datura

Walking up these steps, my feet stick to the stairs, little hands grabbing at my ankles that I can't successfully fend off. Fron the white shag carpet, miniature zombies birth, an acrylic graveyard. I yell to them that, really, I am in rather a hurry. Have they no respect for the messengers of the White Rabbit and the beliguering yells of the Queen? But no, insistent, they drag me down for their own mad tea party, waering ribbons through their eye sockets. I feign approval when the little ones ask if the ribbons make them pretty. "Why sure, delightful!" I exclaim, meanwhile my palms hold my belly under the table cloth as I quell my nausea. I feel sympathy for their effort, but really, even the dainty pink ribbons have zombie muck on them from their little decayed fingers. The tea, of thank goodness that the tea tasted of peppermint sticks, instead of mold and mildew. "Really, I must get going," I plead, politely wiping my lips with a sooty napkin, cautiously scooting my chair back. After an extended fuss, they allow me to leave, only on the condition that I play with them again, and bring a new teas set. "By all means," I promise, for they live in my stairs, in the white shag graveyard. The rent is too good here to move out. And even if I did, they would probably follow me there anyway. So I spent the rest of the day trying to find the White Rabbit, quite sure he felt livid at my lack of appearance to curtsy for the Queen while shining her heeled shoes. She really is a beast! Unsuccessful, I spent the rest of my evening cleaning footprints off the stairs. What a mess they left, my tea hosts! I'll be lucky if I get back my deposit!