The writer idly prodded her sleeping baby’s carrier, amazed that he could sleep amidst the hustle and bustle of the terminal. She counted herself lucky that the three-year-old twins were fascinated by the large kinetic sculpture in the waiting area.

She wondered what her husband would bring her from his trip to The Market. Supposedly a person could buy anything there. A moment of clarity, an insightful critique, huge chunks of time… everything a fledgling writer could use to get her stalled career moving again.

An uninterrupted hour… that’s what I’d like. Or even two, if they weren’t too expensive.

The monitor dinged and she looked up to see that her husband’s plane had landed. The twins noticed too, and hurried to her side.

“Is Daddy coming out soon?”

“What did he bring me?”

She shushed her children and reminded them of their manners, even though she herself was dying to find out what her husband had found in The Market for each of them.

Slowly, businessmen and businesswomen started to filter out from the gates, greeted with hugs or flowers or homemade drawings saying “I missed you!” Those unencumbered by family needled straight through, adroitly avoiding low-flying traffic while checking their various mobile devices.

A hook! She gasped, seeing what one delighted writer was carrying. I could use a hook more than anything else right now. That, and time. I have so many ideas and no way to corral them.

As if taunting her, an ad executive swerved past them toting a box labeled “idea corral.”

“Daddy!” the twins squealed in unison as her handsome husband came swaggering along. Under his briefcase arm he held a box.

Is that a hutch? Or a hunch?

“What did you bring us?” the kids asked, in spite of her numerous reminders about manners.

“Here you go, imps.” he said, bestowing gifts on his progeny and then leaning in to kiss his wife.

Miraculously, the baby slept on, although he did do a little startle-movement when his siblings’ shrieks hit a certain pitch.

“And for you…” he handed her the hutch.

It is a hutch. Oh no…

“I was thinking. What does a writer need more than anything? Ideas, that’s what! And there were entire kiosks devoted to just such a thing.”

She peeked inside. Two little noses, two pink ears, two blue ears. The bunnies were… active.

“I got one male and one female. I figure that way, if they breed—”

Oh, oh yes. Plot bunnies do nothing better than breed.

“—then you’ll always have more ideas than you know what to do with!”

She didn’t remember murmuring “thank you,” but she must have, because he said “You’re welcome.” and kissed her again.

This little short (unrelated to anything else I’ve done) was written in response to the Write On Edge prompt about a terminal. I’ve been sick, and having all kinds of really weird dreams that I couldn’t put into real words, but the pink and yellow bunnies (I purposely changed it to blue) were definitely prominent in this last one.
Many people think that the best way for them to help a writer is to give them an idea. Not so. Most writers have more ideas than they know what to do with; getting them down in cohesive form is the trick.

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