Two Rabbits | Part 1

The rabbit’s small, auburn, almost black eyes fix on the source of the noise. The rabbit stops chewing the root still sticking from her mouth. The moon is a glint in her eye. The world slows down. Silences. Then, the rustling is all around. With a loud woosh the rabbit is swept up into the sky in a beam of bright light and, still suspended mid-air, immaterialized.

Moments later she reappears, assembled atom by atom in a black, vacuous cube of unknown smell and substance. Sprigs of green grass lie strewn about her. The rabbit lets the masticated root, suddenly tasting somewhat strange, drop from her mouth. She has a curious sensation of not being the same rabbit she was moments before. Somehow, she knows that whatever she is made of, flesh and fur and an innate rabbit-ness, has been altered. Seamlessly, it seems. Yet leaving a strange, tingling sensation of cellular rejuvenation throughout her small, crouched body.

The rabbit hops around the black cube, testing its boundaries. She isn’t panicked. She can’t see anything immediate that would kill and eat her. She knows what a snare is, and what it does, and how it smells. This is not that. This doesn’t smell like them. Nor does it instill fear and pain and break your limbs, as she has seen snares and other such traps do. This is something else. Something new. And so far, something not particularly unpleasant. And so, the rabbit picks up the root that she had dropped from her mouth moments before and resumes chewing.

#47 How deep does the rabbit-hole go (up into the sky)?