(no subject)
At last week's carnival, Francis had shown a remarkable lack of restraint--dragging Camilla on roller coaster ride after roller coaster ride and eating himself sick on corndogs and cotton candy. Though he'd always disdained the sort of corn-fed, wholesomely Midwestern version of summer entertainments such fairgrounds always seemed to represent, there was, undeniably, a sort of charm about the whole thing.
The best part, by far, had been the games. He'd done unbelievably well at something called Whack-a-Mole; had made a passable showing at the shooting gallery--if nothing else, those Indian summer days spent with the rest of his friends, playing at target practice with his aunt's Beretta, had been of some use after all--and had even managed to knock down a few milk bottles when he tried his luck at the throwing games. Upon turning in his pile of tickets at the prize booth, he was gifted with the largest stuffed rabbit he'd ever seen.
Something about it--its expression, perhaps, or the way one yellow ear would flop down over one eye, much like an errant lock of Bunny's blond hair--sent Camilla into gales of mirth when she saw what he had won, and despite Francis' own protests (unvoiced, but present all the same), the toy was christened Lepus corcoranii after their large and lumbering classmate, a private joke between the two.
Tonight, however, with the carnival long gone and the island back to whatever passes for a definition of normal, both Bunnys were far from Francis' mind. Walking along the path between the Compound and the Boarding House in the fading light of sunset, he paused, hearing a light rustle in the trees. Before he could call out, the leaves parted and a wholly unexpected--and entirely mobile--individual emerged from the jungle nearby.
"François," the rabbit said--or he thought it said; it couldn't speak, not really. And even if it could, he thought, hysteria beginning to creep in just at the edges of his mind, it wouldn't say that, wouldn't call me that. Its fur was covered with brambles and mud, its head canted to one side in an expression Francis would, in any other circumstance, call quizzical. As it was, the toy looked everything like someone who'd suffered a terrible fall; a fall long enough, and a stop sharp enough, to break its neck.
The rabbit smiled then, and its smile was no dopey, affable grin; it was something blood-slick, dark, and terrifying. It advanced, and Francis ran. Seeing someone ahead, he tried to call out a warning, but all that issued from his throat was a strangled, pathetic cry.
((ooc: Timed to early evening. Come save Francis from the evil bunny!))
The best part, by far, had been the games. He'd done unbelievably well at something called Whack-a-Mole; had made a passable showing at the shooting gallery--if nothing else, those Indian summer days spent with the rest of his friends, playing at target practice with his aunt's Beretta, had been of some use after all--and had even managed to knock down a few milk bottles when he tried his luck at the throwing games. Upon turning in his pile of tickets at the prize booth, he was gifted with the largest stuffed rabbit he'd ever seen.
Something about it--its expression, perhaps, or the way one yellow ear would flop down over one eye, much like an errant lock of Bunny's blond hair--sent Camilla into gales of mirth when she saw what he had won, and despite Francis' own protests (unvoiced, but present all the same), the toy was christened Lepus corcoranii after their large and lumbering classmate, a private joke between the two.
Tonight, however, with the carnival long gone and the island back to whatever passes for a definition of normal, both Bunnys were far from Francis' mind. Walking along the path between the Compound and the Boarding House in the fading light of sunset, he paused, hearing a light rustle in the trees. Before he could call out, the leaves parted and a wholly unexpected--and entirely mobile--individual emerged from the jungle nearby.
"François," the rabbit said--or he thought it said; it couldn't speak, not really. And even if it could, he thought, hysteria beginning to creep in just at the edges of his mind, it wouldn't say that, wouldn't call me that. Its fur was covered with brambles and mud, its head canted to one side in an expression Francis would, in any other circumstance, call quizzical. As it was, the toy looked everything like someone who'd suffered a terrible fall; a fall long enough, and a stop sharp enough, to break its neck.
The rabbit smiled then, and its smile was no dopey, affable grin; it was something blood-slick, dark, and terrifying. It advanced, and Francis ran. Seeing someone ahead, he tried to call out a warning, but all that issued from his throat was a strangled, pathetic cry.
((ooc: Timed to early evening. Come save Francis from the evil bunny!))