![Mona Awad - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_mona_awad.jpg)
Bunny: A Novel
"Jon Swift + Witches of Eastwick + Kelly 'Get In Trouble' Link + Mean Girls + Creative Writing Degree Hell! No punches pulled, no hilarities dodged, no meme unmangled! O Bunny you are sooo genius!" -Margaret Atwood, via Twitter
"A wild, audacious and ultimately unforgettable novel." -Michael Schaub, Los Angeles Times
"Awad is a stone-cold genius." -Ann Bauer, The Washington Post
The Vegetarian meets Heathers in this darkly funny, seductively strange novel from the acclaimed author of 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl.
"We were just these innocent girls in the night trying to make something beautiful. We nearly died. We very nearly did, didn't we?"
Samantha Heather Mackey couldn't be more of an outsider in her small, highly selective MFA program at New England's Warren University. A scholarship student who prefers the company of her dark imagination to that of most people, she is utterly repelled by the rest of her fiction writing cohort--a clique of unbearably twee rich girls who call each other "Bunny," and seem to move and speak as one.
But everything changes when Samantha receives an invitation to the Bunnies' fabled "Smut Salon," and finds herself inexplicably drawn to their front door--ditching her only friend, Ava, in the process. As Samantha plunges deeper and deeper into the Bunnies' sinister yet saccharine world, beginning to take part in the ritualistic off-campus "Workshop" where they conjure their monstrous creations, the edges of reality begin to blur. Soon, her friendships with Ava and the Bunnies will be brought into deadly collision.
The spellbinding new novel from one of our most fearless chroniclers of the female experience, Bunny is a down-the-rabbit-hole tale of loneliness and belonging, friendship and desire, and the fantastic and terrible power of the imagination.
Named a Best Book of 2019 by TIME, Vogue, Electric Literature, and The New York Public Library
"A wild, audacious and ultimately unforgettable novel." -Michael Schaub, Los Angeles Times
"Awad is a stone-cold genius." -Ann Bauer, The Washington Post
The Vegetarian meets Heathers in this darkly funny, seductively strange novel from the acclaimed author of 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl.
"We were just these innocent girls in the night trying to make something beautiful. We nearly died. We very nearly did, didn't we?"
Samantha Heather Mackey couldn't be more of an outsider in her small, highly selective MFA program at New England's Warren University. A scholarship student who prefers the company of her dark imagination to that of most people, she is utterly repelled by the rest of her fiction writing cohort--a clique of unbearably twee rich girls who call each other "Bunny," and seem to move and speak as one.
But everything changes when Samantha receives an invitation to the Bunnies' fabled "Smut Salon," and finds herself inexplicably drawn to their front door--ditching her only friend, Ava, in the process. As Samantha plunges deeper and deeper into the Bunnies' sinister yet saccharine world, beginning to take part in the ritualistic off-campus "Workshop" where they conjure their monstrous creations, the edges of reality begin to blur. Soon, her friendships with Ava and the Bunnies will be brought into deadly collision.
The spellbinding new novel from one of our most fearless chroniclers of the female experience, Bunny is a down-the-rabbit-hole tale of loneliness and belonging, friendship and desire, and the fantastic and terrible power of the imagination.
Named a Best Book of 2019 by TIME, Vogue, Electric Literature, and The New York Public Library
Editorial Reviews
1.
We call them Bunnies because that is what they call each other. Seriously. Bunny.
Example:
Hi, Bunny!
Hi, Bunny!
What did you do last night, Bunny?
I hung out with you, Bunny. Remember, Bunny?
That's right, Bunny, you hung out with me and it was the best time I ever had.
Bunny, I love you. I love you, Bunny.
And then they hug each other so hard I think their chests are going to implode. I would even secretly hope for it from where I sat, stood, leaned, in the opposite corner of the lecture hall, department lounge, auditorium, bearing witness to four grown women-my academic peers-cooingly strangle each other hello. Or good‑bye. Or just because you're so amazing, Bunny. How fiercely they gripped each other's pink‑and‑white bodies, forming a hot little circle of such rib‑crushing love and understanding it took my breath away. And then the nuzzling of ski‑jump noses, peach fuzzy cheeks. Temples pressed against temples in a way that made me think of the labial rubbing of the bonobo or the telepathy of beautiful, murderous children in horror films. All eight of their eyes shut tight as if this collective asphyxiation were a kind of religious bliss. All four of their glossy mouths making squealing sounds of monstrous love that hurt my face.
