Like a Vorpal Blade
More Erotic Tales of Wonderland
edited by J. Blackmore
Published by
Circlet Press, Inc.
Cambridge, MA
Like a Vorpal Blade
edited by J. Blackmore
Copyright © 2011 Circlet Press, Inc.
Published by Circlet Press, Inc.
39 Hurlbut Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
Smashwords Edition
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Table of Contents
If This Be Not Love, It Is Madness by Theresa Sand
A Perfect Creature by Bernie Mojzes
Midway Rides by Alex Picchetti
The Boiling Sea by Angela Caperton
Introduction
Beware the Jabberwock, my son...
So says Lewis Carroll, in his lyrical poem. Here he hints that he has not been telling us the whole story of Wonderland; that dangerous beasties are hiding just out of sight in every scene of Alice's adventures. This poem begins with a chant of precise nonsense, and takes the reader through fear and murder, and back to nonsense again. For some readers, this is the true face of Wonderland, and the nightmares it produces are the stories that they must tell.
The Queen of Hearts is the apparent ruler of Alice's dreams. She is hot-tempered, bloodthirsty, and ultimately balanced by the persistent shadow of the King. But a Wonderland without Alice is a Wonderland cut loose from its center, and the Queen without her King is rage cut away from mercy. Theresa Sand takes us into the political world of the Court of Hearts, seen through the eyes of Alice's doppelganger, Mary Ann. "If This Be Not Love, It is Madness" examines forbidden desire, and the dangers of love, stood starkly against the background of death.
The power of obsession is how it lives under the skin, crawling, writhing, driving to seek its object. Having fucked her way through Wonderland, Alice finds herself on the wrong side of the rabbit hole in Bernie Mojzes' "A Perfect Creature." Shunned by a lover that seemed made for her, Alice tries to ease her longing the only way she knows how. Her attempts fall somewhere between desperation and madness.
Madness is not funny. The whimsy of Wonderland sometimes makes us forget the terror of insanity. Alice knows what it means to lose herself, and building up a barrier of sanity is only one way to deal with it. In "Waking," ADR Forte tells us the story of a modern Alice leading a double life. She is content to wear a mask, sleepwalking through her days, until a man from her past meets her through the mirror, and forces her to face who and what she truly is.
Wonderland doesn't always wait for us to visit. In moments of despair, the shadows may move, and we may be met in the darkness by everything we try to deny. Alex Picchetti drags us deep underground to a decadent, macabre carnival in "Midway Rides." There, all the most disturbing of Carroll's characters run a series of attractions that lay open the soul and cost nothing less than your life as you know it.
The Jabberwock is never fully described. The Jabberwock is indescribable. The Jabberwock only has power when you think of him, face him, become him. It's the Summer of Love, and a Vietnam vet lands in a little resort town, looking for answers to questions he hasn't asked. "The Boiling Sea" by Angela Caperton is the story of his journey from war to the peace that can only come when one has passed all one's tests. On the way, he will come under the power of a magician, face a monster, and learn to wield his Vorpal blade.
In Like the Knave of Hearts we visited Wonderland as grown-ups, able at last to face imagination as our full sexual selves, and reveling in it. Here, we face madness, despair, destruction, and death. But, always, always, wonder wins. After all, we are, ultimately, in control of our nightmares, and they have much to teach us. They are the darker half of our desires, and as utterly necessary as breathing. And as utterly inevitable as the cessation of breath.
J. Blackmore
November 2010
If This Be Not Love, It Is Madness
Theresa Sand
When Mary Ann saw the Mad Hatter kissing the White Knight, she knew he was not mad.
They were in the alcove of the Hatter's little home. She had a letter from the White Rabbit stuffed in her apron, and she had walked into the Hatter's house with angel's trumpet in her hair. It was only dawn, but she was already late. Her mind was a whirligig of tasks and chores, which the White Rabbit deemed unimportant in comparison to the delivery of his numerous letters of many shapes and sizes (sometimes ones so small she had to pinch them between thumb and forefinger).
But all those thoughts vanished as soon as she witnessed the Hatter and White Knight in a passionate embrace. She was so shocked she dropped her basket of mushrooms. She was light on her feet but her voice carried (the White Rabbit was always shushing her), and her gasp caused the White Knight to break away from the kiss.
The Hatter said nothing, lax in his repose against the wall. His eyes remained shut even as the White Knight stumbled around the room in search of his sword and his armor. He mumbled his apologies and bashed his knee against the table before ducking out of the house, his armor piled up in his arms.
Still the Hatter did not move, or speak. His hat was on the floor, and his black hair was mussed. He was a beautiful man, but hid it with ill-fitting clothes and unkempt hair. Mary Ann often found herself daydreaming about what he must have looked like when he was a singer at the Queen of Hearts' court, dressed in gilded finery, his raven hair brushed away from his face, revealing his high cheekbones and generous mouth.
"Mary Ann," he greeted softly, his lips quirked into a smile. "If you like to watch, you should have come earlier."
