By Ana Kusenberger
With a twitch of your nose, you beckon children.
“Follow me, children.
This way,” you say,
yet your mouth never moves
and never needs to.
You string the brats along, lost in their wonderment,
through the spiny wood,
And before they know, they fall down,
Down into the endless, drugged-out void
that we call home,
Even after the fall,
they follow you blindly, swaying in sweet sedation.
You leave them lost,
as is routine,
and they follow their noses to my abode.
The sweet smells and loud music lead them to me.
And as I look at them under the brim of my hat,
I shudder in excitement.
My bloodlust rises as I offer them a seat.
We sit and introductions are done,
I tell them about my past,
And how beautifully mad I am,
And how wonderfully “lost” you get,
And how wickedly deceitful the queen can be.
They sit in awe,
And as I grab my knife and fork,
I imagine their supple pink flesh upon a silver platter.
There must be a reason they call me mad,
My dear assistant,
Have helped me discover it.
What a very merry unbirthday this will be.
Sophia Harris’ Into The Brush