Posted by Mrs. Emery
Your character has an irrational fear of the Easter Bunny. Explain why.
Write for 10 minutes. Post your piece to comments.
Posted on March 25, 2014, in Editorial Board Essay. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.
The Easter Bunny. Horrid creature. Since my fifth birthday, I had hated the animal that brought joy to all kids in the form of plastic and eggs and giant chocolate bunnies. Every year, I dreaded the annual Easter party after church, because Mom would make me tag along with my younger cousins. Supposedly it was to make sure that they got a fair share of candy and eggs, but I’m sure she knew about my bunny phobia.
It was on this particular Easter afternoon, twelve days after my 15th birthday, that I sat in one of the many lawn chairs, far away from the Easter festivities. Soon the egg hunt would start, and I had to work myself into shape for the crazy mad dash of sugar-filled first graders.
“Annalise, come on! The hunt’s about to start!” My youngest cousin, Nico, tugged on my hand with his chocolate-glazed fingers.
I did a quick glance around the lawn for the Bunny. Nothing to set off my alarms, yet.
Me and Nico sprinted—well, he sprinted and I trudged—to the starting point of the egg hunt. Keeping my eyes open for the costumed animal, I waited for the signal. I had a quick plan to find all eggs as fast as I could. They were hidden in the same spots each year, so me and Nico had a great chance to win this time.
“5…4…3,” Mr. Reynolds counted down, his bright blue egg tie contrasting with his silver cross. A little bit contradictory, I thought.
Then, I saw it. The Bunny. It was peeking from behind the tree, right where I knew the first egg was. No, not again.
I remembered the first year I had done the egg hunt. So competitive as a little kid, no one was going to beat me to those eggs. I had found most of them, until I came to this one spot. Reaching down to snatch the purple-plaid egg, a fluffy paw snagged my basket. I turned around, hot at the Easter Bunny for stealing my eggs. But that wasn’t the worst part. He dumped my eggs onto the grass, and stomped all over them. My six-year-old heart cried out in sorrow. I believed those eggs really did have baby chicks, and that mean old Easter Bunny had murdered all my eventual fluffy yellow friends.
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