Chasing the Rabbit: Chapter Nine -An Outside Perspective

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Some people believe that rejection is the worst thing that can happen to an idea, and in many cases this is true. But sometimes an idea is best left to germinate a little longer, allowing its seeds to take root in the soil. When the board of directors took so favorably to Oswald's idea, Mickey responded with his characteristically exuberant "Hot dog!" even though he knew from experience that the idea would most likely be smothered before it ever produced anything.

Telling Oswald should have been the easy part. Mickey hadn't realized he was making a rookie mistake until poor Oswald completely flipped out. It took ten minutes of Minnie's intervention to calm him down and demand Mickey tell her what in the world he'd said. Verbatim, Mickey repeated the good news, "The board loved the idea and they want something up and running by the summer," followed by the three words that had caused the rabbit to panic, "of this year."

From there, the mouse and company did what they were best known for doing, pulling together as a team. Oswald and Mickey divided the responsibilities with Oswald handling the overall design and premise of the story, which was what he'd clearly wanted. This took as much pressure off the lucky rabbit as possible to give him room to figure things out. Mickey offered to deal with the casting, and considering his familiarity with the Disney lineup that should have been a smooth process.

Until it wasn't.

Late morning of the following day Mickey and Daisy were working on the official cast call announcement when Humphrey the bear happened to drop by the offices. The duck and mouse informally encouraged him to go out for a spot in the story. Then they set it aside and went to lunch. When they came back, they found over two hundred applications from Silly Symphonies performers alone. The official announcement went out as late that afternoon as they could justify. That was day one.

On day ten, in the interest of containing the chaos, the board made a command decision that there would be seven spots and they would be limited to film characters. Donald graciously offered to deliver the heartbreaking news. Later that day the announcement was amended to read 'feature length film' characters when the definition of the word 'film' was brought into question many, many times. This was further amended two days later to read 'characters with speaking roles' to trim out the background characters, which naturally lead to a bit of tension defusing for Dumbo and Dopey.

The midpoint came fast and Mickey's smile had all but vanished. Probably more had been accomplished on the project than it felt like, but the mouse was hearing the main theme of The Sorcerer's Apprentice in his head on a continuous loop. He sat in the Gideon meeting room with Minnie, Goofy, Pete, the ducks and the chipmunks, trying to determine how close they were to finalizing the lineup.

Minnie stood behind him, rubbing his ears. "So the board wants the classic fairy tale era, the renaissance, and the modern period represented," she said.

"Isn't that half the cast?" asked Daisy.

"I can probably push it from seven to ten," answered Mickey, "but it's still gonna be princess heavy."

"Well, we need to decide quickly on the renaissance," said Daisy. "Ariel and Jasmine are bout to start pulling each other's hair."

Mickey turned to Goofy. "What about Belle?"

"She says she's fine sittin' this one out."

"Okay, we'll come back to that. Let's start with the classic era."

"Y'know," said Chip and/or Dale "it doesn't have to be a princess. The period just has to be represented."

"Maleficent," interjected Pete.

Donald gave him a dismissing look. "Ah, you'll never get her."

"You gimme ten minutes, pipsqueak, and I'll have Maleficent on board wit' dis."

"Well gawrsh, Pete," said Goofy, "She hasn't even applied yet."

"Maleficent don' put in no application! Invitation only! Dat's her policy!"

Mickey put his hands down in surrender. "If you can get her, Pete." He took in a deep breath." All right, what about the modern era?"

"Anna or Elsa," said Donald.

Daisy gave him a displeased look. "You know there are two other films from that period, right?"

Donald silently absorbed the glance for a few seconds before turning back to the group again. "So Anna or Elsa?"

Oswald appeared in the doorway as unobtrusively as he could. Mickey snapped into his professional demeanor as soon as he saw him. "Hey Oswald! How's it goin' on your end?"

The rabbit shifted uncomfortably. "Designing an island is harder than I thought. Do you think the board would mind if I borrowed a map of Neverland as a template?"

