WE DRINK INSPIRATION #007 – WHERE HAS ALL THE PLOT BUNNIES GONE?Anyhoo, your project for this week is to adopt one of the many plot bunnies from one of these lovely generators I’ll be linking you to. Pick the 1st one – NO CHEATING – and write write write!!!Please include the prompt in your post and who knows, I may just participate in this myself, so hold on to your zombies!!
I mean, HATS!
The first plot I generated was:
A cartoon rabbit with a false leg is trapped on an island with an Olympic gymnast in a wheelchair
I think the generator is out to get me! What the hell do i do with this??? Let me think about it a while… OK got it.
Starving the Itch
Floppsy scratched and scratched. His false leg was itching like there was no tomorrow, and with the lack of food and drinkable water, there just might not be a tomorrow. So he scratched away.
“Floppsy would you please stop that? It’s incredibly annoying.” Floppsy eyed Tara with contempt.
“It’s annoying you is it? Really, how fascinating. Especially as you aren’t the one trying to cope with this God Damned Itch!” Tara just rolled her eyes and leaned back in her wheelchair. It wasn’t really her wheelchair, but she had adopted it. The crash had left everyone else dead, so it’s original owner wasn’t going to miss it.
“Why don’t you invest all that energy into finding us some food?” Floppsy gave up scratching. The itch wasn’t going away without his medicinal cream, and that had burned up with the rest of the luggage compartment.
“Great idea, why don’t I just limp along, pushing you in a wheelchair, over uneven terrain, looking for food whilst avoiding vicious animals that would like to munch on our bones. You’re a genius, why didn’t I think of this before?” Tara picked up a small rock from the sandy beach and lobbed it at him. She was too slow, and Floppsy hopped aside, avoided it neatly, even with only one working leg. “Better yet, why don’t we loop your olympic medal around my neck and I can pull you like a horse!” Floppsy was shouting now, and he was starting to breathe heavily.
Tara stared at him, eyes full of hate. But the hate leeched away and were replaced by tears. The gymnast was a gymnast no more. He had hit a nerve. He flicked at one of his floppy ears, feeling unbelievably uncomfortable. Somehow more so that the itch was making him feel earlier. He limped over to her and patted her on one of her broken legs. She didn’t feel it, but she could still see the kind gesture.
“OK. I’ll go find some food.” Tara smiled at him through her tears, and Floppsy made his way into the trees. There was no point avoiding the inevitable. They would die here, and as to whether that would be due to starvation, dehydration, or animal attack, why did it matter?