He turned his head, opened his eyes, and set her in his clear, obsidian stare.
She ignored the rush of heat to her cheeks, grabbed her basket, and strode over to the dusty alcove, the letter in her free hand. She halted in front of him, ignoring the rapid beat of her heart. It was always that way when in close proximity to the Hatter and she chided herself for it. She was widowed. She had a child. She was not old but she was hardly a silly girl.
The Hatter stared down at the letter between them, considering before he plucked it from her fingers. His fingertips grazed her hand and she snatched it back as if he had burned her.
"Is this from the White Rabbit?" he asked. His voice was melodious and low, as if ready at any moment to break into song.
Mary Ann ignored her surprise at such a simple question. The Hatter never asked them. He preferred riddles and rhyming. After Alice, he had sunk into stranger behavior and proclaimed that Time, in even greater revenge of his attempted murder, had moved him forward to midnight. The tea party was abandoned, save for the dormouse, who dozed against a cobwebbed teapot, singing nursery rhymes in his sleep.
"Of course," she said finally.
The Hatter raised one inky eyebrow. "No course but progress, Miss Mary."
"Ann," she finished.
"Two names for one woman." He sighed and tapped the edge of the letter against his forehead. "You must be a handful." His eyes drifted down her body, and the implication was obvious.
She felt herself flush again. It irritated her, and added to her irritation over the fallen basket of mushrooms, her tardiness, and the rush of desire she had felt when she watched the White Knight and Hatter kiss.
"You must be lonely," she blurted out, immediately regretting her statement.
He pursed his lips. "Must I be an emotion?"
"Of course," she stammered.
"There you go again. You are not very contrary, are you Mary?"
"You need to be careful," she advised hotly, angry at herself. "If the Queen of Hearts were to find out about--"
"About what? The actions of a mad man?"
"I know that isn't true."
"Oh?" He yawned. "What is true and what are lies? The only thing you can be sure of is neither can be bread pudding." He grinned again. "My, my, Mary Ann, you have put me in a tizzy. Perhaps I should throw a little party to show my recent assignations are not at all as treacherous as you would imply."
"I would never--"
"Never is a horrible word, Mary Ann. So absolute, so unwavering." His smile widened. "Yes, a dinner party is what I shall throw--so high up in the air all of the Land shall see it." He glanced down at her, and his gaze changed. She suddenly noticed his hands were empty.
He cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her jaw. She was shocked into stillness.
"I'm ravenous just thinking about it," he murmured.
She swallowed, unable to speak. He had moved imperceptibly closer to her, their hips aligned, the heat of his body seeping into hers. Being this close she noticed a small scar by the corner of his right eye. She wanted to rest her fingers on it, but instead her hands fisted by her sides. He was playing with her, and she would not be fooled, not even as his beautiful dark eyes stared down so deeply into her own.
"Haven't you had your fill?" she said, suddenly angry.
"Never," he explained calmly. "I'm a bottomless well."
"A well isn't ravenous."
"Don't be so sure," he said.
He pressed his lips against hers, his thumbs pressing lightly against her jaw, opening her to the sudden invasion of his tongue. She grasped the lapels of his dusty dinner jacket, nearly sinking to her knees as his tongue swept over her teeth. His arm circled around her waist and anchored her against his hard body. His other hand threaded through her hair, scattering angel's trumpet to the floor.
She was lost in a wave of passion, thrown against the cliffs. His tongue touched hers, coaxing her reply and she answered, tentative, until his hand slid from her hair to her breast. She froze against his mouth, shocked by his blatant touch and by her own uninhibited response.
"Next time," the Hatter whispered against her lips, "you should knock."
* * * *
Mary Ann had loved her husband. They had married very young; she was an orphan, and so his family became her own. He gave her a home and a daughter. He surprised her with primroses and kisses. But then he went to war. He died.
Mary Ann did the best, the only thing, possible. She left her daughter with her husband's parents and took a position as the White Rabbit's housemaid. She was subject to his whims and paranoia. Often her hands would go stiff from washing and ironing his hundreds of gloves, but she was content to know her child was safe.
She tried to focus on that fact each day, especially now, stuck in the Hatter's dank kitchen. It was the day of his promised dinner party, and she was in charge of his servants: a lazy lot who would not care if one of their own drowned in a bucket. In fact, the Dormouse had almost done just that, and Mary Ann had to yank him out. He sputtered a "Thanks" before dragging his sopping wet body to the dining room, where the Duchess's Frog-Footman had established himself. The Frog-Footman had given Mary Ann a mocking bow, followed by a roll of his large eyes. Mary Ann made a mental note to add extra salt to his dinner.
The Hatter was in fine form, meaning that his madness was in tip-top shape. He had already broken ten dishes after deciding his dinner party should sit on the floor. He had turned the richly embroidered tablecloth into a linen fortress, and demanded everyone sit beneath it so that, "The Moon's clever eyes will not spy upon our secrets."
Everyone had done as he asked, and Mary Ann, in her scurrying back and forth, detected that the Hatter's guests were pleased that he was back to his old self.