"Sure.  You could probably just use Neverland if you don't want to re-invent the wheel."

Oswald blinked. "Can we do that?"

"Uh-huh. You've got access to the entire company catalog. Anything Disney owns is fair game."

"So could I maybe cut and paste Pride Rock into the scenery?"

Minnie chimed in. "You can do whatever you want. Cartoons, movies, attractions. In fact the audience might even enjoy figuring out where everything is from."

"Well, that makes things a lot easier." Oswald scanned the table full of ruffled feathers and tired eyes. "I'm really sorry about all this, you guys."

Mickey's smile didn't change,  but somehow the genuineness behind it had fully awakened. "Oswald, never apologize for an idea. Especially a good one."

"Yeah," chuckled Goofy, "We wouldn't all be sufferin' like this if it weren't a good idea."

"Okay, not exactly helping Goofy," said Daisy, "But the big guy's right. This is all part of the process."

"And it's worth doing'," Donald added.

Smiles around the table greeted the rabbit (except for a half-smile from Pete, which was as good as it got). "Thank you," he sighed. "I guess I just didn't realize this was going to get so out of control."

Mickey trotted over to him, giving him a friendly nudge. "Ah, ya can't control ideas. Best you can do is try to keep up with 'em."

"Well," Oswald grinned, "rabbits are pretty fast."

"And we're all right behind ya!"



The postman dropped the mail off at 43038 Termite Terrace, retrieved by its recipient shortly thereafter. The world's most famous bunny flipped through three fan letters, the water bill, and a few magazine offers before his eyes landed on a curious envelope with the unmistakable three circled insignia of the rival studio. He had only just confirmed it was correctly addressed to him when the familiar yapping of his next door neighbor's son drew his attention.

He knelt down to greet the little bulldog through the gaps in the wooden fence that was more decorative than useful. "Eh, what's up Tyke?"

The puppy barked excitedly, with his tail uncontrollably batting the grass behind him. Bugs reached through with a gloved hand and stroked the back of the dog's neck. A few moments later Spike, the dad appeared, scooping his son and resting his arm on the fence. "Sorry 'bout that Bugs. This little guy got away from me while I was dealin' with a pest control problem."

"I guess some people have to bring work home with 'em,"  the rabbit laughed.

Tyke gave a tiny yap and pawed at the Disney letter, drawing his dad's attention to it. "Whacha got there? You gettin' mail from the mouse house now?"

"Probably another cease and desist letter." He tore it open and scanned quickly through it. "Dear Mr. Bunny...on behalf of the studio...for all your hard work filming Roger Rabbit-" he stopped and gave a puzzled look to Spike. "I was there for a day and a half. Never even learned my lines." They both shrugged and Bugs continued reading in silence. "Really? They want to cast me in a summer program?"

"At Disney?"

"Warner Brothers is never gonna go for that." Bugs re-examined the envelope in disbelief.

"Hey, if I were you I'd go down to the studio to see if they're serious."

"You think so?" Bugs showed the letter to Tyke. "What do you think? Should I check this out?" He received an affirmative bark from the puppy. "Yeah. At the very least I could try to get you Pluto's autograph."

The little tail wagged even harder, but the sound of an explosion on the opposite side of Spike's home abruptly ended the conversation. "Excuse me, Bugs. I have to go murder a woodpecker."

"I'm here if you need me," said Bugs as they scurried off, still a little distracted by the invitation in his hand. He read it three more times, not quite comprehending the rationale behind it. Finally he just gave in.

"Eh, it's Disney. I got nothin' to lose."


Continue to Chapter Ten
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The Wax Buzzard Files: Chapter Three -The Third Chapter in a Series of at Least Three

Previously on The Wax Buzzard Files, a whole bunch of stuff happened; some of which was important. If you want to learn more, then you probably should.

