Imagination Is Everything

The Legendary Four Horsemen

Don't know if there'll be any confusion, but the ones written in this style of font are a character's current thoughts while the ones written in this style of font are flashbacks or memories. 

Any who, please, carry on with your reading.

    

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Bunny's POV

Who does that Sheila think she is? That annoying ball of fur, taking the wind out of my sails every chance she got. Even Jack abandoned his practice of habitually antagonizing me and turned down his impishness. I thought that meeting one of my own would make me happy. I thought that it would make me feel complete and not have that empty pit of loneliness deep inside of me. I thought that I won't have to think of myself as the last of my kind, that I would finally have someone to relate to, someone who understands my loss.

Someone who understands the loss of a whole race.

But nooooo. The other surviving Pooka was far from my expectations. Instead, the Sheila was just as pig-headed as she was hot-tempered. Those witty remarks, snide comments and that smart mouth of hers was what got my tail in a twist. No matter what I said, no matter how I approached or how carefully I picked and planned my words, I always seem to just say the wrong thing. I never seemed to win. I felt a little like Jack now, those insults and snide comments of my own just seem to make their way up my throat and force themselves out of my mouth. No matter what the both of us said, we never seemed to get along or win the argument in any way, all ways.

I couldn't stop thinking about the moment when our faces were just mere inches apart, our noses just barely touching, my back against the wall with her body keeping me from moving and her breaths that slightly ruffled up my fur. I reached up and fingered my whiskers, thinking about when our whiskers nearly got tangled up due to the extreme closeness. I thought about her eyes, a pair like none other I had ever seen. They were hazel with specks of gold dotting around her irises, splashes of grey that lined her pupils, a bit of brown that reminded me of melted chocolate that had mixed with the gold, making it hardly visible, and the evergreen that lined the outer part of her irises.

 And I had especially remembered the knife she had positioned over my neck.

Her reflexes were quick and deadly, steady and strong. Seemingly planned but were most probably carried out without any effort at all. She was swift as she was graceful. Her movements were smooth as she put the precise amount of energy needed to perform them. Her stride was strong and proud, that of a Pooka. Her puffed up chest as she proudly showed us through what had seemed to be her work, similar to whenever I showed off my prized googies.

She was as beautiful as she was deadly.

I shook my head at that last thought. She was a pain in my furry behind, good for nothing, probably about as useful as an arsehole on my elbow. A few roos loose in the top paddock, that lass. And I had a feeling that my thoughts were starting to turn out clichéd and cheesy sounding.