I love you, Bunny.
I quietly prayed for the hug implosion all year last year. That their ardent squeezing might cause the flesh to ooze from the sleeves, neckholes, and A‑line hems of their cupcake dresses like so much inane frosting. That they would get tangled in each other's Game of Thrones hair, choked by the ornate braids they were forever braiding into each other's heart‑shaped lit‑ tle heads. That they would choke on each other's blandly grassy perfume.
Never happened. Not once.
They always came apart from these embraces intact and unwounded despite the ill will that poured forth from my staring eyes like so much comic‑ book‑villain venom. Smiling at one another. Swinging clasped hands. Skins aglow with affection and belonging as though they'd just been hydrated by the purest of mountain streams.
Bunny, I love yo...
We call them Bunnies because that is what they call each other. Seriously. Bunny.
Example:
Hi, Bunny!
Hi, Bunny!
What did you do last night, Bunny?
I hung out with you, Bunny. Remember, Bunny?
That's right, Bunny, you hung out with me and it was the best time I ever had.
Bunny, I love you. I love you, Bunny.
And then they hug each other so hard I think their chests are going to implode. I would even secretly hope for it from where I sat, stood, leaned, in the opposite corner of the lecture hall, department lounge, auditorium, bearing witness to four grown women-my academic peers-cooingly strangle each other hello. Or good‑bye. Or just because you're so amazing, Bunny. How fiercely they gripped each other's pink‑and‑white bodies, forming a hot little circle of such rib‑crushing love and understanding it took my breath away. And then the nuzzling of ski‑jump noses, peach fuzzy cheeks. Temples pressed against temples in a way that made me think of the labial rubbing of the bonobo or the telepathy of beautiful, murderous children in horror films. All eight of their eyes shut tight as if this collective asphyxiation were a kind of religious bliss. All four of their glossy mouths making squealing sounds of monstrous love that hurt my face.
I love you, Bunny.
I quietly prayed for the hug implosion all year last year. That their ardent squeezing might cause the flesh to ooze from the sleeves, neckholes, and A‑line hems of their cupcake dresses like so much inane frosting. That they would get tangled in each other's Game of Thrones hair, choked by the ornate braids they were forever braiding into each other's heart‑shaped lit‑ tle heads. That they would choke on each other's blandly grassy perfume.
Never happened. Not once.
They always came apart from these embraces intact and unwounded despite the ill will that poured forth from my staring eyes like so much comic‑ book‑villain venom. Smiling at one another. Swinging clasped hands. Skins aglow with affection and belonging as though they'd just been hydrated by the purest of mountain streams.
Bunny, I love yo...
Readers Top Reviews
Cheryl TemiClie
This is a rollercoaster of a ride. Is this a dream or is this real? You don't know from one moment to the next. Could be make believe or a drunken drug ridden realty. Who is to say?
This was my first time reading a dark book like this, that wasn't an older classic. There were times when it was confusing and maybe a bit too creepy for me. The plot itself was weird - but, I suppose that's the point. Despite that, it can't be denied that the writing itself was amazing. The descriptions and imagery were amazing; Awad has phenomenal choice in words. I didn't know whether or not I would finish it at first, but I'm glad that I did. The last chapter alone bumped it from a 3 star to a 4 star for me. I definitely want to reread it again later, with new eyes after having completed it. And, if a book can get you to want to read it twice, I'd say it's a pretty great book.
Leesha lee Cher
Ive been trying to get into reading more. I found this to be one of the few books I actually finished and annotated happily. Worth the read certain parts i really loved others were just okay.
JasmineLeesha lee
Bunny was a fun read that takes your mind in different directions. The writing is superb but confusing at times and might throw you off track. Overall, I’d recommend it to others but would let them know that some re-reading in certain sections might be required. The author is a fellow DU grad so she automatically gets my stamp of approval!
