I am now going to tell you a story, purely fictional, of course, that myself and a trusted friend experienced a handful of years ago.



I am somewhat of a peculiar person—I don’t like to wear socks as I enjoy feeling the open air between my toes. I am tall, with bobby hair akin to that of a bird’s-nest. My face is swollen and my neck is too. I am quite shy, you see, and as such tend to be quite insecure about a wide range of things, namely here, that of friendship. Perhaps I have an inkling that they–who decide to in some regard be a friend to me, are really just bored as I am not all very interesting. It could be that my own mother, for example, orchestrates their presence in my life, through some sort of financial incentive I’d assume (these are the thoughts I cannot help but muster). That is why I say he is a somewhat trusted friend, because I struggle to wholeheartedly trust my friends.



This friend however, let me tell you honestly, is not that much better than me. In fact, if you were to put the two of us in a room with strangers, and these strangers were to assess our character, I imagine my prospects and likenings could even be better-received than his. My friend is clueless, I am delicate. He is far more attractive than I am, though I take far better care of myself. Clothes seem to fit him well, and me not so well. I want to try and feel better about myself, and not compare us, but I cannot help it. We are not even friends anymore at this present moment of writing, and I have already told you far too much.



It was the middle of the longest day of the year, it seemed. It was hot, and my skin felt like silky coffee grinds in the bottom of the press. I had not slept much the night before, and this day then was immensely irritating to me. My friend did not have the faintest idea of how to effectively tie his laces, and as such we had to keep stopping so he could retie his laces. The idiot should have gone without shoes, I remember thinking.



We were on the way to the beach because we knew it was a fun thing to do. We tended to do the same fun thing over and over because it was safe that way and time, then, cannot be wasted; at the beach we could jump off the sand dunes, gather up various wasting away proportions, or really just sit and not have to talk to one another because looking at the ocean, with its comings and goings, was interesting enough– or at least the idea of it seemed to be.



On our way to the beach, my friend again bent over to fix his laces, his sweat rolling off and drooling on the suede of his shoes. However, next to him lay a dead rabbit. The rabbit was bleeding out intensely, with blood quickly inspissating through its coagulating marriage with the sun’s command– it was a peculiar sight. Most notable however, and most unsightly of all, was the gaping wound of the poor rabbit's hind leg, where, well, the hind leg had been severed off. The blood ran fresh off toward the grass next to the sidewalk like used, grey, soapy water trickling off the dishrack and pooling in the corner of the basin. It did not smell, there were no flies present, and as I spun on my heel I did not see anyone presently. I almost here, expected someone to present themselves. My friend had not noticed it somehow, what a fool he was!



“Look” - I said, wishy-washy, hushed.

“Look where?” My friend replied.

“To your right”



My friend leapt up as if it were some sort of disgusting serpent, not a dead rabbit,



“What is that?” He barked, ordering.

“A dead rabbit”

“It looks like a chewed up massacred piece of steak”



Here, I could see what he meant, for it was quite tricky to really identify what we were in fact looking at.



“Where has its leg gone?”



I, for some reason asked. Perhaps I was trying to merely guide my friend’s attention toward the fact that the leg was missing, as I felt he had not yet noticed such.



“Someone’s taken the poor bastard’s leg!” Wobbled out of my friend’s lips.



What a bumbling mess, I thought. The thing was dead, now, and poorly resembled nothing more than a lump – in fact, it was nothing at all. I recall being able to feel my derby’s against my feet, how uncomfortable it really felt; usually I do not notice this sort of thing. I felt as though someone was pressing down on my diaphragm with all might, and I lost my ability to breath out of my mouth, constrained instead to shallow, nasal gasps. I was increasingly unsure of myself.



“We should bury it” I said, “On the beach”

“I don’t want to touch that mess”

“I’ll carry it in my cap”

“But it’s leaking out, don’t ruin a good hat on this.”



My friend tilted his head so greatly toward the sky as he said this that it looked as if he was trying to itch his ear with his shoulder.



“It’s okay, I don’t mind”



And this fact was truthful. I really didn’t mind. The poor thing couldn’t just be left there. My friend, with all respect to him, was very understanding of my convictions. He trusted me far more than I would have ever of him.



“I suppose you are right.” He nodded.



And so I scooped up the rabbit. I could feel it’s warmth leeching through, and blood was running out and off the back cinch. It was now apparent to me that the rabbit’s neck had been snapped. As my friend and I stumbled toward the beach (we were not far) trying to avoid the drippings of blood from reaching our clothes, I was aware that we must have been leaving a horrific dotted trail behind us, but I did not care to check. The sun was creeping down my neck and the spaces between my fingers felt itchy. I could not wait to submerge them in the ocean, to get the cool water under my fingernails and between the folds of my eyelids. My nose was crusted with sweat. We did not speak.



