5/28/2008

R. Breaston, the Lesser

Gently perched on the fourth rib from the bottom, a particularly peachy fuzzy area, he looked inward at Mr. R. Breaston, the Lesser, with a gentle notion of despondency and perhaps even sadness. Twitchy-nosed. Floppy-eared. Downed-bellied, under a double-breasted suit,

and one of those watches on a gold chain, like your great granddaddy used to carry. Oh, but what a magnificent night it had been!- the lightning spark, the thunder crash, the undulating sheets of rain. It’s only then, during electric storms, do rabbits like this make love, forcing themselves together, their heavy cloud bellies- one positive, one negative- then the smack of thunder, as quick as lightening, as sweat-stained as rain.

[Speaking of undulating sheets, recall: when you were little, you lay on your mother’s bed in anticipation of the warm sheets, fresh from the dryer. Remember how after all the shirts were folded onto themselves, the pant legs pressed together and bent, after the socks had met their match, that then it came time to make the bed. Your mother grabbed two corners of the sheets and with a switch of the wrist would toss the sheet out, like giant pizza dough, letting it billow gently over your tiny body. And again. And again, until your hair became so static-y, its strands shot up like lightening shoots down.]


“Why so down, my friend?” he finally said in a calm voice but with a twitch, so common to rabbits, as you know.

R. Breaston shrugged (or rather bounced) “Nothing.”

The rabbit smacked his lips to savor the last bit of bitter liquid hanging to his whiskers. Hiccup.

“Is it that you’re so much... smaller?”



“What I mean is!“ Now desperately searching for some way to not further offend. British etiquette and restraint overpowered by a particular fondness for whiskey, bourbon, bathtub moonshine.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear.

Before his friend could dig himself any deeper, Breaston replied, “eh, I don’t so much mind.” It was true that he had always been the family runt, always taunted, always teased, always extra tissue-padded, always second to be handled, despite the fact that anyone who’s anyone is right-handed.

The perk of being smaller, you see, is just that- the perk. While the bigger ones rounded out and flattened, dropped with age like a pendulum, falling into the crevice of arm pits (a nightmare Poe would approve), but the smaller-

well, the smaller stay true, pointing north like a compass.




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