The White Rabbit Is Late, V 2.0

Published August 25, 2014 by B. Rabbit

If you’ve been following me at all, you may have noticed that I’ve done a little late-summer cleaning. The place was getting rather dusty from lack of use.

I’ve taken a page from the book of a dear friend of mine and revamped this place in hopes that I can guilt myself into writing more regularly. I’ve been working on things sporadically, but it’s not nearly as much work as I should be doing. I tend to be loath to post things if they’re not somewhat “done”–poetry notwithstanding–and I need to stop doing that. I need to put words on the page, even if those words do turn out to be terribly embarrassing later.

So in light of that, my plan is to start posting more regularly–hopefully at least once a week–to get myself back into the game. I’ve got all kinds of notes floating around and several currently-abandoned projects, so maybe it won’t be too tough! There will be poetry, short fiction, character sketches, and possibly discussions about various literary things. You know…words on the page. I do sincerely hope my friend doesn’t hate me for ripping her off!

It’s a start, at least. Especially for a person from the Dorothy Parker school of thought: “I hate writing; I love having written.”

I’ll be making this post a sticky (at least for awhile), partly to explain to my visitors what’s going on here and partly to remind myself why I’m doing this. All my new stuff will show up under this post. Also, if you simply can’t get enough of me, please feel free to follow me on Tumblr, where I hardly ever post anything about writing but will happily reblog things from my favorite fandoms like it’s going out of style.

B. Rabbit

A Cautionary Tale

Published August 26, 2014 by B. Rabbit

So I had the brilliant idea recently that I would write some sort of flash fiction or other. I thought about it for a couple of days and wasn’t really able to come up with anything. Then, suddenly, this little spark of inspiration came to me while reading an anthology of short stories about demons lent to me by a friend (shut up, I like demons, ok?) roughly thirty minutes after taking a sleeping pill. I rationalized this to myself by thinking that it would be very short, and I would, therefore, be able to finish it long before said sleeping pill took effect.

Well…it is fairly short (750-ish words), but the rest of the rationalization wasn’t exactly true. When I showed it to my friend (who lent me the demon stories book) the next day, her first response was “You were high as a kite when you wrote this, weren’t you?”

So basically…don’t say I didn’t warn you.

A Cautionary Tale

There’s an old tale that’s been around for God knows how long. I don’t even remember where I heard it from no more. I dunno if it’s true or not. Probably not. Them old tales usually ain’t. But it might be. It just might be.

They say there was this girl. She was young and pretty and smart. Like you, I guess. Nothin’ like me, at least. Young and pretty and real small-like. Petite, I reckon you’d call it. With long blonde hair she didn’t have to bleach out and big bright blue eyes and pale, pale skin.

Anyhow, this girl was what the old folks would call “a lady of the night.” But she’d tell you right quick that she wasn’t no porn tragedy girl. She was in school–law school, medical school, somethin’ like that. Maybe she was studyin’ to be a dentist. I’m not sure. But she wasn’t no drug addict out of options. She was on her way up in the world. Told folks that if men were stupid enough to pay her for her company, she was smart enough to take their money from ‘em. Can’t nobody fault her for that, I don’t reckon.

The men sure loved her, at any rate. She may have been takin’ ‘em for a ride, but she was doin’ it in style, by God.

This pretty li’l gal came home one night after a long evenin’ of what they call escortin’. They sure do got a lot of polite terms for it, don’t they?

Anyway, she came home, and it was after midnight. She wanted somethin’ to eat, but she was about dead on her feet. She didn’t wanna go back out and get anything, if there was even anything to get after midnight back in them days. I don’t know if there was or not.

So she decided that she’d try to make somethin’ herself with what she had in her ‘frigerator and her cabinets. Reckon she hadn’t been to the grocery store in a while ’cause she didn’t have a whole lot to choose from. She just pulled a whole bunch of stuff out and started throwin’ it all in a great big ol’ pot on the stove. Soup, stew, whatever you wanna call it.

You’d think that’d be pretty harmless, wouldn’t you? Well, you’d be wrong. Maybe she wasn’t payin’ attention to what she was doin’, or maybe she just didn’t know how to cook, but instead of makin’ dinner, she managed to summon a demon. A demon. It just come right up outta that pot on the stove and laughed at her. Loud, cacklin’ laughter that just went on and on and on.

