ALFRED SCHNITTKE'S JOB DONE
1865 carolled.
Beneath the table, stagehands were panting.
Above it, every time a string snapped, a teapot lid clicked.
1976 refused to wait.
In the right ear, a Baroque minuet hummed. The teacups jingled in a courtly 3/4 time.
In the left, screeching twelve-tone clusters tore through a curtain of cilia. The teacups stuttered into minus two—minus two seconds of panic.
The two worlds piled up directly on top of the tablecloth.
From two inches to four, to sixteen, to sixty-four, and still piling.
To the Hatter, discord was proper table manners.
1874 hummed through the floorboards.Within, he conjured Danse Macabre—the violin summoned skeletons to their midnight dance.
Then came a snap.
The Hatter’s knife sliced into a loaf of bread.
Screaming of March Hare halted.
The tango cut.
Tok tok approached beneath the tablecloth.
A page drifted loose.
The narrative carried it forward.
The tea party remained.
The teapot lid waited. The next record needle waited too.
Alfred Schnittke shut his eyes.
2026 holds its breath.
So does Alice.
Previous Episode: Stagehands
Next Episode: Words Drowned
"If I stay down here long enough," Alice thought, "I shall grow fins of lace. I shall speak in gurgles to the Oysters."
A surreal chapter in Alice’s digital dreamscape.
This post is part of an ongoing original metafiction series exploring identity, systems, and absurdity through a digital Wonderland.
1 comment:
What a tea party, coming with dancing skeletons.
Take care, have a great weekend.
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