One-Inch Margins, Twelve-Point Font
I've had a lot of fun in my Intermediate Fiction-Writing class this semester, and one of the best parts is Randall Kenan's crazocity. The last day of class, he said that every story should have a dead rabbit in it, and then jokingly said we could turn in a dead-rabbit story instead of a story revision for our final grade. Well, I --of course-- didn't believe him, so I revised my story.
I also wrote a dead-rabbit story to go along with my submission.
It's not as long as the 10+-page stories I normally write, but I think it does an okay job of fulfilling the prompt. And, just 'cause, here it is.
The Rabbit Trick
by Kit FitzSimons
The cake was gone, the candles blown, the ponies trotted, the donkey's tail pinned, the balloons en-animaled, and now, all 39 second-graders were waiting for Dart to wow them with the rabbit trick he'd promised. They'd been begging for an hour, through his card stalls and hatch-an-egg crowd pleasers, and Dart really, really wanted them to stop.
Because the rabbit had died halfway through his first hat trick. Unfortunately unfed, Googleplex the Bunny (as he was affectionately known) had taken to gnawing on the inside of his secret storage space. This, in conjunction with an overgreased spring mechanism, had climaxed with a sharp, snapping noise, and Dart had looked down at the few remaining knotted handkerchiefs and seen, nestled among them, the severed head of Googleplex the Bunny.
The show, he had thought, must go on.
An hour later, the show was still going on because he couldn't figure out how to end it. He certainly couldn't just go out on a down-note; the kids were nearly rabid with frustration and boredom as it was. He had to keep them happy; it was the motto for the day. The ones who'd made it a motto, young Harry Lassiter's parents, were still inside gossiping with the neighbors, and there was no way to tell when they'd return to check in on their birthday sitter.
Birthday sitter: the most recent in a long string of whatever-jobs supposedly meant to tide Dart over after graduating. This over-tiding had lasted four years though so far, and nothing had ever exactly led to the bigger, better things he'd hoped for. His treehouse construction worker gig had netted a single customer and a plate of mediocre brownies. His campground placeholder service had been popular, but he was only one man, and he couldn't survive on 20 bucks for every six hours of sitting in an RV space. Even Digital Camera Memories fell through. It had been the most lucrative idea by far-snapping shots of tourists, then burning them a copy right there on his laptop-but then rent went up, and he no longer had money for CD-Rs. The entrepreneurial spirit was willing, it seemed, but the cold hard cash was weak.
And now here he was, discovering the hidden downsides of what had, once again, seemed the perfect occupation. There was apparently a reason why nobody had thought of 'professional birthday sitter' before: it demanded the sitter keep an entire gaggle of kids entertained for consecutive spans of as-long-as-it-takes. A birthday party host got away with two hours of happy-farming. A babysitter got away with plopping the kids in front of the TV and herding them off to bed. Dart meanwhile had to time-manage his way through cake, clowns, presents, piñatas and his own personal magic show, and nothing short of Mt. St. Helens erupting was allowed to send the kids running to Mommy. Or else, Mr. and Mrs. Lassiter had decreed, he wouldn't be paid.
Thinking back on it, the Lassiters had been a mistake. Dart had foolishly thought that being picky about personalities would be bank-breakingly unprofessional, and so he had taken the first request he'd gotten and run with it. His initial meeting with the Lassiters had been two hours longer than he'd planned, but that was business for you. Mrs. Lassiter had called him daily with unnecessary reminders and undiscussed additions, but that too was business. And then the numbers had started rolling in, and Dart had realized he should have charged by the head, not by the hour. And again, that was business. Terrible and heart-stopping business, yes, but also under-contract business. The show had to go on.
The tricks were coming slower now, as the table was already piled high with spent magic store novelties. Dart whipped out a bunch of flowers that he could have sworn he'd already produced.
"You already did that trick," Harry Lassiter confirmed with a mouth full of yellow cake. Dart couldn't stop smiling...for fear he'd scream.
It was time to get out, both out of the birthday-sitter market and out of this picket-fenced hellscape. The sea of second-graders was getting choppy, bouncing in their chairs. Any second now, one of them was going to start them all chanting, "The rabbit! Give us the rabbit!"
Thirty-nine. Thirty. Nine. What in the world, Dart wondered, had these people been thinking anyway. Thirty-nine parents were somehow crammed into that colonial two-story up there, sipping their wine and iced tea or commenting on the lovely colors in the wallpaper. Mr. and Mrs. Lassiter were biding their time, waiting for the perfect minute to usher everyone out for the big reveal: magically, 39 eight-year-olds would still be smiling after half a day away from their parents. Until that moment though, they were keeping their friends and neighbors corralled, every one of them blithely oblivious to the fact that their kids, twenty feet downhill, were in severe danger of learning the word 'decapitation.'
The first real whine brought Dart back from his dark place. Still on auto-magic-pilot, he pulled a quarter from behind the blonde-pigtailed girl's ear and handed it to her. Seventeen other kids had already received them, so this did nothing to ease the mood. It did, however, finish off Dart's laundry-day money. The little girl just as absentmindedly pocketed the coin and kept up her soprano humming. Several others joined in in various tones of discomfort.