The chase was on! And we were only missing the music. Miss Nomer stomped the accelerator and the tires smudged the floor with tracks as they took off down the hallway. It only took us about twenty minutes to get them reattached to the car; from there it was through the fire escape door, and over the railing. We landed on a watermelon vendor's cart, sending chucks of the stuff half a block in all directions. Fortunately most of it hit a crowd that was coming out of The Gallagher Experience, making the world just a little more poetic.

I glanced back to see that Mr. Happy's henchmen (who for simplicity I'll refer to as Zanzibar and Jake) were right behind us. Miss Nomer gave me a side glance. "Please don't tell me we've got company."

"Okay," I shrugged. "Mind if I turn on the radio?"

A trash can bounced off the windshield. And another. Jerk teenagers throwing trash cans at a speeding car. “I hope you all die!” Miss Nomer shouted at them with such conviction that they really seemed to regret their actions. Last I heard, one of them joined the Peace Corps and did a lot of good work. Punk.

"Are we being followed?" she asked me.

"You just said you didn't want to know."

"Of course I want to know!" she growled. "I just don't want to hear the words 'we've got company'. That phrase really gets under my skin."

“What an esoteric personality quirk,” I observed. “Does it bother you when it’s in quotes? Like, hey, remember a few seconds ago when you told me you didn’t want to hear the words ‘we’ve got company’?”

“Are they back there or not?” she roared.

I checked over my shoulder. "Yep, they're still back there. And there’s no need to growl and roar like that."

“You’re the one choosing the verbs,” she elucidated. I said nothing, but she didn't hear me since I only said it to myself.

Miss Nomer spun the steering wheel to avoid hitting a cute puppy, opting instead to crash through the window of a Hobby Lobby. It was the right call.

"I'm going to try to lose them in the school supply aisle." I don’t know why she needed to tell me that, but one sharp turn to the left later and we were careening past safety scissors and Elmer's glue, leaving a trail of construction paper behind us. And we scared some poor granny in her tracks when I rolled down the window and waggled my fingers at her, going "Bululululuh!”

“I’m going to make a break for the front entrance,” she declared.

I asked if she wanted me to come with her. She shot me a look and we zipped through the sliding glass doors and into the parking lot. I checked over my shoulder. Zanzibar and Jake were exactly where they’d been before. "Still there," I said.

“Hold tight!” she ordered. I threw my arms around her as she weaved the vehicle through back alleys, tunnels, drawbridges, a museum, and a Chuck E. Cheese. She finally slowed down to twenty when we got to a school zone, and I leaned back in the passenger seat.

“You know that wasn’t what I meant,” she told me.

“I know,” I said. “But you seem to be having a bad day. I thought you could use a hug.”

She stared at me with no expression on her face except for a blank expression which I don’t think should count. After a few awkward moments, seven to be exact, she said, “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said, knowing full well that it was chronologically impossible at that point. “So if you don’t mind me asking, what happens when you actually do have company?”

"I may have made that out to be a bigger deal than necessary." Her demeanor became much more pleasant, tolerable even. It made me instantly overlook the record number of traffic and health code violations she’d accumulated in the past half hour. She offered me her well-manicured hand. “Catsy.”

I accepted with whatever adverb you can turn the word ‘charmed’ into. “Is that Egyptian?”

“It was supposed to be Cathy. Birth certificate typo.”

“Unlikely,” I said. “The H is four keys to the right of the S. You were named Catsy on purpose.”

“You have quite an attention to detail, Detective Guffey.” She gave me a wink that I didn’t have before.

“Enough to keep me from trying to go up the down escalator,” momentarily losing myself in the reflection of me in her eyes. I needed a haircut.

"Are they still behind us?"

"I'm certain of it," I said, in no uncertain terms.

"You're kidding me!" Catsy checked her six. Zanzibar and Jake gave her a polite wave. "Well why didn't you tell me they were in the back seat?"

It was a disturbingly good question. I didn’t have an answer then, and I don’t have one now.

Catsy sighed. “We may as well grab lunch then. How do you guys feel about the Hibachi Grill?”

I would have preferred a chicken sandwich, simple and light, but I was outvoted. I was sure this was going to be a lunch date I'd never forget. As of this narration, it remains the case.