Upon arrival at the entrance to the beach, being a rudimentary staircase that cut through the welcoming dunes, I spotted a fisherman, wading and hip height, dressed in all brown. He appeared to have what could only be assumed to be three large fish sitting next to a bag, and a chair, 20 metres back on the coast behind him. In fact, as my friend and I mooched our way down the stairs, it became increasingly apparent that these fish were outrageous in size, specifically larger than any fish that one would imagine to be swimming around in the measly, presenting stretch, still so close to shore and fairly unappealing in sight. Upon closer inspection however, what I at first thought, from a distance, was a chair, was instead a sort of pull-trolley – worth remark in its phenomena in light of the fact that it then could be assumed that this man had, from the start, been planning to catch these gargantuatan fish. He appeared to be wrestling away at yet another beast as we approached. I could not make out from our distance as to what fish he was bringing in– but I assure you purely by the sheer size of them, akin to driftwood lying there idly on the sand, that this fisherman’s work, craft, was nothing short of magic.



“Here looks good?” Asked my friend.



He gestured toward an area of the beach that was neither remarkable or good. In fact, it just looked like any other area of the beach. I often think with this friend, that he really does not have a clue nor inkling for this sort of thing. I suppose he was merely trying to be helpful though. We are not even anymore friends, so my thoughts on his actions, now, retrospectively, as such of these, do not even matter. He is gone now, and that is that.



“I suppose so”.



I didn’t know where else to bury it, and the sun was intensely bothering me and the blood was sticking my fingers together in a sickly, sappy, indulgent way. It felt terrible, and I wanted to reset it all with the ocean water.



We dug out a hole, and decided to bury the rabbit still cocooned in the hat. Through this, it felt as though my efforts were not overlooked, my sacrifice, generosity, seen in the disgust of a poor kid who by pure accident managed to uncover the mangled rabbit while playing in the sand. It was starting to smell a little now, also, and a curious seagull was circulating. We gathered two sticks, and lay them down on top of the rabbit, which we hastily kicked over and concealed with sand. Arranged in a cross, it was a pleasant sight. We scattered shells in a circle around it.



“Shall we say a few words?” Asked my friend.

”No, I think this is more than enough. It is only a rabbit neither of us even knew the name of.”

”Should we name it?”

”Good idea.”

”How about Leo?”



It was a stupid name he had suggested, but at this point I really did not care even slightly. I just wanted to throw myself into the water.

”Okay, Leo will do”. I uttered, not breaking my eyeline from the grave. I felt like, or rather I couldn’t help but, say a few words:



“Little Dick, though your sight made me sick,

How I hope you rest well, buried around shell,

I’m sure you were great, unfortunately we arrived too late!

And couldn’t save your soul, now your death takes it’s toll”



While I recited there words, closing my eyes out of respect, I could hear the wobble and click of what I assumed was the fisherman’s trolley growing nearer. WHen I turned around to confirm such, my suspicion was in fact correct. Aggressively tall, with a rock smooth face, in barefoot and all clothing brown, even his cap sunfaded toward brown, A cigarette hung out of his mouth so awkwardly that, it appeared as if he was playing some sort of game whereby he was trying to figure out how close he could hold the thing on the edge off his lips. He was nonsensically humming, slapping his feet greedily, deliberately, in the sand, lugging behind him his prized, overweight trolley. So much so the wheels could hardly spin. It now boasted four fat fish. I could here see clearly the wonderful freshness of these fish, appearing like molds of gellatine, like candy. Big ones too, all in all too awkwardly big to butcher single-handedly, unless one equipped themselves with some fairly serious knowhow. It was really an extraordinary sight, which is why I here wanted to tell you this story. As he approached us, his expression did not change.



“We just had a funeral for a rabbit named Leo that we found.” Said my friend. Why he said this I do not know.



“Ah, sorry to hear of your loss, not easy losing a friend.” As he delivered such, he exhaled loudly and rolled back on his heels.

”But I’m sure his death was in good favour, in splendid returns, it all comes back around you know?

He prodded us here with a grin

”Seems like you had a lucky day.” I said, still in astonishment. “Those are some fish.”

”Oh yes, I have my tricks.” He delivered, with such certainty, no doubt or appeasement.

”Well!” My friend could not resist – “Could you share how?”

”Of course”.



And with that he reached into his tackle box hanging off the trolley.



“I don’t consider myself very lucky a man, but with a little help sometimes I don’t do all too bad. Today I wasn’t so shabby.”



And with that, appeared a rabbit foot. Dried blood painted it.



”I use these old things as bait!”. He laughed, again with no hesitation, “and now, every day seems to be my lucky day.”



His stride did not break. He walked away, and then too-far gone.

In the process of transcription. Please bear with me...