THARR-THARR
"Tharr-tharr," the Dormouse managed—a laugh that wasn't his own.
It's a curriculum at a tea party.
The Hatter and the March Hare were still studying the syllabus, but they had missed the footnotes, which said, in small print: the syllabus remained on King Street without you, attracted by the sound of wild cherry ice cream with hot fudge.
The Dormouse tharr-tharred.
Meaning moulted.
The March Hare harr-harred in response. He thought it was a joke. He thought it was a poke. He thought it was a yoke.
The Hatter laughed at the laugh until the laugh became a gaffe.
Narrative bumped. Nausea rose. It forgot which story it was in.
It failed to understand its three laughing props.
It scratched its toe thinking it was its head. It mistook itself for Carroll.
It blamed Lewis.
Lewis blamed Carroll.
They slashed Narrative across the face—and Narrative clause-backed.
Smack. Clack. Two strokes. Two seconds.
Meaning turned again.
Narrative sat on the back seat of Bus 203, rubbing its stinging face.
The Georgetown breeze waved in through the half-open window. It smelled of chocolate ice-cream.
The old man from Déjà Vécu was already there.
He had saved the seat. He had known someone would need it.
Narrative didn't ask about the scent. The sting stayed.
"That is where I live," said Narrative while rubbing its face.
"That is where I live," said the old man, looking at the red fingerprints on Narrative's cheek.
Home story home.
They stared through the glass at the passing storefronts of Penang Road.
The Dormouse looked through his closed eyes.
"Tharr-tharr," he managed—a laugh that wasn't his own.
Tharr-tharr was not his meaning.
Previous Episode: Déjà Vécu
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.
