A Childs Story

A Child's Story
OR
The Scientific Incongruity Between Flight and Rabbits

I was soft spoken as a child. I never stirred or caused my mother conventional grief. I was the paradigm of obedience, cleanliness and a, momentarily, short gentleman. My tenets were “Be Seen But Not Heard” and “When Heard Make Sure You Were Polite About It”. In the corridors of my mind, I cannot recall an event where I was willfully impudent, except one. It stings me to recall and admit.
I was the darling semblance of perfection growing up. I ate whatever was on my plate and made no fuss. I cried when the customs of my age (then six) ordained, such as moments when I was forced to give way to sleep. My uncle, an industrious man, decided I should be rewarded. He bought me a rabbit. Until then, a rabbit had simply been a creature noticed on television. A rabbit was a beast to be respected, if not feared.
Though rabbits are traditionally considered a cutesy species, my rabbit was a noble specimen, majestic in the white fur that flowed as royally as a lion’s mane. His piercing crimson eyes cut through whomever or whatever they settled upon. His aristocratic bearing led me to name him Archduke Cortez. My family and I lived in the Dominican Republic at the time, thus a Spanish surname seemed appropriate.
Archduke Cortez became the object of many daydreams as a child; the Archduke was responsible for many splendid endeavors. He would moonlight as a vigilante when my back was turned. He helped the elderly folk cross streets. He had cool friends like Dr. Jorendeaux, a pompous French poodle, who considered himself an art critic of high degree - never mind the color blindness. Then there was Mr. Smith, the graying jovial toad who dispensed sage-like advice to all. I built myself a world of fantasy around Archduke Cortez.
The thought crossed my mind one-day that the Archduke could fly. I was convinced. At the age of six this seemed more than logical to me. At the time my family and I lived in an apartment on the fourth floor. I took it upon myself to immediately investigate what it would take to arrange a test flight which would become a chance for Cortez, that noblest of rabbits, to spread his wings and fly. I spent the day in meditation then flurried with activity. I cleared a path from the balcony to the kitchen, fed the Archduke well, and rehydrated him. That was the key, I decided - water. I then retrieved Cortez from his palace and whispered words of encouragement as I held him to my bosom. I back stepped all the way to the kitchen, eyes never wavering from the open balcony.
Frankensteinian energy ran through me. It was time, I decided somberly, so I flipped the switch. I ran, figuring that the harder I tossed him, the more momentum he would gain and thus making for an easier flight. I came to the balcony and released the furry mass of Cortez. He momentarily flew, or so it seemed, and with him my heart lifted joyously. He then half-turned, casting that proud piercing gaze upon me, his red retinas tinged with contempt as he plummeted one, two, three, and finally, mercifully, four floors. To say I was disappointed would be an exercise in understatement. I was devastated. I sat down, failure lining my face. I cried. My mother came, puzzled by my sudden bout of crying. I pointed to the balcony wordlessly, too upset to even talk. Mums gaze turned to where I pointed, looked down, and gasped. A white form lay in the bushes four floors beneath us. Luckily, the Archduke survived. The next day my uncle took him away. I was judged incompetent to own a rabbit, to my everlasting shame. It is the one memory that sticks out in my head that I honestly regret.