Posted: April 17, 2021 in depression, fiction
Photo by Pixabay on

There in the field, a washed in a dying sun, drifting below the horizon, stood the rabbit.

“I’m dying sir…” the rabbit told an imaginary visitor standing near.

There was no reply, an answer on his life, so vividly dull, hopping here, hopping there, jump, up, reproduce, then die.

We, the people, stood somewhere, possibly in our own homes.

We didn’t really stand, sat was more like it.

“Random garbage, the lot o you!” the rabbit screamed at the unseen visitors, now teeming in the billions, gathered about, stacked to the unseen sky.

It was the winter of the coldest year, a December, when Rabbit thought he died, his tail frozen hard to the ground.

“Was this death? Did I pass?” he couldn’t move, the tail buried in the sheet of ice.

What a predicament!

Hop! Hop! No hop would give.

Here is where he would die, or had he passed already?

Nobody knew, nobody cared, there he laid, for months, years, back and forth, not looking down, or forward, not even in, just dead, and barely breathing.


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