bunny burrow

       Oh, how often I yearn to be nothing more than the death of a star, one last burst of gleaming glory. Simple, uncomplicated, yet beautiful and everlasting in my absence. But it is a selfish thought. Just as soon as the idea forms itself in my tired mind, the memories rush in. I am my loved ones, and I would never wish the end upon them, as I fear it with a fierceness shadowing all else. 

       The fire crackled and burned with the kind of ferocity that would draw even the most focused of workers in. The raging flames swirled and danced, threatening to breach the humble fireplace that kept it. Righteous as her intentions were and random as chance always is, it was late in the evening, and all but two tasks of the young apprentice’s duties remained. It was all the time she would allow herself, that brief moment of letting her mind wander and twirl with the fire’s swaying.       She wondered if she’d ever be allowed more, by herself or otherwise. More time, more freedom, and more room to breathe between what needed to be done and what would’ve been nice to do. She did what she could, and as her flames showed their first sad signs of diminishing, she sighed and figured that was enough. 

       The River Saoirse was a wide beast with a penchant for mischief, but in Acacia’s presence, no current had been calmer. The young girl rested just on the edge of the river bank, her delicate fingers reaching down to graze the water’s cool surface as the grass tickled her cheek. The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and drying herbs. With a deep, indulgent breath, Acacia looked up at the slow-shifting sky and watched, noting how the stars seemed to dance just for her. She reached her other hand up, forlorn and yearning to accept their offer of a waltz.      The river was a long walk from the cottage, longer still in the last moments of a dying night. But it was always worth it. It snaked through the countryside as far and sweeping as the young girl could recall. Down and down until it flowed into the River Blackwater before finally leading to Kells and beyond. Of course, Kells was as far as Acacia remembered, working only from...

   The portrait tore like flesh beneath Kieran’s grip as he clawed into the dry surface. His fingers raked over the canvas with a smooth, methodical violence, the aged fabric crumbling like dust in his hands.       Kieran stood in the family room, his one exposed eye as cold and as hollow as the harsh winter winds outside. The large, elaborately furnished parlor seemed to sit still in the young lord’s presence, as if holding its breath to hide from a long-simmering wrath. The home he had lived in for years had become a stranger to him, a husk of forced opulence. Malice wove itself through the silver that gilded every surface. The portrait, once proud and regal, now hung in strangled ribbons above the fireplace. Its painted eyes still glared down at him, its smile still fixed, mocking and reflecting the smug pride of a boy Kieran had long forgotten. The crafted gaze laughed at him now, the frayed ends of the fabric fluttering in the flames’ draft, pathetic, ...