Instinct | first entry

Instructions

i n s t i n c t -------------------------------------------------------------------------- April 19th, sunhigh, Main Burrow Let me get one thing straight. This is my journal. I don’t care where you found it, it’s mine. And since I’m assuming there’s someone reading this right now, whether you be friend or foe-beast, mole, stoat, or, Brockmoor forbid, a fox, you’re still here. Still reading these bark-encrusted pages. So let me introduce myself. I’m Artemis Jacques. And yes, I’m a black rabbit. How astute of you to notice, seeing as you can’t see me. Regardless, this is my journal, in which I guess I’m supposed to record what happens in my life and the events that I can record, because I was there. So I’ll start. My house is commonly referred to by the citizens of Brockmoor as the ‘Main Burrow’, because my family is the largest rabbit family this side of the river. Probably the biggest in all of Brockmoor, though nobody’s ever bothered to count. Like all other burrows, ours is carved and hollowed from and into the dirt. Contrary to what humans think, rabbit burrows aren’t holes in the ground that go on for maybe a couple foxlengths. That’d be way too cramped. And where would we put the pantry, or the kitchen? They’re instead winding tunnels, intertwining with different households in case of emergency, and always bustling. The floors have roots poking up and are covered with moss, and the ceilings mirror the floor. The doors are curtains of vines, and the shelves and beds are made of driftwood. As soon as you set paw inside any rabbit’s burrows, you feel as if you’re finally home. Which, if you’re a rabbit, is usually the case. Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve gone off track. I’ll have to get used to this journaling job. See, every species’ generation of animals has a Journalist; one who writes the events of their lifetime, and creates reliable accounts of what happened. And me, being the up-and-coming Herbalist of the Main Burrow, I’m now the Journalist to boot. Anyways, this day and the events that happen today, starts with me walking into the general room in the Burrow. I nod at Pa, my ears brushing the roots above and knocking loose some dirt, but I don't mind. This happens every time. Hazard of being a rabbit, I guess. “Hey,” he says through a mouthful of wild cherry scone. “How’s being a Journalist so far? Remember you’ve got to be-” “By the Mushroom Farm at midday, I know. Stop being so over enthusiastic about it, Pa.” It’s my first official task as the Journalist, to record the Mushroom Harvest. Mam and Pa are practically shivering with excitement every time it’s mentioned. It gets pretty annoying. I’m only scribbling down a couple hundred measly words. Get over it. My sister Diane walks in, looking for all the world like the poster rabbit of goodwill and model children. She’s my twin, however irritating that fact is. And we’re polar opposites. I mean, Mam even had the audacity to name us after two versions of the same human goddess! The nerve of that rabbit. I don’t even know why we bother learning about humans. They only live in a few scattered places on the globe, none live in Brockmoor, and they’re quite primitive. I don’t know what continent you live on, but from what I’ve heard of humans, they haven’t even figured out how to make poultices from wild cucumber and mint leaves! Actually, they view wild cucumbers as a ‘pest plant’, and try to exterminate them. Waste of good food, that’s what it is. Oh, sorry. I’ve drifted off on another thought wave again. Diane leans over my notebook, a small smirk playing on the side of her mouth. “Taking your new job seriously, Artemis? I’d expect no less from you. But honestly. Herbalist and Journalist? What a waste of your life. You have so much potential… like me!” I shove my notebook farther away, seething with rage but trying to come up with an equally stinging retort. The truth? I want to be nothing like her. She takes up everything she can without getting her hands dirty, earning praise for whatever she tackles next. Me? Oh don’t mind me, I’m just the overlooked older sister who landed one of the biggest responsibilities in Brockmoor, by fluke accident, mind you, and now her sister is out for metaphorical blood. Us rabbits are prey. Plant-eaters. We won’t turn down flowers or roots either. But we don’t eat meat. We don’t kill. Such is the way of the food chain, the one bit of rules that dictate how nature should be, to ensure balance and thriving species. I’ve always thought it’s just a load of fox dung. I mean, sure, it’s there for a reason and we should respect it and whatnot, but it’s not like I’m going to skip along hand in hand, picking daisy chains with Diane if the food chain tells me to. I look up at Diane, who’s waiting for a reply. I show the notebook to her. “Oh, Diane, what a thing to say! I bet the next generations would like to read your words, hmm?”