Stapled to the bedroom door was a chaotically-written note in red crayon that read: "Do not disturb. Experimental genius at work."
Greg smirked when he saw it. This was becoming a famous ritual in the household. It would have been an oddity if there was no note stuck on the door.
Ignoring the sign, Greg disturbed, knocking on the door thunderously before opening it and walking into the room like he created it with his own hands.
"Greg!" a young voice called out. "Didn't you read the sign?"
"I thought that was a suggestion," Greg said with the same smirk, looking at his 8-year-old younger brother Ben. Ben was holding two drum sticks tight in his hand, hovering them over a large, shiny black top hat that sat upside down on a desk.
Ben didn't have time for his brother's petty games. He had to find a way to muster up a rabbit out of thin air before 6 p.m. - the start of the neighbor's pool party. He was determined to be one of the main attractions, second only to the pool. He had been crafting his magic act for hours with no intriguing conclusion. Six o'clock was fast approaching.
Ben was a serious sort. For eight days, he focused his attention on alluring YouTube videos and read all things his mind could decipher on magic - his latest captivation. Yet, he couldn't adapt the magic tricks in the proper way. What little he could do seemed too amateurish and dismally short of spectacular.
In one attempt, he sat for an hour and prayed with eagerness over the hat, noting that if God could speak the entire universe into existence, he could surely be called upon to come to the aid of a boy needy of a bunny.
After the prayer, Ben waited a moment in earnest. Hopeful.
Only silence occurred, after which Ben sat, discontent, on the window stoop. He pondered the existence of miracles in relation to cotton-tailed bunnies. Somehow his mind went from that to drum sticks. He wondered if this is what ADD felt like as melancholy filled his little 8-year-old body. But then he asked himself, with sudden enthusiasm, "What would Harry Potter do?"
And so, this his how Greg found his little brother - in an copious state of mind, with drum sticks in hand, trying to make a bunny that would never come appear swiftly out of thin air. Greg didn't have the heart to tell him the truth about where real magical bunnies come from, i.e. Petland and the like.
Greg shook his head with contempt bent on levity. His little brother was such a drama queen, fretting over magic hats and drum sticks. He wondered why Ben couldn't learn how to pitch a fast ball, like normal 8 year olds.
Ben took his brother's towering presence as the perfect opportunity to wallow in self-pity.
"Paradise lost!" Ben cried, picking up the hat and noticing, for the first time, that there was a large hole through the lid with remnants of white, fluffy fur stuck on its torn edges. "It's paradise lost!"
Greg's eyes grew large with surprise. His mouth fell open in astonishment.
Ben leaped to his bed in one flawless move and crawled underneath the covers, so his antagonizing brother couldn't see. He let the tears fall. Then, after a moment, Ben got up and advanced pass Greg with a courtly walk, wishing him adieu.
Greg's head dropped and his smirk returned. He wondered how Ben managed to get through each day with such dramatics. He also wondered if there was really a rabbit in the room. Perhaps its name was Paradise.
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