They say she just stood there rooted in that spot. I’m inclined to believe that that part’s true, at least, ’cause what else are you gonna do if you summon a demon? It’s not like runnin’s gonna help you none.

Anyhow, she just stood there, probably scared to death, while that demon just laughed at her. When it finally stopped laughin’, it looked at her with its fiery ol’ eyes and said somethin’ like, “You of all people oughta know you can’t turn a ho into a housewife, gal.”

Sounds like that demon’s name oughta have been Ludacris, don’t it?

And, well, nobody’s real sure what happened after that. Dunno if that demon ate her soul right then and there and took over her body, or if the sight of a fiend from the very pits of hell messed her up so much that she just never was the same again afterward. All anybody knows is that she went to her landlady’s house ’bout one o’clock in the mornin’ and knocked on the door. When the confused and sleepy ol’ woman came to the door, the girl just laid the key to her rental house in the landlady’s hand and walked off into the woods. Nobody ever seen her or heard from her again.

Like I said, I don’t know if it’s true or not. It probably ain’t. But it don’t seem too smart to take chances to me. That’s why I don’t never cook anything, ‘specially not after a night at work like this. So if you’re hungry, we can just go to McDonald’s or somethin’. You can get sausage and biscuits there after midnight, you know.

Amor En Inglés

Published March 7, 2014 by B. Rabbit

Note below in italics not an actual part of the poem, just FYI.

Amor En Inglés

You are a broken little thing,
bastard child of ancient royalty,
though you share in none of their gentility.

You are neither clever
nor beautiful;
you are illogical, vexing, nonsensical.

You are not at all Romantic,
and though still young,
you are covered in scars.

And yet, I have loved you–
fiercely, passionately–
for longer than I can remember.

I fear how fragile you are,
certain each time I hold you
that my inept hands will destroy you.

You are damaged but
enthralling when I touch you;
you taste like hope in my mouth.

But you’ve had many other lovers in your young life,
lovers with fingers less clumsy
and tongues far more skillful than mine.

Still, you tolerate my oafishness,
and I cling to you,
desperately and unashamed.

You are flawed, incomprehensible, and utterly insane,
just like me–
so I cannot help but love you madly.

Some nights, you come to me,
frenzied and violent, demanding my touch,
artless though it may be.

And in those small and frantic midnight moments,
I allow myself to think that maybe, maybe…
you love me, too.

(Spoiler alert: Literal love letter to the English language)

The Rabbit Farmer

Published February 24, 2014 by B. Rabbit

This idea came to me last night. I took a couple of notes before I fell asleep and finished with it today.

The Rabbit Farmer

What detachment
it must require
to raise your own meat.
What cold and clinical
mental sterility.

The rabbit in the cage thinks
you a god.
Food, water, clean straw,
a kind word if you allow–
all delivered by your calloused hand.

There never was a god who didn’t
require sacrifice.
As above, so below.
Be capricious, so long as you call it love.
(And make sure the knife is sharp.)

It takes but one quick motion
to slice a life
right out of a quivering throat.
Do it right, and
your hands don’t even get dirty.

Crimson blood stains white fur
never before sullied.
The gentle hand on the back
does nothing to kill
the terror.

A beast, however stupid, still knows a Judas kiss.
And some part of it,
some collective unconsciousness,
surely remembers the gods’ needs
for betrayal and burnt offerings.

And so, god of treachery,
what would you do
if you knew
that bunny’s
last despairing thought?

There’s no such thing as love.
There’s no
such thing
as love.







Celestial Bodies

Published January 25, 2014 by B. Rabbit

I don’t have anything terribly profound to say about this one. It’s not a work of art, and I didn’t mean for it to be. I wrote it because it amused me, in a wry sort of way.

Celestial Bodies

As I was going through one of my old hard drives the other day,
I happened across
an old poem.

A bad one, of course–
mine always are.

It was about you,
as they always were
in those days.

Some prattle that painted
you the Sun and
me the Earth,
gravitationally chained to you,
whether I liked it or not,
until your girth and your heat eventually swallowed me whole
some 5 or 6 billion years later.

The metaphor was all right, I suppose,
but the execution atrocious.

But even after I had a giggle or two at
my own propensity for melodrama,
I didn’t forget the image.