The White Knight was not there, and Mary Ann found that she was happy for it. But when the March Hare arrived (four hours late), the party immediately took a somber turn. When she brought out the third teapot, the tablecloth was back on the table, and every plate (broken or not) had been returned to its spot.
"March Hare has tired of my games, it seems," the Hatter sighed.
Mary Ann walked by him and his hand shot out, lightning quick, ensnaring her wrist. She halted and ignored the heat that ran up her arm, the amused look on the Hatter's face.
He pulled her close, until she was behind the table and next to his seat.
"Tell me, Mary Ann. Do you think the March Hare is angry at me?"
Mary Ann glanced down the table, where the March Hare blinked at her blearily. In fact, the whole party looked worse for wear; the Duchess's head had fallen in her soup bowl. Only the Frog-Footman was alert, glaring at her from his post by the door.
"I think," she swallowed at the Frog-Footman's narrowed eyes. "Sir. That he is too drunk to be much of anything."
"Much of anything? Much of anything!" the Hatter crowed. He dropped her wrist, but before she could make an escape, he twisted his fingers in the bottom of her dress, tethering her to his side.
"Well then." The Hatter put a finger to his lips. "That is much more than he was before." He leaned forward. "Isn't that right, March Hare?"
Mary Ann felt as if a weight had dropped in her stomach. Something wasn't right. The Hatter was not crazed: he was angry, and it seemed as if his dinner party was the subject of his rage. What had happened to make him so angry?
Her thoughts raced in every direction as she felt the weight of the Hatter's hand drop from her dress and edge up her skirt. His fingers settled on her leg, his thumb brushing the soft underside of her knee. Mary Ann suppressed a shiver, angry that he would take advantage of her out in the open. She glared down at him, but his hat obscured his face.
"I didsh allsh I's could," the March Hare slurred before slumping forward onto the table.
The Hatter slammed his hat on the table, and ran his hand through his hair. Even though he radiated anger, his fingers were gentle as they trailed to the top of her thigh.
"We had a little drinking contest," he finally explained. "And I lost, or rather, everyone won because they are in repose and I am all alone."
Mary Ann attempted to shake his hand off, but it would not budge. "I did not serve any liquor with the tea, Sir."
The Hatter grinned. "It's amazing what you can stumble upon in this house." He leaned back in his chair and stared up at her with his deep black eyes. "You always find something to whet your appetite."
He turned away from her and his hand dropped from her leg. Mary Ann stepped out of his way, just as he talked the Frog-Footman into taking a drink with him. The Dormouse drunkenly raised his small paw to announce he was ready for another and Mary Ann left them alone to suffer the Hatter's demons.
* * * *
Mary Ann went outside to clear her head. She could hear the Frog-Footman drunkenly singing and the bang and clatter of pots and pans being scrubbed by the other servants. The White Rabbit never came to the party and Mary Ann was slightly worried. Though he was always late, he always at least made an appearance.
She folded her arms against the night's chill. Something was not right, and had never been ever since she had decided the Hatter was not mad. She had always thought the Red Queen was the one who enjoyed chess, but she was beginning to realize more and more that everyone was just a pawn of the Hatter.
Which made her wonder: what move would he make next? And would she lose the game?
The house had gone eerily silent and she knew from the darkness in the dining room window that the Hatter's guests had been sent away. Mary Ann trudged through the servants' door, to find that the kitchen was empty. She shoved up her sleeves, glad for the quiet, and settled into scrubbing a large pan. The task was joyfully meaningless, and allowed her to forget the night's events, the touch of the Hatter's fingers on her skin.
"Why do you believe I'm not mad, Mary Ann?"
Her fingertips skimmed soapy water as the Hatter's voice drifted in from the doorway. She was lost in the heat of his voice, but shook herself from it and returned to scrubbing.
"It sounds like nonsense, but you mean what you say," she explained.
"Say what you mean, Mary Ann."
She turned, exasperated, and he grinned at her. He was a large and looming shadow. She did not want him to come any closer.
"A tornado is similar," she said and gripped the edges of the table as he strode closer. "It seems like it has no direction, but it knows where it's headed."
"A tornado?" he mused. The candles in the room flickered as he moved into the room. She willed herself not to run. She held her breath as he walked around the table. He shrugged out of his torn dinner jacket. He tossed it on the table, now only in his dress shirt. It clung to his well-muscled upper body, which he kept so well hidden. He rolled up his wrinkled cuffs, and she stared at his pale forearms. When he looked at her, his eyes were bright and the scar by his eye was red.
He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
"If I'm a tornado, aren't you afraid of the danger?"
"I was never under the impression that you wanted me," she swallowed. "In danger."
"Oh, but I do," he said. He was in front of her now; she could smell rain and the heat of his skin. A lock of jet black hair fell next to his eye as he caged her between his arms. Her fingers dug into the counter as he leaned down and pressed his lips against her neck. Her pulse fluttered in immediate response and she ignored the urge to let her eyes slide shut.