Don't click here unless you want to get stuck reading Chapter Four.

To Orlando With Love

There comes a point where it's impossible to laugh.

Now I deal with depression so I'm accustomed to not laughing, but it's a different kind of feeling when the primary source is external. Today is June 13, 2016, and there was a mass shooting in Orlando over the weekend.

In this day and age, mass shootings seem to be turning into a bit of a series. I've lost track of how many have made the news over the past several years. As much as I hate saying this, I realized this weekend that a mass shooting is no longer unexpected. It's like car trouble. There's no schedule for it, but deep down inside we all know the next one is inevitable.

Perhaps I deal with the horrible things people are capable of in the only way I know how, I just try my best not to feel them so I can make it through work and then go home and write stories about monsters. But this one, I can't not feel.

Perhaps it's because it's because I lived in Orlando for a very important chapter in my life. Perhaps it's because the shooter was targeting the LGBT community, a portion of our culture which has achieved some very real and needed progressive victories in recent years. Or perhaps it's because this incident summarizes so many of the issues our nation is currently facing, and predictably everything that comes out of Donald Trump's mouth and keypad is going to make things worse.

But the bottom line is, today I feel wounded. Certainly not on a comparability to the families in Orlando. But this blog is my little time capsule in the world, and today I don't feel like laughing.

I didn't feel like laughing yesterday, which was why I didn't go to the Weird Al concert. I've seen pictures, a lot of people did go, and I'm sure Al and the band gave it the professional all that they always have. And I'm sure the people who went to the concert found a way to laugh. And I'm grateful for that. I'm grateful that John Oliver keeps doing his comedy show even when he clearly doesn't feel up to it. The world needs a chance to laugh.

But sometimes, some people need to not laugh. And to feel like it's okay to not be funny, or snarky, or sarcastic. For me that time is now.

So I've been trying to figure out what I want to say in this blog, being the rare moment where I'm purely me without the insipid performer's streak that usually can't seem to function without. And I think it's probably most appropriate for me to celebrate the LGBT community, and all of the wonderful friends I made in the six years I lived and breathed Disney in Orlando.

Homophobia is taught, even if it isn't blatantly taught. In my case, I grew up instilled with a sense of discomfort about it because it was something we didn't talk about, or else we talked about it in an over-dramatized setting. When I started working at Orlando, it was the first environment I'd been in where the LGBT community was not only accepted but also celebrated. And I had the wonderful journey of going from being okay with it to not even noticing it anymore because it was the norm.

Because of that journey, I felt a personal investment when gay marriage was legalized. It was as if the safety of that inclusive community had finally spread from the tunnels under Cinderella Castle and into the real world.

So when some asshole decides he won't be on board with it, to the point that he has some deluded right to take other people's lives, I say fuck him. I say, I'm no longer willing to endure some bullshit obsession with a verse in Leviticus when Christ was clearly preaching love for everyone. And I'm no longer willing to tolerate anti-gun control arguments from people who really need a fucking hobby that doesn't stand a chance of hurting someone else.

May God bless you, Orlando. And thank you for all of the laughs.

Chasing the Rabbit: Chapter Eight -VIP Treatment

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Six months ago...

The Disney studios has many secrets. Some of them are for its own preservation. Others serve its own creative amusement. And then there are those secrets which exist simply because they've become overlooked over time. Club 16 1/2 was a secret of that third variety.

Leftover from the golden years of animation, Club 16 1/2 had been a popular hangout spot for the numerous creatures of Silly Symphony fame when they weren't working in front of or behind the camera lenses. As the studio had evolved throughout the decades, the club entrance wound up facing away from the pedestrian traffic which was already minimal in that part of the grounds; almost like a back door to an unmarked building. In fact, it was unlikely that anyone who had joined the Disney family later than the mid-nineties was even aware of its existence. As such, the club had a bit of a nostalgic charm for the veterans of animation.

