Handsome little Rabbit was a writer, but this night in particular Rabbit had nothing to write about. Was he a writer anyway? He didn’t know, but he became afraid of not-being, so he put on his jacket and set out to find a good story.

He found one inside a hollow tree, a perfect one indeed: well -rounded, colorful, just the right size. But the hollow was so deep and scary , Rabbit’s little arm began to shake and he did not dare pick it up. He sought a little further and found another one beneath a stone, but the stone was heavy and the story was long, and as handsome little Rabbit pulled, he became more and more tired. So he left that story there and continued searching.

He walked out of his garden and into the empty road, then saw a good enough story driving past in a battered old Chevy. Handsome little Rabbit hopped and jumped in pursuit, but his feet were not big enough to keep up, and he lost the story forever. He made one last desperate attempt and went to the pub where the common, not-so-interesting stories always hung out. He tried to flirt with the better-looking ones to try and bring some home, at least one. But this was not handsome little Rabbit’s lucky night: none of the stories was looking for a one-night fling.

So handsome little Rabbit walked back home with his ears hanging low and his whiskers crumpled in frustration. He took a hot shower and drank some cold carrot juice. Before going to bed he cast a sideways glance at his computer, where he should have been sitting at that moment, typing away some thrilling fiction for others to enjoy. Defeated, he lay on his handsome little bed and lo! There, underneath his pillow, a faithful old tale, just long enough to be a wholesome, one-go read, just simple enough to be witty and fun, had been waiting for him all along. He picked it up and hugged it in deep thankfulness. But handsome little Rabbit was so tired after so many adventures that, instead of writing it down, he held it to his heart all night, thinking maybe, just maybe, this one will not get written down, but kept around under the pillow some more time, safe and sound, secret and cuddly, for another, rainier day.

About the Author:

D. Salazar is an explorer of automatic writing.