my application to the miniature mafia

Resting his hands for a moment between hammering, Hanz felt suddenly lonely.



It is only me in this dark box, this home of sorts. Surely there must be someone out there looking for a Hanz? Perhaps a Greta, or a Hilda?



If only someone would --Hanz put down the hammer and drummed on his workbench --hold me?



Outside Hanz's home, two rabbits chatted quietly. "I am more than a nose wiggler," said Roger (pronounced Rojare, not Rawjer) emphatically. Bettina nodded, "I am so tired of these carrot and lettuce stereotypes. I love yogurt as much as the next mammal!"



He could not be completely certain, but Hanz believed that he could hear the murmur of soft voices in the distance. Of conversations, connections. Picking up the hammer once again, Hanz had faith that he was not alone.



"Lonely, but not alone," he said to himself, "it will do for now."