And behind her, the crowd roars like thunder. Behind her trails her whirlwinds of story, worthy to be etched upon tapestry, hung in this golden palace in glory. The girl—with blades sharper than the papers of her books—slayed the king in his fury. And the citizens of this world had cheered over the cruel king of magick’s demise. Even the Quite Quiet Painter promised her tale on canvas, twice the castle’s size. Yet the girl laughs. She wouldn’t meet such art; to home, Black Rabbits lead her— and her eyes. Up the Rabbit Hole, gravity’s defied as the girl and Black Rabbit walk the walls when slivers of sunlight shower the roots from the dead tree’s base like a starlight fall. The cheers of the countrymen from that place o’ wonder fade, bouncing through the dirt halls. And as they reach the top, the girl laments: “‘Twas a delight to meet you and your hop! And the friends I met and places I went, it’s a memory I shan’t ever drop!” But Black Rabbit just stares with beady eyes colored ink, screeching: “This is your stop!” He hops in fervor away from the girl, Who, unnerved, peeks past the dirt of the world —red.
16