Aili AnnukJasmine
Samantha is a MFA creative writing scholarship student in the elite Warren University. She doesn't seem to have anything in common with other students in her course, who are all from rich families, do everything together and for whatever the reasons - call each other Bunnies. One day she gets a surprising invitation to their creative get-together evening, Smut Salon. Soon enough Samantha has to question reality as she knows it. And you as a reader will follow shortly. Well this was a bizarre book. It's funny, disorienting and a bit wild. There's dark academia, magical realism and horror. Naturally I loved it. I must say I had to think about the storyline for a few days after finishing. There's ways to interpret it I guess and I have my own theories. The writing is clever and everything has its place and meaning, even if it doesn't seem like that at first.You can read it as a crazy story without even analyzing the meaning and still get a kick out of it. I really don't know how to further review it without spoilers hmm. ⛔ SPOILERS AHEAD! ⛔ Was it even real? The whole of it, the making people out of bunnies part, the weird cult she was drawn into? Because, as we learned, Samantha had the ability to turn other animals into human beings, the other girls only could use rabbits. Her best friend, Ava, was unknowingly summoned alive from a swan. When Samantha started engaging more with the Bunny cult, Ava disappeared. And what happened during that time? She was given some sort of pills. It was never specified what kind of pills they were. She could have been a psych patient for all we know. And Max, who she also "made", took revenge on the bunnies. Ava and Max were like the opposite sides of Samantha's personality that were fighting her inner fights in the "real world". But it doesn't totally add up since she did witness making people out of rabbits during that time. Or was it all a psychotic episode? Or could we look at it as an outsider's view of the "normal" that seems incomprehensible to her? Such a weird story.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1.
We call them Bunnies because that is what they call each other. Seriously. Bunny.
Example:
Hi, Bunny!
Hi, Bunny!
What did you do last night, Bunny?
I hung out with you, Bunny. Remember, Bunny?
That's right, Bunny, you hung out with me and it was the best time I ever had.
Bunny, I love you. I love you, Bunny.
And then they hug each other so hard I think their chests are going to implode. I would even secretly hope for it from where I sat, stood, leaned, in the opposite corner of the lecture hall, department lounge, auditorium, bearing witness to four grown women-my academic peers-cooingly strangle each other hello. Or good‑bye. Or just because you're so amazing, Bunny. How fiercely they gripped each other's pink‑and‑white bodies, forming a hot little circle of such rib‑crushing love and understanding it took my breath away. And then the nuzzling of ski‑jump noses, peach fuzzy cheeks. Temples pressed against temples in a way that made me think of the labial rubbing of the bonobo or the telepathy of beautiful, murderous children in horror films. All eight of their eyes shut tight as if this collective asphyxiation were a kind of religious bliss. All four of their glossy mouths making squealing sounds of monstrous love that hurt my face.
I love you, Bunny.
I quietly prayed for the hug implosion all year last year. That their ardent squeezing might cause the flesh to ooze from the sleeves, neckholes, and A‑line hems of their cupcake dresses like so much inane frosting. That they would get tangled in each other's Game of Thrones hair, choked by the ornate braids they were forever braiding into each other's heart‑shaped lit‑ tle heads. That they would choke on each other's blandly grassy perfume.
Never happened. Not once.
They always came apart from these embraces intact and unwounded despite the ill will that poured forth from my staring eyes like so much comic‑ book‑villain venom. Smiling at one another. Swinging clasped hands. Skins aglow with affection and belonging as though they'd just been hydrated by the purest of mountain streams.
Bunny, I love you.
Completely immune to the disdain of their fellow graduate student. Me. Samantha Heather Mackey. Who is not a Bunny. Who will never be a Bunny.
I pour myself and Ava more free champagne in the far corner of the tented green, where I lean against a white Doric pillar bedecked with billowing tulle. September. Warren University. The Narrative Arts department's annual welcome back Demitasse, because this school is too Ivy and New England to call a party a party. Behold the tigerlily‑heavy centepieces. Behold the Christmas‑lit white gauze floating everywhere like so many ghosts. Behold the pewter trays of salmon pinwheels, duck‑liver crostini topped with little sugared orchids. Behold the white people in black discussing grants they earned to translate poets no one reads from the French. Behold the lavish tent under which the overeducated mingle, well versed in every art but the one of conversation. Smilingly oblivious to the fact that they are in the mouth of hell. Or as Ava and I call it, the Lair of Cthulhu. Cthulhu is a giant squid monster invented by a horror writer who went insane and died here. And you know what, it makes sense. Because you can feel it when you're walking down the streets beyond the Warren Bubble that this town is a wrong town. Something not quite right about the houses, the trees, the light. Bring this up and most people just look at you. But not Ava. Ava says, My god, yes. The town, the houses, the trees, the light- it's all fucked.
