Wicked Worple and the Forget-Me-Nots
Flash Fiction #25
What happened so far…
… and now for the continuation.
In the early dawn of glibber goo, a creature thrums through festered skies on gnarled wings of fetid hide, clacking claws droop with icky soot from sickly soil, where wicked men with jabber jabs and jibber jives let evil thrive, and far below the morning mist mingle streams of steam from countless cups, cups of tea, tea in cups on oaken wood, tea that simmers, fills the air, a scent of dew and honey, livid light yawns through thick veils, veils of tea, fragrant flavours from countless cups of molten gold, a magic dance of song and tea, tea pours from pot, pours in cups, cups brimming bright, and circling high above this sea of tea, the beast, with rancid shrieks, descends.
Far away, but not too far, across the seven hills, in a valley green, quite close to where we lay our scene, where the bluest flowers bloom, in a little hut, fate is hard at work, conspiring, plotting, scheme after scheme, unbeknownst to those who dwell within, it comes to pass that one little girl looks through the looking glass.
“Cursed Mr Rabbit. If only he had eaten the cookie sooner,” Mrs Beaver grunts.
“Not all is lost, my dear. He may yet find the girl,” Mr Beaver stares out the window, up into the cloud-laden sky, brows furrowed. “A storm is coming.”
“The Queen will have our heads if she finds out we helped – all our heads. Here, take these. Find Mr Rabbit. He needs to eat them. All of them.” Mrs Beaver presses a bouquet of forget-me-nots into her husband’s paws. “He can’t have gotten far.”
Mr Beaver looks at the flowers, then at Mrs Beaver, then again at the bundle of borage with the air of someone about to say something but not saying anything for fear of uttering words that may lead to much anguish and instead adopts an expression of utter helplessness.
“If Mr Rabbit forgets himself, if he truly becomes the beast, then all is lost, pestilence will be upon the land, it will be…” Mrs Beaver pauses, her voice a mere whisper. “…the end of Wonderland.”
Mr Beaver gasps.
“Go. Now!” She shoves him out the door.
Thunder. Lightning. Rain.
“When shall we meet again?” Mr Beaver shouts.
Mrs Beaver does not hear. The storm rages, he’s pulled hither and thither, half running, half flying, holding onto his tiny top hat with one paw and tucking the flowers into his pocket, his little feet scurrying through the air, higher and higher Mr Beaver rises, words fall from his lips, lost in the wind and rain.
The beast descends, faster and faster, wings beating, claws clawing, beak beaking, eyes flaming, and in one final swoop, it lands. Cups scatter, dishes clatter, pots shatter and tea spills across the table, drips and drips in giant drops from edge to edge down in splashing streams, but no one sees, eyes fixed on the monstrous monstrosity, all they see and all they know is but to flee and flee is what they do, and so would you.
The Wicked Worple worbles, clucks and mucks around on the table, then rolls to the ground, soaked in tea, shakes his musty feathers and looks about in joyful glee.
“Wait, don’t run. I mean you no harm,” it seems to say with its burning eye, stomping heads and tearing limbs, with acid breath, there it sits, amidst the gore, glaring yonder as a beaver tumbles from the sky.
With a splash, it lands in the lily pond. Mr Beaver climbs ashore, huffing wet and puffing more, shakes and shudders at what lies beyond.
“Lucky landing,” grunts the monster.
Mr Beaver shrugs, wrings his hat, and moves to leave.
“Wait. Stay!” the Worple gargles.
“Good Sir Monster, I–I’m but a poor, meagre beaver looking for a friend.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“Pardon me?”
“All those knights, day after day, all that chainmail, gives me heartburn. I prefer spam, you know?”
Mr Beaver fumbles the forget-me-nots in his pocket, his eyes darting to and fro.
“Look at you, calling me a monster. Who’s to say what’s foul, what’s fair, do you even care?”
“I–I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, mean, very mean. One look and it’s decided. You see, that’s what’s wrong with you people, always deciding, always judging, always putting everyone in boxes.”
“Uh, terribly sorry, I thought—”
“Yes, yes, thinking, ought to do more thinking, a lot more thinking, not enough thinking anymore these days. Everyone zooms about so fast they forget to slow down and think.”
“So you did not lay waste to this tea party?”
“Oh, no. I did. Queen’s orders. Off with their heads and all that. But did I want to do it? Ever thought of that?”
Mr Beaver looks perplexed.
“You do things you don’t want to do for too long, you forget who you truly are. You become the very thing you detest. You become the monster.”
Mr Beaver takes a step towards the water.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“I must find my friend. You see, we’re all in great peril,” Mr Beaver manages to say, fingering the flowers again.
“What have you got in your pocket?”
“Nothing.”
The Worple sniffs and snarls. “Give it to me.”
“I can’t. Please. I must find the Wolpertinger. We must save the girl, or all will be lost!”
“Jibber jabber! The girl is of no concern, a pawn in the Queen’s game, won in eleven moves. Give it to me.”
Claws click, claws snip and snap.
“Ne m'oubliez mye? What’s this? What’s this? My allergies!” The Worple worbles, shakes and sneezes.
“You mustn’t take them. Please. They’re for Mr Rabbit!”
“Why didn’t you say so? Well then, no time to linger.”
“Really?”
“No. Tell me, what’s a Wolpertinger?” The Worple nibbles on the flower.
Mr Beaver gapes as antlers sprout from the Worple’s head and disappear again, feathers turn to fur, and with a final flare, the Worple warps into a hare.
What happens next…
Heh, great continuation. A slight change in style here, I feel, a little more lyrical and poetic and a sense of Carroll coming through, especially in the opening few lines. Bravo, my friend.
Fantastic artwork at the end, too.
What, another animal turned fantastic beast turned rabbit? What’s Mr. Beaver 🦫 doing to them?