Once we’re inside, nothing can touch us. Bonnie reaches for the pillow. She walks towards the fort, blankets draped over chairs on top of the mattress. While she’s been watching the rabbit, Marianne has placed books inside, and leaned the bottle of whiskey against them. There are yellow tulips too, with their petals only just beginning to curl, the faintest tinge of brown staining their edges. It does look cosy, she thinks. It looks cosy, and warm, with the rain still beating against the window. But it could be a trap, the rabbit whispers, so quietly she’s sure the other two haven’t heard. She stands beside the bed and lifts the pillow. She holds it over the mattress and hesitates, keeps her eyes closed for a long moment. When she opens them, she places the pillow inside the fort with one quick movement, and then jumps back. She stands under the rabbit’s gaze, and waits for it all to collapse.
Rijn Collins is a Melbourne writer whose work has appeared in anthologies and online journals such as Metazen, Jersey Devil Press, Necessary Fiction, Going Down Swinging and Monkeybicycle. Her work has also been performed at the Melbourne Emerging Writers’ Festival and adapted for performance on radio by the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. She’s currently working on a novel, and trying not to include Elvis in it. So far, so good.