Every time he pushes the needle into his vein, Peter sees Tinkerbell's last moments. Not that he needs the drug for that; all he really has to do is close his eyes and he's back there. Nothing has felt right since that day, and of course now that she's dead, he's stuck here.
Here. Here is London. It's pouring rain, and Peter is huddled in the alley beside the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, getting soaked. It's late evening, and people are rushing past the alley mouth under umbrellas, hurrying home or to the tram stop. Peter hunches over, rain pelting the back of his neck. He wears a wool stocking cap all the time here; pointed ears draw too much attention, lead to too many brawls with other street boys.
Sometimes, in the afternoons, he is able to slip inside the Hospital and wander around and just curl up in a corner of the lobby for a few hours, before the watchman notices him and rousts him out again. From there, he always comes here, to the alley, from the mouth of which he can watch the front of the Hospital building and see who comes and goes.
Whenever he goes into the alley, he reaches into his pocket for the school chalk he stole from the parish school near Haymarket and makes a mark on the bricks of the alley mouth, above his own head, but eye level on a grown man. Peter, as ever, looks like fourteen-year-old boy.
The little needle trembles in his hand. He's running out of veins; he's blown the ones in his arms and ankles. He had to hide behind a stack of broken crates and garbage just now and use the vein in his dick. The drug slithers into him like a burrowing worm and he leans against the wet brick wall, growing oblivious to the cold, oblivious to the London sealing him off from Neverland.
Peter forces his eyes to stay open, even though his lids feel made of solid iron. He tries to watch the comings and goings at the Hospital, but it is no use. His long-lashed eyes, bright green - the most beautiful eyes a boy ever had, a man once told him - fluttered shut and there was Tinkerbell.
Hook had torn her open from the neck, well, downward. Hook was a syphilitic maniac; Peter had been too busy binding up Smee to help, he thought she'd be able to fly away, tinkling her laugh as he swooped just out of Hook's reach. But Peter had been, for the first time, too late, and Hook too insane.
How long ago now was that? He had an idea, but didn't want to think too much about it. Slumped against the wall, Peter waited, muttering to himself. He missed the Lost Boys, when he was coming down. He'd like to do this drug with them, he'd thought many times.
Peter hears a man's footsteps, a man's walking cane tapping at the mouth of the alley. Adrenaline suddenly pours into him, waking him, jangling his nerves. He pushes off the wall and faces the man.
It is Michael Darling. Thank god it is Michael Darling. He is older now, maybe twenty. They've met, many times. Michael looks over his shoulder, then quickly darts into the alley.
"Hello, Peter," he says, his voice like a silk scarf. Peter just nods. Michael's look bores into him. Peter nods again and turns to face the wall. Michael moves behind him. The night air is cold on his ass, and the hot pain of Michael makes Peter feel frozen and burning alive at once. As always, Michael makes Peter tell him about Tink as he goes into him.
After, Michael Darling drops three ampules into Peter's outstretched hand and leaves without a word. Peter tucks them securely down the front of his pants. He retreats deeper into the alley, again behind the pile of crates and garbage. A fire escape overheard offers a small shelter from the rain.
Peter slides into sleep, into deeper oblivion. There she is, of course, waiting. How do I get back home, he asks her in his dream. He hears tinkling, like glass bells far away, and in his head it sounds like she is saying goodbye.
all mad here
i'm going to a place where
you can't follow,
falling in reverse down this
and these roots look a lot
like the veins in my skin
one more shot in the arm
makes my world start to spin
i'm lost in a meadow of
mocked by the petals in
and their pollen is stale
like the lines i inhale, i'm
a bump shrunk too small
as my flesh starts to pale, it's
i'm chasing a cat with a
we're all mad, he says,
we're all made of sin
and the pills on my tongue
disappear with his guise
but the mome raths outgrabe
cut me back down to size, i'm
with the hatter and hare
heed the door mouse’ beware
and this tea tastes a lot
like the sorrow i feel
one more pot down the hatch
turns my whole world surreal, i'm
in the red queen's rose court
calling torture a sport
and the drugs numb my soul
but i'd rather be dead
if i don't play her way then
it's off with my head, so
i'm going to a place where
you can't follow,
falling in reverse down this
the light leaves my eyes
with my lung's last expand, and
we're all mad here
in this dark wonderland.
Inside the White House.
How dare they reject my genius healthcare plan. I don't know what their problems is. I think it's rigged. There's obviously some sort of wiretapping going on.
I know. Ridiculous, right?
I'm gonna tweet how wrong they are.
Don't do that... and you just did that.
