The Snake Becomes a Bunny Rabbit

The Snake Becomes a Bunny Rabbit

A Story by ZackOfBridge

Take a dive


I remember, Doc, the rain coming down like cold bulbs. Smashing and shattering on my face. Forehead. Tongue. The toes of my leather shoes, spotted by the rain, hanging over the edge. And I thought, look how they hover over. Just below was the city in fog; lights winking like the leer a hooker with an eye in a purple ring. I remember, with the toes of my spotted shoes hanging over the edge, if I took a step forward, walked out above the nothing like I was walking to the mailbox, the subway, the neon lit hotel, if I would be there suspended in the air. The rain would fall, but that is what it does. Must a man fall too? Picture me, Doc, hanging in the air, not by the knot of my tie around a ceiling pipe but by the hand of God. Like a Magritte painting. I tested it like a boy pokes a stick in a puddle to test just how deep it goes, just how wet his pants will be. I threw my briefcase over the side, not so far, just a short toss. It stopped, steady, like it would on a glass tabletop. The drops of rain collected on the surface of the case. Those thick drops, the thick bulbs, did not weigh it down. It hung there still, and the collection of sky fall poured over its edge. Doc how I laughed! Loud and clear, and I wondered Doc, does a laugh fall? Does it float like a briefcase or does it rise like heat, like a good soul? After the laugh, I wiped the tears from my cheeks; the rain replaced them. Funny. How things can be replaced by fakes. No salt. I figured I could manage the distance so I jumped. A little hop to the briefcase. I felt like a frog on a lily pad. Hoped the sun wouldn’t come out to fry me up.  So there I am. Standing on the briefcase and its propped against nothing. I am kind of standing on nothing at all. By now, it would have been my lunch hour. I guess when you are unemployed anytime can be a lunch hour, but my body didn’t know that yet. So my stomach starts talking at me, telling me the only way to shut it up is to fill it so it can’t talk. Where do you think my sandwich is Doc? Right! The damn briefcase. The rain is done now, packed away, moved on like a carnival and I’m the carnie left behind. Wet socks, spotted shoes, empty stomach. I don’t want to be exhaustive, but I got hung out to dry. I got two options, no, three options.

1.     Take a dive.

a.     I would finally get to feel the wind in my hair. Hear the wind tell me the secrets no living man is allowed to know. Hit the ground. Dead with the secrets. Truth is, I’m lousy at keeping secrets and I figure even death can’t do away with a trait like that. And I don’t want to die, not by the streets of this city, not with my face a stew of blood, tar and stubs of swisher sweets. I do let my tie fall over the side. And the shoes, spotted anyway. The socks, wet, go over. Cufflinks. Shirt. I strip it all off like a snake shedding its skin.

2.     Jump to safety

a.     A snake that sheds its skin is the same snake. A snake wants to live. A small hop could get me back to the tower’s edge. The snake becomes a bunny rabbit. The safety ledge is just over a stretch of my leg away. Leave the briefcase behind. Get another sandwich on the way home. Thing was, Doc, I don’t really have a home. I know what home looks like.

          i.     A couch with the impression of my a*s.

         ii.     A half empty beer I was too tired to finish.

       iii.     A wife with papers for me to sign.

       iv.     A person I don’t know, little and unknowing, clutching at my hip.

Is that home?

The strange things we allow for the sake of shelter. Eh, Doc?

3.     Stay

a.     Stay here. Piss in the wind. Try meditation. What could be more symbolic than a naked man, at a loss for a career title, meditating on a floating briefcase? His balls sagging on the faux-leather.


Well I am here. Must have done something. But I’m not sure what.


© 2015 ZackOfBridge

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Very peculiar in nature but quite enjoyable
I'm no expert at finding meaning in pieces but I can tell that this is just the surface of it.
I like reading your stuff so please write more Mr. Puente

Posted 6 Years Ago


6 Years Ago

Thanks for reading badasston, this is just what happened when I forced myself to write something. T.. read more

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Added on June 25, 2015
Last Updated on June 25, 2015



Camarillo, CA

Whats life but time enough to write stories? more..

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A Story by ZackOfBridge