Run, bunny, run. You’re a big buck coney with paws as fleet as windrush and blood as hot as sunshine. When my father comes with his ferrets and his net you’d best not be here, munching on tussocks between the pillow mounds, twitching your bunny nose with that devil-may-get-me flare. There’s a flash of grey on your rump that says… Read it
Pauline writes short and shorter fiction. She lives in South Gloucestershire. Her stories have been published in anthologies, appeared around the web and been broadcast on radio. She often performs her own work in the Bristol and Bath area. She grows her own vegetables and never eats rabbit.