Once upon a time there was a pretty young bunny.

I have already made myself a liar. Do you know that writers make things up? Well, they do. That’s what writers do most of the day, really. So when I tell you that once upon a time there was a pretty young bunny, you should know that isn’t at all the fact of the matter.

Truth be told this bunny was not pretty by the high standards of society, she was not all that young, either, and she was not even a bunny. What she was, actually, was pretty by her own standards, in her eyes and her laugh and her ability to make other people feel good about themselves. She was twenty-nine, so not quite as young as she used to be, but still young enough that she might get away with it if nobody looked too hard. She was a person, a human sort of person, with an odd, long-standing pet name bestowed upon her whilst on a camping trip some years previously.

Now this matter has been cleared up, we can proceed with the story, with you, the reader, in a much better position to see things progress with clarity.

This pretty young bunny quite enjoyed coffee. Ah, now you see why I had to explain the true nature of the character, don’t you? Coffee is not generally associated with bunnies, at least not the rabbit kind, and I would hate to be responsible for someone giving a pet heart failure after feeding them something they really ought not.

She was quite fussy about her coffee, and also not in possession of a great deal of financial backing. I’m sure by now you have guessed that this particular bunny who is not a bunny was a writing sort of bunny, and not, in fact, paid for that skill at all. For this reason, it was rare that she could enjoy a coffee out by herself, made in her favourite way, and from her favourite place that wasn’t a far off, coffee growing country that she may or may not visit at some point in her lifetime.

She savoured the delicious beverage, battling off the autumn blues she was prone to on grey, blustery days, just early enough in the morning that the sun hadn’t quite risen. She walked through the public gardens of her hometown, the salt of the nearby sea mingling with the pungency of bonfires and leaf mould. The wind was brisk, and as she enjoyed her treat she held it in both hands like a treasure, keeping her fingers warm as she went.

Soon, the coffee was gone.

These things happen, for all we wish they wouldn’t, and the pretty young bunny felt sorry that there could not be such a thing as endless cups, whilst simultaneously knowing that the truth of pleasure is that it is made more special by its fleeting nature. This was mostly to do with her being a writing sort of bunny, and waxing a little too poetical about simple things that no one truly cared about.

She took the empty cup to the nearest bin to throw it away in a responsible manner, as most people do not, only to be met by a puzzlement. What sort of puzzlement, you ask? Well, the very worst kind. The kind where you have very little information to go on and must use your own common sense.

Writers do not, generally speaking, have too much common sense. I realise this is an unkind, sweeping statement, but I fear we are all so caught up in our heads that sometimes we forget about the real world and how it works. This particular pretty young bunny had very little common sense to speak of, and often found herself in trouble because of it.

This conundrum, was that the bin had two sides. One side said, in bold, gold lettering, “CANS. BOTTLES. PLASTIC.”

Whilst the other, no less impressively, stated, “PAPER. CARD. LITTER.”

Now the pretty young bunny thought for only a moment, out in public and afraid of being humiliated by a trash receptacle, before deciding her best course of action was to put her cup in the second side. She knew, of course, in the deep recesses of her mind, not otherwise occupied by dragons, dwarves and functional female armour, that she should really have taken the lid from the coffee cup and put it in the first side, but she allowed her embarrassment to overpower her and failed to recycle efficiently.

No sooner had she put her hand into the opening of the bin to drop the coffee cup, did a sharp, cold hand grab her wrist. She did not have time to cry out, to shout for help, or even struggle. She was caught, and immediately yanked down, deep down into the depths of the litter bin. She was subsequently never heard from again, save for the occasional, bizarre bit of writing that would be posted up on the back of napkins or old envelopes, but quite possibly should have been treated as trash in any case.

The end.


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