The Multi-genre Mashup SmackDown

Woefully,

My Witless Cordolium,

To say, I hope this finds you well, would be a hallucinatory tea to swallow. I heard the Americans published rumors of a crazed woman wrought with fiendish ambitions—is she your betrothed, the woman you've replaced me with? Your queen, heart and spade? A simple yes, or no will suffice darling, the headlines are vivid enough to fill in your gaps. Be honest I won't lose my head.

Do you ever relive the last time we spoke?

I do—I remember the stars shining for us, our lustrous foxtrot, the caterpillar you nearly sat on, even your parents, and their unfading presence, like a promise whispered into wavering ears. Did you hear the chattering as you knelt? I did—I felt huge, like my head would hit the ceiling if I blinked. Your proposal frightened me then, but as I tore myself from you, the streets grew damper, champagne fell flatter, lights burned brighter and like a semblance I was smaller.

Socialites claimed I was a young fool. Harper's Magazine reckoned I was something akin to a frightened rabbit thumping through forgotten hedges of cityscape.

I would like to set the narrative straight. Cream suede boots were laced up to my knees as I steamrolled the city in a blue and white gown. Chicago, my once hearth and home, now a sickly shadow looming over the final hours, 1931. My stomach ached recalling your face, your smile was like pumice stone, hollow and forced. Clear thoughts evaded me as I turned the corner on nineteenth. I body slammed into a man twice my age. His posture maintained its poise, a trait unobtainable to you.

I stood exasperated apologizing to the moon. Words slurred as he captivated me, like Edvard Munch. I couldn't tear my eyes from his voluptuous beard, each hair like a brushstroke on a russian blue. We'd nudged into an alley, but the space was slimmer than I'd pictured, and his chest was broad. My shoulders were slim, but not enough to squeeze past him. We stood–stuck chest to chest. I was entangled with an old money bachelor, sixty seconds post refusal of you...imagine the headlines, actually it might make you sick if you attempt to imagine anything, disregard.

Unluckily, a cloud shifted over us, between roofs and a downpour dampened my skirts, slips, socks, even my pinned hair strained against the pounding droplets. If I were a true fool I'd have assumed it was hail. Until alas, his fingertips brushed my torso. I panicked, sinking further into the brick. I thought he might defile my skirts, though within an instant we were shaded. He'd lifted a violet umbrella above us, a romantic gesture–odd but romantic. He asked for my name, a strange request in this position. He offered his, though it wasn't much of a name. He'd said 'in his profession he was known as the Cheshire.' I asked him why, and he said his ability to disappear was nothing if not perfection.

Curiosity nipped at my soul. So, I took his hand while the clock ticked and ticked. I chased him down 21st, 22nd and finally when we reached 23rd his pace eased. He squeezed my palm, opening a fire station door, though it appeared the building was out of sorts. Overhead, instead of sirens were dangling chandeliers, plenty of them filling the entire ceiling. Our movement jostled them, as I pressed against his torso, afraid one might drop squishing us flat.

Dust swirled as he slammed his back against a vault-like door, though it was a front–a lie. It was merely curtains, an illusion of security. It was at this moment I could hear trumpets. He lifted his hand beckoning me, I couldn't resist as I plunged forward, leaning against the top of a hidden staircase.

His smirk reached cheek to cheek as he readjusted his pink collar, it was drooping from the downpour, but I made no mention. His rugged countenance was worth at least 12 of your pristine portraits. His aquamarine irises lit with fascination as he took the first step with stride.

Thinking back I can't recall anything I've come across as peculiar as this stairway. Cheshire hauled to the base, but I couldn't help slowing. Each stair led down a marble tunnel something only the Romans could replicate. There were offshoots of darkened studies, beds, unused kitchens, paintings with faces crossed out, darts flying from one side of the chamber to the other, lost balloons adrift, baked goods left on side steps, glasses of red wine spilt on the ledges of painted window sill murals. It was an odd contraption: the continuum made it seem like the stairs were unending, like gravity evaded this cylindrical space. For a few moments I felt like I was falling without a destination beneath me. Each step led to a place I had not yet known and will likely ever see again.

Upon reaching firm ground the oddities approached hysteria. The music blared, and I spun and spun in Cheshire's lengthy arms. With each rotation a spectacle surfaced. Twins atop a green felt table with dodo bird scarfs. Their silhouettes mingled with other women, flower-like as they danced with croquet sticks. It was a wondrous place, like a dream born from a nightmare.

There was an interesting man behind the bar top. He stood on a rolling ladder, like one I'd used in your dull library. Though instead of bookshelves there were all sorts of bootlegged alcohols from across the land. He'd swing from wrung to wrung humming childish rhymes to himself as the stools emptied and filled with new partygoers. His hat granted an extra foot or so above his ears. I'll have one made for your receding hairline.

Oh dear, perhaps I was too harsh. Harper's Magazine was the sole news outlet to get it right. I did in fact fall down a rabbit hole on New Year's Eve.

Once Regretfully Yours,

Malice