I stand here, I sway here, full of tepid sparkling and animal livers and whatever hard alcohol Ava keeps pouring from her Drink Me flask into my plastic cup. "What's in this again?" I ask.
"Just drink it," she says.
I observe from behind borrowed sunglasses as the women whom I must call my colleagues reunite after ...
We call them Bunnies because that is what they call each other. Seriously. Bunny.
Example:
Hi, Bunny!
Hi, Bunny!
What did you do last night, Bunny?
I hung out with you, Bunny. Remember, Bunny?
That's right, Bunny, you hung out with me and it was the best time I ever had.
Bunny, I love you. I love you, Bunny.
And then they hug each other so hard I think their chests are going to implode. I would even secretly hope for it from where I sat, stood, leaned, in the opposite corner of the lecture hall, department lounge, auditorium, bearing witness to four grown women-my academic peers-cooingly strangle each other hello. Or good‑bye. Or just because you're so amazing, Bunny. How fiercely they gripped each other's pink‑and‑white bodies, forming a hot little circle of such rib‑crushing love and understanding it took my breath away. And then the nuzzling of ski‑jump noses, peach fuzzy cheeks. Temples pressed against temples in a way that made me think of the labial rubbing of the bonobo or the telepathy of beautiful, murderous children in horror films. All eight of their eyes shut tight as if this collective asphyxiation were a kind of religious bliss. All four of their glossy mouths making squealing sounds of monstrous love that hurt my face.
I love you, Bunny.
I quietly prayed for the hug implosion all year last year. That their ardent squeezing might cause the flesh to ooze from the sleeves, neckholes, and A‑line hems of their cupcake dresses like so much inane frosting. That they would get tangled in each other's Game of Thrones hair, choked by the ornate braids they were forever braiding into each other's heart‑shaped lit‑ tle heads. That they would choke on each other's blandly grassy perfume.
Never happened. Not once.
They always came apart from these embraces intact and unwounded despite the ill will that poured forth from my staring eyes like so much comic‑ book‑villain venom. Smiling at one another. Swinging clasped hands. Skins aglow with affection and belonging as though they'd just been hydrated by the purest of mountain streams.
Bunny, I love you.
Completely immune to the disdain of their fellow graduate student. Me. Samantha Heather Mackey. Who is not a Bunny. Who will never be a Bunny.
I pour myself and Ava more free champagne in the far corner of the tented green, where I lean against a white Doric pillar bedecked with billowing tulle. September. Warren University. The Narrative Arts department's annual welcome back Demitasse, because this school is too Ivy and New England to call a party a party. Behold the tigerlily‑heavy centepieces. Behold the Christmas‑lit white gauze floating everywhere like so many ghosts. Behold the pewter trays of salmon pinwheels, duck‑liver crostini topped with little sugared orchids. Behold the white people in black discussing grants they earned to translate poets no one reads from the French. Behold the lavish tent under which the overeducated mingle, well versed in every art but the one of conversation. Smilingly oblivious to the fact that they are in the mouth of hell. Or as Ava and I call it, the Lair of Cthulhu. Cthulhu is a giant squid monster invented by a horror writer who went insane and died here. And you know what, it makes sense. Because you can feel it when you're walking down the streets beyond the Warren Bubble that this town is a wrong town. Something not quite right about the houses, the trees, the light. Bring this up and most people just look at you. But not Ava. Ava says, My god, yes. The town, the houses, the trees, the light- it's all fucked.
I stand here, I sway here, full of tepid sparkling and animal livers and whatever hard alcohol Ava keeps pouring from her Drink Me flask into my plastic cup. "What's in this again?" I ask.
"Just drink it," she says.
I observe from behind borrowed sunglasses as the women whom I must call my colleagues reunite after ...