Dart's forehead beaded up in double time now. He was losing them. It was moments of desperation like this when his most brilliant ideas came out though. He began to wonder if he could hold Googleplex the Bunny around the neck and wiggle him around a little without the kids noticing the blood. Of course, it would be easier, he thought, without these white gloves, and he began prying them off.
He recognized in that instant --as he finished his mental plan to pull a dead rabbit out of a hat-- that he was on the verge of total derangement, but that too, it seemed, was business for you.
"Okay, kids," he said, "It's finally time! We're going to try that rabbit trick!" However, a host of whines greeted this announcement, and Dart faltered. "But, guys," he wheedled in sing-song, "it's going to be like no magic trick you've every seen before!" He knelt in front of the blonde-pigtailed girl. "Wouldn't you like to see my crazy-color splash-effect magic rabbit trick? I could even make his body disappear!" The girl got to her feet and looked him dead in the eye.
"Dart the Magician," she said pointblank, "I need to use the restroom."
He stared at her. In his mind, for a long moment, he heard arterial blood plonking in a puddle in the secret compartment like water in a cave. Drip. Drip.
He meekly turned and asked, "Anybody else?"
Five minutes later, there was a line both upstairs and down, and parents were embarrassedly herding their own into minivans, rushing off home to get to a potty sooner. Dart was $200 richer, and the Lassiters were still smiling.
"Thanks so much," Mr. Lassiter said, as they stood at the muddled magic table. "Laura and I really appreciate all your good work." He gave Harry a squeeze on the shoulder. "You got anything to say, big man?"
Harry nodded. "Fank you," he mumbled. Yellow crumbs sprayed out again, covering Dart's front. Dart smiled regardless. The party was over, so there would never be any need to ever wear this shirt again. He was through.
And then Mrs. Lassiter picked up the hat.
"Let's get a picture of you two," she said, smiling. Dart swallowed and reached out slowly. If he moved too quickly, he knew she'd get possessive and cling. Don't look down, he chanted silently, don't look down, Laura, just don't...
"Here you go, Harry," Mrs. Lassiter said. "Who's a magician now?" She flipped it over once, and it came down on Harry's head with an audible glunk. Too late, Dart thought, I'm too late. He smiled and squatted, one arm over Harry's shoulder, surrounded by handkerchief strings and Bicycle decks and streamers and wrapped hard candy and paper tablecloths and leftover goodie bags.
At this second, he thought, all they want is a happy picture. Once that was over with, with one final flourish...he'd do the rabbit trick.
By the way, the lj-cut text is not the title of the story but is, instead, the caption of a Parking Lot Is Full cartoon. Enjoy.
.
I also wrote a dead-rabbit story to go along with my submission.
It's not as long as the 10+-page stories I normally write, but I think it does an okay job of fulfilling the prompt. And, just 'cause, here it is.
The Rabbit Trick
by Kit FitzSimons
The cake was gone, the candles blown, the ponies trotted, the donkey's tail pinned, the balloons en-animaled, and now, all 39 second-graders were waiting for Dart to wow them with the rabbit trick he'd promised. They'd been begging for an hour, through his card stalls and hatch-an-egg crowd pleasers, and Dart really, really wanted them to stop.
Because the rabbit had died halfway through his first hat trick. Unfortunately unfed, Googleplex the Bunny (as he was affectionately known) had taken to gnawing on the inside of his secret storage space. This, in conjunction with an overgreased spring mechanism, had climaxed with a sharp, snapping noise, and Dart had looked down at the few remaining knotted handkerchiefs and seen, nestled among them, the severed head of Googleplex the Bunny.
The show, he had thought, must go on.
An hour later, the show was still going on because he couldn't figure out how to end it. He certainly couldn't just go out on a down-note; the kids were nearly rabid with frustration and boredom as it was. He had to keep them happy; it was the motto for the day. The ones who'd made it a motto, young Harry Lassiter's parents, were still inside gossiping with the neighbors, and there was no way to tell when they'd return to check in on their birthday sitter.
Birthday sitter: the most recent in a long string of whatever-jobs supposedly meant to tide Dart over after graduating. This over-tiding had lasted four years though so far, and nothing had ever exactly led to the bigger, better things he'd hoped for. His treehouse construction worker gig had netted a single customer and a plate of mediocre brownies. His campground placeholder service had been popular, but he was only one man, and he couldn't survive on 20 bucks for every six hours of sitting in an RV space. Even Digital Camera Memories fell through. It had been the most lucrative idea by far-snapping shots of tourists, then burning them a copy right there on his laptop-but then rent went up, and he no longer had money for CD-Rs. The entrepreneurial spirit was willing, it seemed, but the cold hard cash was weak.