If I had been more insightful
(though I never was back then; they say it’s a hallmark),
I’d have called you the Earth
and me the Moon–
unable to turn away, and
forced to stare at your stupid face for all eternity.

Oh, how you would’ve loved that.
(Though Uranus and one of its moons would’ve probably fit better:
I have the Shakespearean name for it,
and you’re no doubt an asshole.)

But it occurred to me today,
on my way to McDonald’s for a chicken sandwich
(and coffee, naturally),
that I am neither Earth, nor Moon, nor any other celestial body.

What I am, instead,
is a Space Shuttle….

And I have achieved escape velocity, motherfucker.

An Early Easter

Published January 22, 2014 by B. Rabbit

So I got all ambitious and shit today and decided I’d try to write a sonnet. Yes, a fucking sonnet. And, yes, it rapidly turned into “a FUCKING sonnet” when I remembered that I can’t count syllables or identify where stresses are on a word.

But, by that point, I’d already gotten halfway through the damned thing, and it seemed a waste not to finish it. You can probably tell the exact point where I lost control of it because it gets labored there in the middle. I’m sorry. My only defense is that this is my very first attempt at writing in iambic pentameter. I probably should’ve at least just gone for blank verse to start with, rather than trying to do the iambic pentameter AND the end-rhymes. But what is a woman without ambition, yes?

Oh, also, this was supposed to be a rather happy poem, but it got away from me and took a turn for the depressing at the end. That was also not intentional. Lo siento. For the record, knowing that there is an early Easter coming does, in fact, make me very happy. But, alas, this year’s isn’t until the end of April. Oh, the irony.

Also-also, all the usual disclaimers about rough drafts and maybe one day going back and fixing this thing. Try not to laugh yourself into an asthma attack if you continue past this point.

Early Easter

When poor Persephone’s descent begins
and takes with her the light of afternoon
even before just 6 o’clock, again
I find the madness that once more consumes
me. It sacrifices my sanity
upon the altar of the Autumn night,
and seems quite endless–least it does to me.
But one small thing gives hope, a single white
and black wee square upon the calendar.
Oh, God, yes–Easter comes in March this year!
The pain of Winter starts to ease, to blur,
replaced by hope and light–uncertain cheer.

But why is it the Lamb must die in vain
that I may breathe and laugh and live again?

Hurricane Gustav

Published January 11, 2014 by B. Rabbit

This poem began as an ode to a walk on the beach with my former best friend before a hurricane. It rapidly morphed into something else. I may break the references to Lucifer off into its own poem, but the muse is oddly silent on that matter at the moment. We shall see.

Hurricane Gustav

There were no gulls
that night.
They knew what was blowing in
from off the Gulf
and stayed at home

But not us,
It was our last night,
and we weren’t about to miss
that one last walk on the beach,
tempest be damned.

The only thing
more magnificent than the beach
at night
is the beach
the night before the storm
makes landfall.

Anticipation and salt thick on the wind,
like angels’ tears.
Wrath of Lucifer, blowing ever-closer to the shore.
But even Lucifer was an angel once,
and experience says his fall
did not affect his tear-ducts.

The surge lapped at the doors
of the beach-level hotel rooms.
We went out, anyway,
courageous, youthful,
whipped to a glorious frenzy
by the prevailing winds.

Water swallowed us up to our knees,
shorts soaked from hip-high swells on the berm,
each retreating wave
playing succubi on our exposed calves
and ripping the sand from beneath
our red Yellow Box flip-flops.

I felt a Goddess,
brought to a Life above life–
caught in its power,
held close,
somehow made a friend.

Did you feel intoxicated? I did.
I reveled in the cataclysm.
Perhaps Lucifer knew of
my secret sympathy for him.
The poor bastard hoped to share with a kindred,
his sound and and his fury…signifying what?

Did we speak much? I can’t remember.
All that matters was that I was there,
vivified and deified, with you.
Lucifer reached out to touch mad Persephone,
in affection, in pity,
knowing what came next.

The Devil, you see, knows love, too.
Love and betrayal, giving and receiving.
He gave me what he could–
a brief and shining moment before my own Fall,
knowing I’d rather spend it with you
than anyone.

And after that,
it was never the same again,
for you climbed the mountain
while I remained,
as always,
at sea level.


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