dormant, featuring Jackie Davenport. Learn more and sign up for her new releases list at www.jimiripley.com.

  One Wrong Turn Deserves Another

  By Asher MacDonald

  Madge was doing her nails, painting them Too Sexy Turquoise because she said it set off her pink fur. Me, I liked clear mostly, though sometimes I’d go with black, sort of a Goth look, if my mood was a bit rebellious. Which it often was. When you’re a snowbunny in Hell, there’s a lot to rebel against.

  Tina had her headphones on listening to Charon and the River Sprites sing their latest hit, Poling You Cross the River, an upbeat doo-wop number sung as only Charon can sing ’em—the guy is so happy as he takes you across the Styx into Hell, it’s infectious. Yeah, Charon is one of those uplifting souls who, if you dropped your carton of eggs, would scoop up the broken mess and whip up an omelet con pollo for you. I think I got a bit of crush on him as he sang to us. He’s such a dreamboat…

  Our Other Side phone rang. It’s Hell, so the ring was an annoying screech. You need to understand that while Hell is certainly no picnic near a lake of fire, it’s really not all that bad. We have our work to do and a torment to endure now and then, but mostly we have a lot of free time. It’s just that when the labor contracts were negotiated after the Big Split, and Hell was created, one of the stipulations was that we had to endure annoying ring tones. There were others, too, like slicing onions once a week to make us cry. Childish, really, but that’s the pettiness of the crew in Heaven and their holier-than-thou attitude.

  Madge said to me, “Chrissy, dear, can you get that? My nails are still drying.”

  “Sure,” I said. I liked Madge. We had been best friends right up until we took a wrong turn down a mountain and skied off a cliff. Tina had joined us in Hell a few years later, killed by a farmer’s dog while she was peacefully munching carrots and lettuce in his garden. Terrible. She still has a thing about dogs and refuses to go near Cerberus to this day. The only one of our original pink snowbunny foursome still alive was Lola.

  I picked up the phone. “Hello?” A voice on the other end, one of the imp operators, said, “A person-to-person call for Madge, Chris, or Tina, from Lola, via Ouija board. Will you accept?”

  “Oh, gosh, yes!” I said. I was excited. Lola! Calling from the Other Side! “Madge, it’s Lola!”

  “Lola? Wow, put her on speaker phone. I can’t wait to hear what she’s been up to.”

  When the living contact the dead, it’s a bit tricky. We hear them, but they don’t hear us. We have to type our responses, which are then spelled out on a Ouija board. There are other ways of communicating, but the living are mostly unaware of them. Ouija boards you can get at Wal-Mart, though.

  Once, Madge and I got a random call from a high school student hoping to speak to President Lincoln. I don’t know why it got routed to Hell. We have Nixon here, but no Lincoln. Madge got a bit devilish and replied with Lincoln’s Gettysburg address. Backward. In Latin. We heard a priest came to exorcise the kid’s house the next day. We still laugh about that.

  “So how are you girls? Where are you? You have horns or halos?” Lola said, her voice a bit scratchy as it came across the Great Divide.

  By now, Tina had taken off her headphones. “Is it really Lola?”

  “It sure is,” Madge said.

  I typed out an answer. It’s Hell, so we have to use all caps. Just another rule from Up Above. They’re so petty, those archangels.

  WE ARE GOOD. WE’RE IN HELL, BUT IT’S NICE. I HAVE A DATE TONIGHT WITH A HOT DEVIL. SIX-TWO, BROAD SHOULDERS, AND A SMILE THAT JUST ABOUT MELTS THE CLOTHES OFF ME. HE’S ALSO A GOOD LISTENER. YUM.

  It took her a couple of minutes to receive my message, one letter at a time.

  “Oh, that sounds great! I’m jealous. The male bunnies up here, you know how they are. Hop on, hop off, and then gone before you can even turn around. I better start being naughtier so I can join you girls when my time comes,” Lola said.

  START? YOU WERE ALWAYS THE NAUGHTIEST!

  After another minute went by, we heard Lola laugh when she saw my reply. “I guess you’re right. I remember when we were teens, I was the one who got the rest of you to sneak into Farmer Brown’s secret garden where he grew that ‘wacky tobacky.’ We giggled for days after eating that stuff!

  “But I have a question. I’m skiing today down that same mountain you two had your accident on. Tell me where to make the turn so I don’t ski off the cliff.”

  I started to reply and then stopped. I had a flash of inspiration.

  GO LEFT AFTER THE SECOND SLOPE, NOT RIGHT.

  I hit Send. Madge looked at me, shocked. “We went left! What are you doing? She’ll ski off the cliff, too.”

  “She misses us, girls,” I said. “She’ll love it here. I know a handsome devil I can set her up with. Besides, didn’t you hear the infernal weather report? Some tinhorn dictator in Africa has said there will be skiing in Hell before he steps down. The
Rebels have his palace surrounded. The forecast is for snow, lots of it, this weekend.

  “So that means…” Tina said.

  “That we’ll all be together again…” Madge added.

  “And with the snow coming…” I said.

  In unison all three of us finished together:

  “The pink snowbunnies will ski in hell this weekend!”

  Asher MacDonald writes erotica. This story was an exception, but if you enjoy erotica look for his books Fiona in Chains and Four Stories, among others. Thanks so much for reading.

  Marissa’s Tattoo

  By Steve Silkin

  So I turned to my son, you saw him, he’s outside now … Yes, thank you, he’s a very nice boy … He’s twelve. And I said, “I think I’ll throw some money in the well.” And the young woman, we know her name now, Marissa, she was facing me, a few feet away, and when I said, “I think I’ll throw some money in the well,” she heard, “Pink Snowbunny in Hell.” No, Officer Melendez, I didn’t know at the time, of course. She screamed with delight, her jaw dropped, her eyes lit up and she walked up to me and took off her shirt. … No, she was wearing a bra, but it was a very revealing bra.

  She said “How did you know about my tattoo?” and showed it to me, right above her hip. It was a tattoo of a pink bunny, skiing, with a background of flames. … No, I didn’t understand, at the time, but now, yes, I realize that because she had taken LSD, when I talked about throwing money in the wishing well, she thought I said, “Pink Snowbunny in Hell,” and that we had made some kind of cosmic connection.

  … And that’s when I saw people were starting to take pictures of us, and as I mentioned, I’m running for Congress, so I thought this was a setup by my opponent, and that pictures of me at Disneyland with a semi-nude young woman were going to be posted all over the Internet, and she hugged me, and started dancing. … Yes, she was dancing very suggestively. … So Chip and Dale—I mean the young men wearing the Chip and Dale costumes—saw what was happening and they tried to stand between us and the crowd, to block the view, I suppose, I mean so that the kids and their parents wouldn’t see the topless girl. … Yes, by that time, she had taken off her bra, too.