And now here he was, discovering the hidden downsides of what had, once again, seemed the perfect occupation. There was apparently a reason why nobody had thought of 'professional birthday sitter' before: it demanded the sitter keep an entire gaggle of kids entertained for consecutive spans of as-long-as-it-takes. A birthday party host got away with two hours of happy-farming. A babysitter got away with plopping the kids in front of the TV and herding them off to bed. Dart meanwhile had to time-manage his way through cake, clowns, presents, piñatas and his own personal magic show, and nothing short of Mt. St. Helens erupting was allowed to send the kids running to Mommy. Or else, Mr. and Mrs. Lassiter had decreed, he wouldn't be paid.
Thinking back on it, the Lassiters had been a mistake. Dart had foolishly thought that being picky about personalities would be bank-breakingly unprofessional, and so he had taken the first request he'd gotten and run with it. His initial meeting with the Lassiters had been two hours longer than he'd planned, but that was business for you. Mrs. Lassiter had called him daily with unnecessary reminders and undiscussed additions, but that too was business. And then the numbers had started rolling in, and Dart had realized he should have charged by the head, not by the hour. And again, that was business. Terrible and heart-stopping business, yes, but also under-contract business. The show had to go on.
The tricks were coming slower now, as the table was already piled high with spent magic store novelties. Dart whipped out a bunch of flowers that he could have sworn he'd already produced.
"You already did that trick," Harry Lassiter confirmed with a mouth full of yellow cake. Dart couldn't stop smiling...for fear he'd scream.
It was time to get out, both out of the birthday-sitter market and out of this picket-fenced hellscape. The sea of second-graders was getting choppy, bouncing in their chairs. Any second now, one of them was going to start them all chanting, "The rabbit! Give us the rabbit!"
Thirty-nine. Thirty. Nine. What in the world, Dart wondered, had these people been thinking anyway. Thirty-nine parents were somehow crammed into that colonial two-story up there, sipping their wine and iced tea or commenting on the lovely colors in the wallpaper. Mr. and Mrs. Lassiter were biding their time, waiting for the perfect minute to usher everyone out for the big reveal: magically, 39 eight-year-olds would still be smiling after half a day away from their parents. Until that moment though, they were keeping their friends and neighbors corralled, every one of them blithely oblivious to the fact that their kids, twenty feet downhill, were in severe danger of learning the word 'decapitation.'
The first real whine brought Dart back from his dark place. Still on auto-magic-pilot, he pulled a quarter from behind the blonde-pigtailed girl's ear and handed it to her. Seventeen other kids had already received them, so this did nothing to ease the mood. It did, however, finish off Dart's laundry-day money. The little girl just as absentmindedly pocketed the coin and kept up her soprano humming. Several others joined in in various tones of discomfort.
Dart's forehead beaded up in double time now. He was losing them. It was moments of desperation like this when his most brilliant ideas came out though. He began to wonder if he could hold Googleplex the Bunny around the neck and wiggle him around a little without the kids noticing the blood. Of course, it would be easier, he thought, without these white gloves, and he began prying them off.
He recognized in that instant --as he finished his mental plan to pull a dead rabbit out of a hat-- that he was on the verge of total derangement, but that too, it seemed, was business for you.
"Okay, kids," he said, "It's finally time! We're going to try that rabbit trick!" However, a host of whines greeted this announcement, and Dart faltered. "But, guys," he wheedled in sing-song, "it's going to be like no magic trick you've every seen before!" He knelt in front of the blonde-pigtailed girl. "Wouldn't you like to see my crazy-color splash-effect magic rabbit trick? I could even make his body disappear!" The girl got to her feet and looked him dead in the eye.
"Dart the Magician," she said pointblank, "I need to use the restroom."
He stared at her. In his mind, for a long moment, he heard arterial blood plonking in a puddle in the secret compartment like water in a cave. Drip. Drip.
He meekly turned and asked, "Anybody else?"
Five minutes later, there was a line both upstairs and down, and parents were embarrassedly herding their own into minivans, rushing off home to get to a potty sooner. Dart was $200 richer, and the Lassiters were still smiling.
"Thanks so much," Mr. Lassiter said, as they stood at the muddled magic table. "Laura and I really appreciate all your good work." He gave Harry a squeeze on the shoulder. "You got anything to say, big man?"
Harry nodded. "Fank you," he mumbled. Yellow crumbs sprayed out again, covering Dart's front. Dart smiled regardless. The party was over, so there would never be any need to ever wear this shirt again. He was through.
And then Mrs. Lassiter picked up the hat.
"Let's get a picture of you two," she said, smiling. Dart swallowed and reached out slowly. If he moved too quickly, he knew she'd get possessive and cling. Don't look down, he chanted silently, don't look down, Laura, just don't...
"Here you go, Harry," Mrs. Lassiter said. "Who's a magician now?" She flipped it over once, and it came down on Harry's head with an audible glunk. Too late, Dart thought, I'm too late. He smiled and squatted, one arm over Harry's shoulder, surrounded by handkerchief strings and Bicycle decks and streamers and wrapped hard candy and paper tablecloths and leftover goodie bags.
At this second, he thought, all they want is a happy picture. Once that was over with, with one final flourish...he'd do the rabbit trick.
By the way, the lj-cut text is not the title of the story but is, instead, the caption of a Parking Lot Is Full cartoon. Enjoy.
.