The place was now run by Toby Tortoise, who was certainly not the quickest counter-reptile, but he knew the precision ingredients of concoctions long thought lost. Anything from sarsaparilla floats to gooseberry daiquiris; if you knew how to order it, he knew how to make it.

It was a rarity to see any character of reasonable significance cross the threshold, so when Daisy Duck appeared in the doorway she found herself bombarded with greetings from Bucky Bug, Peter Pig, and every other alliterative name on the block. The upside to the inconvenient attention was the extra time it gave Toby to assemble the remainder of the drink order she'd called in.

"There ya go, Miss Duck," the tortoise gleamed triumphantly, "One pitcher of chocolate marshmallow Cointreau. What's the occasion?"

"It's Oswald's homecoming. Finally. Mickey thought a taste of the classic era would be a nice touch."

"Oswald?" said Toby, clearly behind the event. "When did we get him back?"

"Oh, you know..." Daisy held her tongue. It had been ten years since the trade, and the lucky rabbit was just now being given an office space. "Recently."

"Hey soda jerk!" came an irritated voice at the end of the counter. "Is this the self-service line?"

"Be right there, sir?" said Toby cheerfully.

Daisy cocked her head to the side. She knew that unmistakable lisp anywhere.

"Daffy?"

It was him; the little black duck with the white collar from the other terrace. He looked in her direction with two of the saddest eyes she'd ever seen on a duck. Daisy waddled over to him, passing Toby along the way.

"How did you get here?" she asked.

Daffy held up his keychain ID with the Roger Rabbit production stamp on it. "You guys have some really outdated security systems. And yet I still can't get a fast pass with it."

Daisy sat down at the neighboring stool. "Has something happened?"

Daffy set his beak on the countertop. "No. I just come here to think. Clear my head. Mope. And you? What's a VIP like you doing in the treasure vault like this?"

"Today is Oswald's official first day as an executive."

"Great," snorted Daffy. "More power to the rabbits."

The two ducks sat in silence while Toby made the last few steps over to the end of the counter. "And what can I get for my fine feathered friends?"

Daffy waved his hand dismissively. "Just give me something I'm gonna hate."

Daisy smiled. "Tom and Jerry, declawed".

Toby nodded and began the hike back to the other end of the counter. "Take your time," Daffy muttered, "I'm not going anywhere."

Daisy waited until the tortoise was respectfully out of earshot to speak again. "So what is this about Daffy?"

The WB duck drew in a slow breath. "It's really nothing out of the ordinary. It just gets to me sometimes. He gets to me."

"Bugs?"

"That carrot chomping, overbite-" Daffy erupted before realizing every other patron had taken notice of his conversation. "Yeah. Some days, it just really ruffles my feathers. I guess today is one of those days."

"So, do I understand that after seventy-five years, you still feel like he stole your thunder?"

"I don't know." Daffy set his bill in his hand. "I don't know what I'm feeling."

"I mean, if you don't mind me saying, didn't you horn in on Porky's territory?"

"Nah, Porky was fine with it. But the studio takes this sadistic glee in pitting us against each other. And it's ALWAYS the same result. 'Let's laugh at the duck'."

Daisy gave him a compassionate nod. "You're still getting laughs Daffy. They may be written at your expense, but people love you a lot more than you realize. I mean, don't you think anyone in this room would give their golden voice actor for your career?"

Daffy sighed. "Yeah, they are pretty pathetic, aren't they?" He checked his watch, dreading the ritual pummeling the studio had him scheduled for later that day. "What about you? Don't you ever get tired of playing second banana to that bow-headed rodent?"

"Well yes and no," Daisy admitted. "I always grumble inside a little whenever I walk past her statue on the Main Street hub. But then I think, second banana isn't a bad place to be. There's a certain freedom when eyes aren't always on you, and you don't always have to live up to the company's expectations. The top just seems boring to me."

Daffy's face softened a little. Maybe not to the point of smiling, but his disposition became a hair more optimistic. "You are one cel of Iwerks, Daisy."