Maybe everyone in the world is right. I'm a joke.
You? A joke? Never! Donny boy, you've got to pull yourself together.
Gosh it disturbs me to see you, Don Trump
Hanging so low by the ropes
You're such a brilliant man, Don Trump
So don't you listen to those dopes
There's no man that'll make America great again
You're featured on the cover of Time
Everyone wants to drop and go down on you
And now I break out into rhyme
Wise like Don Trump
No one's got thighs like Don Trump
No one's hands are as big as Don Trump's
For there's no man in the whole country
Perfectly orange on each spot
You can always ask Mike, Paul, & Vlady
And they'll tell you whose back they've got
Got riches like Don Trump
No one bitches like Don Trump
No one's worth billions like Don Trump
As a business man, yes, I'm intimidating
Wow, what a prez, that Don Trump
Go build that wall
Each bit by bit
Don Trump is the best,
Everyone else can eat shit
Argues like Don Trump
No one starts fights like Don Trump
In a farting match, no one stinks like Don Trump
For there's no one in town that sprays
So much spray so I'm tan as a fool
He lied to the blacks and the gays
That's true, and also my hair looks very cool
No one hits like Don Trump
Or spits racism like Don Trump
On Twitter, Nobody out tweets like Don Trump
I am indeed very literated. #thatisaword #reallysmart
That's another win for Don Trump
When I was on The Apprentice, I became more famous
Owning at least 50 new cars
And now that I'm president, I have lots of dough
So now I can buy Madagascar
Doesn't matter. Keep singing.
Falsely accuses like Don Trump
No one harasses women like Don Trump
Then goes to the camera calling fake news like Don Trump.
I've got dollar signs in all of my paintings.
Salute him again!
He's the man among men
He won the voting floor.
Westboro Baptist Church:
He's the hero we prayed for.
He's the enemy of the press
Don't you know? Can't you guess?
Ask his fans that we've paid off
He's the one guy in town
Whose got America bent down
And his name is D-O-N... I just occurred to me that I honestly don't know how to spell his full name because I'm more for spending money on weapons and defense rather than our educational system. But you know who I'm talking about, right?
We are locked in a waltz, the prince and I. My lower body is on fire, agony snaking up my feet and legs where my lustrous green tail and fins had been. It takes every effort, all of my years of stringent royal training, not to scream soundlessly in his face and collapse.
I dance on knives.
His lips brush against mine and his hands grip me close. My strange human heartbeat thrums in my throat, where my gills were before they melted into smooth flesh.
I am a seamless knit of skin wobbling on two skinny appendages. Through the embroidered layers of my skirts, I scratch and scratch at scales no longer on my body. The prince, all grace and poise, takes my scratching hand, holds me to the warmth of his chest, and whispers into my ear reassuringly.
All around us are colors and movement; women in bright gauzy dresses drift like schools of jellyfish around men in tailcoats, straight-backed and proud.
At breakfast, I used red jelly and fingers to paint pictures of my family: me, my sisters, my father the Sea King, resplendent with trident and crown. I drew the merfolk and the palace and the carriages pulled by a retinue of plumed seahorses. It looked like blood spreading on the tablecloth.
The prince said: “What a pretty drawing, dearest.”
I shook my head furiously, silver utensils flying out of my hair, and pointed to myself, then to the tablecloth.
How could I convey to him the joy of warm currents, the gardens of bright anemone and coral, fish swimming in and out of open windows, and the chorus of voices singing the sun down?
Days pass and memories of my home slip away like water, the voices of the ocean grow fainter as I pace up and down the seashore.
The servants and courtiers whisper when I walk the halls of the palace. I hear whispers of “asylum” and hope this is a place that my prince will take me, like when he took me to visit the town.
Sebastian, faithful companion, bright red and festooned with parsley and buttery sauce, lies on a silver platter. His eyes are bubbled onto his stalks and watch me silently, disapproving even in death.
He had followed me then, scuttling in the shadows until cornered by a kitchen boy, although I had warned him to stay hidden in my room.
Prince Eric, seeing my distress, says soothingly, “Only a king crab, dear one.” And to the others at the banquet table: “Poor, sensitive creature. Ariel was showing me her love for ocean life only earlier this morning. Wonderful artist, this girl.”
I tuck a mini-trident into my evening gown, as they had persuaded me to relinquish the ones I wound into my hair.
He raises a wine goblet to me and turns to chat with the woman beside him.
The wedding ship. Revelry. The deck of the vessel is a blaze of white: the wedding party dancing around a spew of white banners and flowers. Prince Eric and his new bride are spinning in a waltz. The sun casts everyone in a golden haze.
