Bunny Beatings and Belated Bawling

It’s spring. The trees are in blossom, the sun is shining gently on the lower mainland, and I am doing what any sensible teenager does in those conditions: lying in bed reading. As I lay there on the bottom bunk of the bed, undoubtedly making my way through yet another fantasy novel, my brother who shared the room with me saunters in. My back was to him and the rest of the room, but I could see him in my peripherals, rustling through his trove of Easter chocolate.

“Hey! did you eat some of my chocolate.” He asked forcefully.
Not bothered by this regular and factually unfounded question, I mumbled that no, I did not. Unsatisfied with my answer, he asked me again, and if I had been looking, I would undoubtedly have seen an evil glint to his eyes. Once again I responded. This time, more forcefully myself, “Why would I eat your chocolate? I have tons of my own.”

This was true. In fact, I had more chocolate than I knew what to do with, but he was, for whatever reason, constantly suspicious of my eating his chocolate, despite there being zero precedence for such an occurrence.

Over my shoulder, I see him move from his pile of chocolate to mine. Of course, it took me a few seconds to realize what he was doing, but as he began cramming MY chocolate into his mouth, I clued in. Vexed with his incredulous imbecility, I put my book down and got out of the bottom bunk.

“What are you doing?” He asked me.

Saying nothing, I circled around him to his own pile of chocolate and proceeded to take hold of his large, dense, chocolate bunny. Realizing my intentions, my brother lunged and grabbed me from behind, but after a brief struggle, and despite his being much older and larger than me, I unwrapped the bunny, and in a moment of ecstatic triumph I bit off a large chunk from the bunnies head. Thinking the moment over, and the conflict resolved, I naively ceased struggling and dropped the bunny, presuming to return to my book. Of course, my brother had something else in mind. Grabbing the chocolate bunny, he once more latched onto me from behind. This time, however, he began beating me over the head with the solid chocolate rabbit. In pain, I began pleading with my older brother to stop hitting me, but he was deaf to my cries. In desperation I struggled against him, and we crashed around the room knocking into things and creating a ruckus. This proved my saviour, as my father stormed into the room and separated us. I rushed across then hall and into the bathroom whilst tears of indignant rage began spilling down my face, hurt by my role model, and more angry than I had ever been before. It was the first time I had cried in three years.

The Pope

The Pope

The two boys were wandering aimlessly in the back field behind the house, hacking at bushes with sticks, and attacking the new grove of trees which dwarfed the fearless children.

“Did you know that the Pope can speak nine languages?” John asked suddenly.

Will looked over from where he was whacking the trunk of a tree a few feet away.

“Nine?” He asked skeptically.

“Yup.” John replied seriously. “He speaks English, Polish, Italian, and, well, some others, I guess.”

“That’s a lot.” Will remarked. “I guess you have to know a lot of languages to be the pope.”

John just nodded his head as if this were only natural, and the boys promptly resumed their work, destroying invisible enemies and pursuing valiant deeds with wooden swords

The Hero of the Valley

He was an impulsive child. The most recurring comment on his report cards throughout both elementary and high school was: “He is intelligent, but rushes through his work and makes mistakes.” But this never got his spirits down. He was a dreamer; if he wasn’t reading about heroes and villains, elves and orcs, angels and demons, then he was off fighting them with his friends, imagining himself as a classical hero; that or he was playing one video game or another where he was the protagonist of some epic journey.

When the night of his grade seven graduation came, he was excited for the awards ceremony in which he was hoping to receive the proper accolades fitting for a hero such as he. But as the night went on, and the awards were given to churlish ignoramus like Adam, or incompetent swine like Nick R, he was beginning to understand how real life worked. Real life heroes were a lot less cool than the ones he had read about. He realized that the books had been lying to him. And them came the fatal blow, the castration, the decapitation, the spiritual emancipation: his twin sister won the final award.

Disappointed.

By: Alec GloanecĀ