ALICE IN WONDERLAND (1865)—or, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—is a novel by Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (aka Lewis Carroll).
12/01/09 | Novel

Alice in Wonderland

by C.J.Krakeel

Her lips are the kind that when pressed together still leave room for a straw to fit between them, no way for you to suffocate her now. Her lips, a memory that doesn’t sit right in your stomach. They lick the blood from your heart and spit it into your awaiting face. This is what I hear when you yell, “Fuck you!”

I ran into Alice at a rockabilly bar in Savannah. She was drinking whiskey and sprite, I was just drinking. Her lips pressed firmly against the draining pint glass. DRINK ME printed in bold script across the front. Her lips, moments later, press lightly against my chest.

I uttered, “I love you.”

She said I was her Mock Turtle.

“Very soon now the drug will cause the subject to experience a death like paralysis together with deep feelings of helplessness. One of our early test subjects described it as being like death, sense of stifling or drowning.” The speakers pump from my TV. We sit and watch A Clockwork Orange, this is our first date.

Alice has tattoos, more tattoos than any one I’ve dated before. On her right hand she has a tattoo of the Virgin Mary. She tells me that this is the image of God. On her left hand she has the very same image, but this one she says, is the face of the devil.

“We’ll go get a tattoo together,” she says, “one day.” She puts a handful of rightfully prescribed Xanax to her lips.

“Can you make it look just like her lips?” I ask. The artist sketches out the stencil and places it in position. They do look good, almost exact. I watch the needle jab in out, in out, into the skin of my foot.

“Fresh air,” she whispers and points to the door.

I nod. She walks out and I watch her move past the windows and out of sight.

“How’s that?” the artist looks at his work.

“It’s amazing!” I say, and it truly is, beautiful. I open the door, the air isn’t that fresh. It smells like smoke and urine.

“Alice.” I call into the dark. A figure across the street straightens up, another runs into the alley. She walks toward me, her skirt still up around her stomach.

“It’s your turn in there,” I say.

“I just got my turn out here,” she looks into my eyes. I look at her lips.

“Besides,” she says, “you‘ve needled me enough, I don’t have room for a tattoo of your soul.”

“Keep your temper,” I say

“You’re mimsy,” she snaps back, walking away.

“What?” I ask.

“Fuck you!” She screams, “mimsy is flimsy and miserable together.” Her ass hangs half out of the skirt. Through hell and high water tattooed on her right cheek.

“I doubt it” I say, and then retract my statement.

I turn the shower knob, the water sprays out with every intention of burning me. I step in, first my clean foot and then followed by her lips. I haven’t pissed yet this morning, nor any morning before I shower now. I look at my foot, at the tattoo, and take aim. Her lips are the kind that when pressed together leave still room for the world to fit between them.