She giggled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Toby had returned with their drink orders, and each duck picked up their respective glasses.

"Just try not to forget," said Daisy, "We have something a lot of people don't have. A reason. For doing what we do."

Daffy sneered. "The stupid little kids."

Daisy clinked her glass against his. "To the stupid little kids then," and they both drank.

Daffy's mouthful never made it down his throat, as he spat it out almost instantly before giving Toby an accusatory glare. "CARROT JUICE?"



And several stories up in the executive building, Pete was beating a keyboard into submission with his index fingers while crooked letters and symbols popped up all over the computer screen. Mickey Mouse and Oswald the Lucky Rabbit stood on the sidelines, amazed at the sheer passion the large cat-dog-bear-whatever hybrid was investing in the task at hand.

Pete leaned back into the poor easy chair that was straining to support his weight. Satisfied with the mess of code he was seeing, Pete turned to Oswald and gestured to the security checkpoint. "Dere. Dat should do it."

Oswald stepped through the archway, greeted by a green light accompanied by a pleasant ding.

"It's official, you're in the system!" Mickey laughed. "Swell job Pete!"

The big guy ignored the compliment. "Bout time too. Now listen runt, this here's my pal! I expect ya to take good care a'him, see?"

Mickey gave him a half-serious salute. "Sure thing, Pete. You can count on me."

"And you!" He pointed at Oswald, never having quite figured out the difference between 'encouraging' and 'threatening'. "Doncha be afraid to speak up, ya hear? You and me've been in dis business longer'an anyone here. You got ideas? You make 'em listen to ya. You got it?"

Oswald nodded his head. "I got it. Thanks Pete."

"Now off with the both of ya! Some of us got work ta do."

Mickey just shook his head, giving Oswald a smile. He followed the rabbit through the archway, which suddenly lit up in red lights while the sound of an elderly woman's scream filled the hallway on a loop. Pete gave them both an embarrassed look, followed by a grimace when batting the side of the monitor didn't solve the problem. He finally just shooed them both out of the room with assurances that he could "fix dat".

The mouse and rabbit scurried down the hall passing Clarabelle and Donald, both of whom had poked their heads out to see what was going on. They breathed easy once they got to where they could hear themselves again. "Gosh, Oswald. I had no idea you and Pete were so close."

"Hey, I'm as surprised as you are," said Oswald. "I guess age leads to sentiment."

"Well, welcome aboard!"

Mickey led the rabbit into the main reception area, presenting it like it was a World's Fair exhibit. Oswald had been up there a few times before, but the furniture had been rearranged to accommodate several tables and chairs for the in-house lunch that was going to take place later. From the ceiling hung a banner that read 'Welcome Home Oswald'. Several staff members of varying species stepped away from their work to applaud his entrance.

Oswald blushed. "You guys didn't have to do this for me."

"Aw, it's the least we could do. That's Wendy, from H&R. Belle is our resident librarian. And I think you've met everybody else."

Oswald waved politely. "So this is where the magic happens."

"Nah, the real magicians are downstairs in the studio. This is where the seeds of magic are planted. Come on, I'll show you your desk. You're gonna love the view." Mickey guided Oswald down the side wing, pointing out the music hall and two meeting rooms. "Gideon and Foulfellow," he chuckled. "Named for their size. There're schedules on the doors in case anybody really needs 'em, but otherwise you can just go in there whenever. And this-"

Mickey ushered him into a nearly empty room with a small desk and chair and white grease boards for walls. On the desk sat a stack of paper and a single black marker. It was almost like walking into a blank page. For Oswald, it was perfect.

Mickey continued. "-is your home base. In a half hour or so, Horace'll bring the idea wagon around. I told him to give you first dibs on anything that strikes your fancy."

"How do ideas get in the idea wagon in the first place?"

"The board meets at least once a week. Anything that might have potential goes in the wagon."

Oswald sat in the chair, adjusted the height, and gave it a test spin. "And how do ideas get to the board?"

"Everybody's doors are always open. Like Pete says, if ya got something," Mickey pre-emptively giggled at his own joke, "I'm all ears."

