Scott: Philip

Philip tied the final chord of the rabbit trap to his bed-post. Being the man of the house, all matters of extermination fell on him. He knew the chances of this twelve-part Rube Goldberg machine actually capturing the thing were slim but he didn’t care. His mom and sister’s incessant griping had finally gotten to him and, although doomed to failure, he knew his busyness would at least calm the two.

He learned from many years of working in the grocery store owned by his grandpa on the bottom floor of their building, that the appearance of busyness is more valuable than actual results. Besides, it was most likely this animal was the pet of a child in the building who, after over-hearing Mom’s furious anti-rabbitical rantings, decided against putting up a “Lost Rabbit” poster.

Gazing with pride on his creation, Philip considered adding Engineering as a third minor to his ever-expanding degree at Winsmere College. He was currently a Philosophy Major with a double-minor in English Literature and Psychology and had acquired twelve credits in the past three years.

The rabbit’s entry into the kitchen would tug a chord which would pull a helium balloon out from under a baby chair that hadn’t been used since his sister was a toddler – a constant reminder that their mom had not yet given up on remarrying and having more rabbit-catchers. The balloon would pop on a tack taped to the ceiling, rendering the chord resistance-less and thus letting the wound-up race car toy on the other end peel out across the floor. After nine more triggered reactions involving eggs, dominoes, a pair of spectacles, sunlight, hairspray, a ten pound lifting weight, velcro, and a gas lighter, the victim would be quite trapped under a tupperware container.

Of course what actually happened was the rabbit, upon hearing the balloon pop, raced out of the room just in time to send Philip’s mom screaming into the kitchen where she was met by two flying eggs that hit her stomach and splattered all over her bare feet.

He didn’t need to see her yolkey feet to know what had happened. It looked like the yolks of her eyes had cracked. It was a face she only gave to him. After years of yelling to no avail, Maggy Edith-Dodger would now let her helplessness build up tears in her eyes and masterfully wield the cutting blade of guilt.

To be continued…