Contributor: Michael W. Clark, Ph.D
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The plastic bag reminded him of something. Something in his past. The past wasn’t too far away considering his short life. But it was when he was three or four. When he was small and spherical of body. At least, that’s the way he remembered it. He used to play this game. He was a late walker too, so he spent a lot of time on the floor, a lot of the time on the hard, dusty wood floor. His mom wasn’t too interested in household chores so the floor was dusty, very dusty. “Dust Bunnies” one time his father called them. One of the times his father was home and actually played with him. One time that he remembered. So the game was called Dust Bunny. Dust bunnies were his only playmates, mostly. So he would imagine himself as a Dusty Bunny, blowing in the faint breeze. Even a foot step had the Dusty Bunnies scampering away in all directions. “Look mother! I am a Dusty Bunny!” He would shout up from the floor where he was all curled up in a ball, just the way a Dust Bunny should be; no legs, not arms, and no head. “I’m a Dust Bunny! Clean me up!” He would giggle. For some reason Dust Bunny simply made his mother angry. Not angry, mad. “I’ll clean you up!” She would shout, get her broom and then spank him with it. The other Dust Bunnies were not supportive of him at all. They all ran for their lives in all direction from the menace of the broom. He now thinks, when the world goes bad on him, “Well, you can’t count on a dust bunny.” Simply to remind himself of the way the world really is. Why the plastic bag that he gently lowered the severed hand into, reminded him of “Dust Bunny,” he really didn’t understand. Still, he reminded himself by saying out loud, “Never rely on a Dust Bunny.”
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I am a biologist and writer with seven short stories published. Most recently stories have been in Lost Souls, Surprising Stories, Trembles, and will be in the 2013 Morpheus Tales.
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The plastic bag reminded him of something. Something in his past. The past wasn’t too far away considering his short life. But it was when he was three or four. When he was small and spherical of body. At least, that’s the way he remembered it. He used to play this game. He was a late walker too, so he spent a lot of time on the floor, a lot of the time on the hard, dusty wood floor. His mom wasn’t too interested in household chores so the floor was dusty, very dusty. “Dust Bunnies” one time his father called them. One of the times his father was home and actually played with him. One time that he remembered. So the game was called Dust Bunny. Dust bunnies were his only playmates, mostly. So he would imagine himself as a Dusty Bunny, blowing in the faint breeze. Even a foot step had the Dusty Bunnies scampering away in all directions. “Look mother! I am a Dusty Bunny!” He would shout up from the floor where he was all curled up in a ball, just the way a Dust Bunny should be; no legs, not arms, and no head. “I’m a Dust Bunny! Clean me up!” He would giggle. For some reason Dust Bunny simply made his mother angry. Not angry, mad. “I’ll clean you up!” She would shout, get her broom and then spank him with it. The other Dust Bunnies were not supportive of him at all. They all ran for their lives in all direction from the menace of the broom. He now thinks, when the world goes bad on him, “Well, you can’t count on a dust bunny.” Simply to remind himself of the way the world really is. Why the plastic bag that he gently lowered the severed hand into, reminded him of “Dust Bunny,” he really didn’t understand. Still, he reminded himself by saying out loud, “Never rely on a Dust Bunny.”
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I am a biologist and writer with seven short stories published. Most recently stories have been in Lost Souls, Surprising Stories, Trembles, and will be in the 2013 Morpheus Tales.
Author:
Michael W. Clark Ph.D
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