Oswald leaned back in his chair and fidgeted with his marker, debating whether or not this was the time. He decided there wasn't a time, except for the one you made. "New stories with old characters."

"Like, sequels?"

"No, like crossovers. Like House of Mouse but without the cartoons." Oswald took a beat to see how Mickey reacted. It didn't seem like the mouse was entirely sold on the idea, so Oswald pushed it a little more. "What if the queen from Snow White had to stand trial for her actions, and they held it in the court from Mr. Toad? Or how would Lambert the Sheepish Lion be treated in Zootopia? Disney has a vast landscape of characters who got one shot at the limelight. What if we dropped those boundaries and let anybody interact with anybody else?"

Mickey shifted uncomfortably. "Gosh, I don't know. Do you really want somebody like Chernabog wanderin' around Sherwood Forest?"

"Well, that's just one example that doesn't work. What about somebody like Lampwick? Didn't you feel like there was a lot more to that story? Suppose Kenai finds him. Or maybe the lost boys are able to help the rest of those donkeys. Or what about the coachman? He never gets any comeuppance. Suppose he kidnaps a child and it shows up on the radar of the Rescuers."

Mickey had to admit, the idea had potential. In fact, there were a lot of possibilities. He still didn't think the board would go for it, at least not in the way Oswald was pitching it. But the rabbit clearly believed in the idea. And that had to count for something.

"If you don't mind me asking," said Mickey, "what was it that inspired this?"

Oswald absentmindedly popped the top off his marker and replaced it. "I have a second chance. To shine. To prove that there's life in me. How many others are there who want that, and never get it?" He lay the marker back on the desk and sat up straight in his chair. "There are a lot of great personalities in the Disney family and we only got to scratch their surface. I want them to have a shot."

Mickey smiled at Oswald, not his default smile, but a deeply personal one that only a select few had ever seen. "You're right," he said. "I'll pitch it to the board this afternoon."

"I mean," said Oswald, "The worst thing that can happen is they say 'no', right?"


Continue to Chapter Nine
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Chasing the Rabbit: Chapter Seven -One Step at a Time

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"What were you looking at Ape-man?" said Bagheera, speaking only to himself as he pushed the foliage to the side.

Several branches below him Jasmine was refusing to stay where he'd told her to, determined to continue the dangerous climb on her own. The panther had to admire her panache. For someone who appeared to be so fragile, the princess was not afraid of high places. "Did you say something?" she asked.

"Just thinking aloud." He leapt to a nearby limb and searched the brush again. This was the spot where he and Tarzan had their encounter and Bagheera was curious what the man had been so focused on. He'd invited Jasmine along as he found her to be the most agreeable of the man-pride, and he wanted the perspective of human eyes.

He finally found what he thought he was looking for; a crystal-like circle, about the size of a human paw, with a red glow emitting from within. "Here we go," he called to Jasmine, pleased that she had nearly scrambled up to the branch he was on. He batted at it, but the thing was wedged tightly into the nook of the tree. "What do you make of this?"

Bagheera scampered out of the way and Jasmine examined it, tapping on the surface. "It almost looks like a gemstone," she said, "but maybe not as solid. I think human hands made this." She pressed one eye against the surface. "I think there's something moving inside."

"Like a bird?"

"No more like a smaller circle twisting ever so slightly. Almost mechanical." She sighed. "I wish Genie were here. He'd know exactly what this is."

"This Genie? Does he invent things?"

"Not exactly." She lay her ear against the tree's trunk trying to find any unexpected sounds from within. "He's a magical being with thousands of years of experience. And since he hasn't found us yet, I'm really scared that something terrible has happened in Agrabah."

Jasmine listened to the trunk for a few moments before giving up on the approach. She took another minute to stare at the object in front of her, hoping for some bit of wisdom or insight, which never came. She never heard the voices from the other side pleading for her to hear them. She never saw the waving hands desperately trying to be seen. She only saw a circle twisting from within, and a red glow.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help." She wrapped her arms around the panther's strong neck and prepared for a very fast journey downwards.

