Bunny Blight (January 2014)
by Andrew Barranca

Most of the time I put a mask on, but I'm really just anxious, all the time, for no reason. That's why I have to stay busy. If I had nothing to do I would just eat myself up inside, so I just keep bulldozing and bulldozing.

I love silence. When the babies are asleep I clear my head. When my mind starts up I shut it down. You've got to learn to let things go. If you hold on to the past you'll never leave it.

What if you live to be 40 Bear? You'd be pretty lucky right? What if you live to be 80? There is a 50 percent chance that will happen. You could do a lot in 80 years. Maybe more than you think. You should stop thinking like Kurt Cobain and start thinking like Johnny Lydon.


The cave is crashing!

One Potato

This is all we have left. We have just this between us. My garden has died. My breasts have dried up. My effort is wasted on holding on to what we have left. This. This tuber, which I would find no joy in eating knowing it could have gone to one of you.

Can I say grace mama?
I need ketchup.
I want a big one!

Oh babies, if there was sustenance I would be the culprit, but there isn't. I am dutiful, and still you starve. Being poor is not self inflicted. This is the result of a polluted idea of freedom, so if I must degrade myself to feed these mouths then I will. These are the the rules of the wild.


No Scruffy, not the potato!

Didn't see a dinosaur all night. Looks like a rockslide has tumbled over the old hermit's cave.

God I love hunting. There is nothing like the security of knowing you are the apex predator. Just sitting and waiting for another unsuspecting animal to cross your path.

I remember when my father first purchased this land. He brought me down here to this place and told me it was ours. Hunting was easier when I was a child. You could hardly discharge your firearm without hitting something with a heartbeat. Those were the good ol'days. You're lucky to find small prey now.

There was a hermit living in this cave. Back before we bought this plot. My father said he chased him away with his sawed off.

He gave that gun to me.

In the autumn of the forest the air is full. The forest glows and every animal prepares for the brutal season. The hermit prepares too. He is surrounded by the life of the wood. His cave packed like a squirrel's hoard to last the relentless nights ahead.

He has piled the timber, and dried his fruits. He built a dam and filled it with fish. Fat from the summer times was put aside knowing that winter always comes. The hens have been cooped, and he knows that soon there will be nothing left, so now, for the moment, he will enjoy the sight of the tree, on the hill, in the sun.

Hermits have no respect for people's property. I remember that little man. Once when my father, and I came down here, and that hermit was sitting next to a chicken coop he had made from materials he pilfered from our junk pile. My dad was so angry he came down here and shot all the chickens one by one. We both took shots from the hill. That hermit was so sad. My dad was yelling. "What you gonna eat now little man?!" We made a fire and ate those chickens right there, so he could smell'em. They were good too. Their meat tasted like wild berries.