"No matter," Bagheera smiled. "We may have at least learned something."

"Really? What's that?"

"That someone has been here before us."



Back at the beach, construction on the larger shelter had been going smoothly, all things considered. Kronk had been an absolute machine when it came to splitting logs, and Tarzan was particularly adept at knowing how to lash them together. The two men had intuitively taken to cooperation with very little discussion.

Elsa had been off by herself collecting fronds that she thought might help keep out the rain. Kronk assured her that he was happy to tackle that assignment once he was done with the lumber, but Elsa insisted. She told him she didn't want to feel like an extraneous component; trying very hard not to glance in Frollo's direction, who seemed preoccupied with thinking a lot.

Tarzan balanced on the roof's frame when Elsa handed him her first batch of fronds. She mouthed the words "I'm sorry," but refused to make eye contact.

The ape-man was about to say something when a loud thunderclap-like sound struck from the nearby jungle, displacing several birds from their perches.

"What was that?" asked Kronk.

Tarzan stared undeterred in the direction of the sound. "Clayton," he said.

The other three looked at him curiously. "Clayton?" said Frollo. "Clayton who?"

Tarzan reproduced the sound with his own voice, causing Elsa to jump. "Clayton," he repeated.

Frollo rolled his eyes. "You are an idiot."

Elsa turned to Kronk. "Jasmine and Bagheera."

"Yeah, they could be in trouble." The big man broke into a sprint towards the direction of the sound. He was joined by Tarzan, who'd jumped from the top of the structure.

They only made it a few steps when the foliage separated revealing a strange shape with a bright light shining behind it. It appeared human but somewhat deformed in the face. On its head were long appendages that looked like horns in the backlight.

For a second everyone froze, and only Frollo could muster the will to say anything. "What demon is this?"

"RUN" came a voice, shrill yet somehow whispered. And in an instant the shape was gone leaving only a bright light that momentarily blinded everyone, followed by another 'Clayton'. One of the structure's logs splintered in all directions from a sharp force. Elsa stifled a scream while everyone else instinctively dropped to the sand. And as quickly as it had come, the being and the light was gone.

Again, Frollo had to speak first. "You see? This place is cursed!"

Kronk fruitlessly tried calming him. "Hold your horses there. We are in a jungle-"

"We need a BOAT not a residence! That demon could be anywhere!"

"No," said Tarzan. "Not demon."

Frollo shot him a look. "Oh, what do you know, you monosyllabic bushman? You probably worship the thing."

"Look, big guy," Kronk set his big palm on Frollo's shoulder. "I hear you on the boat idea. Once we find Jasmine and Bagheera, what's say we regroup and come up with a new plan?"

"We don't need the input of that egotistical-"

"Elsa!" barked Tarzan, both to shut Frollo up and direct his attention where it needed to be. Elsa propped herself against one of the nearby palm trees, pressing both hands against the left of her abdomen.

Kronk started in her direction but Elsa put up her hand. "Stay back!" She was bleeding.

"No!" cried Tarzan. He bounded across half the distance between them.

"Please!" she shrieked with a mixture of tears in her eyes.

"Elsa," he said as calmly as he could. "Tarzan help Elsa. Elsa trust Tarzan."

Elsa kept her hand up for a time. She'd been very lucky around Jasmine during the yeti attack, and since then she'd managed to hide her magic from everyone else. Except Tarzan, but he didn't seem to understand what it was. Now that Elsa was wounded, she really didn't think she'd be able to contain it. But she'd promised her sister that she'd try; try to let others in, to risk opening up. And the pain from the loose shard of wood that had found its way into her waist was becoming unbearable.

She hesitantly lowered her hand. "Elsa trust Tarzan."

Several yards away, Frollo huffed, "She's going to attract every beast on this island by nightfall."

Kronk gave him an optimistic smirk. "One step at a time, buddy."


Continue to Chapter Eight.
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