I slide unnoticed from the railing into the waves and swim away from the hull of the ship, my body heaving, dying. And then my spirit is released like a breath of wind and escapes the pain-riddled ruin of my flesh, leaving the body floating in the waves.
I rise with the sea spray and foam. The prince and newly crowned princess, dancing no longer, stand entwined by the bow.
I brush a kiss, soft as mist, against his face. It is enough to know that he is happy and in love. It is enough to have loved him.
“Where is that red-headed whore who has so diverted your attention?” The Princess asks.
“Poor girl!” Prince Eric says. "Washed up on the shore like so much trash. She's a raving lunatic, you know.”
The princess laughs, raucous as the gulls hovering in the ship’s wake.
“I hear she collects cutlery for her hair,” she says. “And that she thinks she is a princess of the sea!”
The prince laughs with her.
Pain worse than the knife gash of my missing fins and more encompassing than the loss of my voice and songs. The scream rises out of my soul, from the very depths of me, and the ocean answers. The sky churns black, flickering throughout with lightning, and the waves rise to meet it. The ship bobs up and down the swells like a lost bottle.
Screams from the ship, as the wedding party lurches up and down the deck. The prince shouts orders over their shrieks and the howls of the storm, the princess huddles with her maids, drenched and moaning.
With my last breath I whisper, “Father.”
The storm howls. The ocean is a maelstrom of broiling, black waters.
From the depths of the waters come tentacles, vast and familiar, that creep over the ship’s deck and clenches like a fist.
I sigh and close my eyes at last.
Disney Did the Dirty
Testing the waters,
I’m married to a rabbit
but I’m a human cartoon,
he’s the one who should
breed like a rabbit soon.
I was drawn to be
voluptuous and sexy
by Disney cartoonists
and they purposely forgot
to draw on my undies.
But, alas, my Roger
uses Viagra -
Roger can’t get it up
and all my curves
are going to waste.
blowing in the wind
with nary a taste
and I am horny
In other words,
I swipe at dry crumbs
He’s unable to do
what rabbits should do.
I flail and curse at
my open heart
and open legs
as I turn bright red
on center stage.
Men in audience
stare back at me.
I jump into bed
with another stud,
part-owner of town
where I reside.
He’s not that hot,
but he will do
until I find
a replacement man.
I smooth my hands
over my svelte body
and notice a bump
crowding my tummy.
Dr. Doolittle proclaims,
you’re having a litter,”
as I lie spread eagled
in a paper gown.
How can I have a litter?
I’m not a bunny
and it’s not my honey’s.
I slink back home
to confess to Roger
but he has been
arrested for killing
I cry to myself,
it’s all my fault
he didn’t want
to do such a
But I was wrong
Roger didn’t do it!
to destroy Roger.
Judge’s goggle eyes
had focused on me,
for his turn
at a tryst.
I meet Judge Sicko
for a drinkie poo
and poison his drink,
with my little finger,
then leave the bar.
Roger is released
says he’ll accept
my litter so
I leave whole pack
of baby bunnies
with him and sashay
on my journey
to find a
fully aware that
a good lover
is hard to find
but a hard lover
is good to find.
After all, a sexy
takes what she
can get before
it’s too late, baby,
it’s too late!
Why, oh why,
make me this way?
I really can’t help
Once Upon A Dream
She spent much of her time dreaming, remembering her time in the cozy little cabin deep in the heart of the woods where Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather, her three fairy godmothers, had raised her, the gentle trickle of the nearby stream and the carefree chorus of playful birds soothed her soul, and, for those brief moments, it made her forget where she truly was.
But other times she was aware of the grim stone walls, the cold bitter air that entered through the open window of the tower. Even though she was in deep slumber, she could still sense her surroundings, somehow. It must be an effect of her enchanted sleep.
She couldn't regret something that she couldn't control, and the way the cursed spindle had beckoned her with its perfect tip that seemed to taper off into an infinitely small point in space and time, catching the occasional glimmer of light, like a tiny black hole emitting Hawking radiation, well, it had been far out of her control. She had always been destined to prick herself.
And so now she lay there in her miserable chamber on a bed made of gold, like a trophy forgotten in an old attic, her body shackled in slumber and frozen in time, her mind traveling between different levels of awareness, her heart impatient, waiting for a miracle in the form of a handsome prince to come to her and wake her.
At least when she began to feel sorry for herself she could return to her little cabin by the stream. She would sing with the birds, and, for a moment, she'd forget again, drifting in a dream.
"She's so beautiful. She--she looks so peaceful, as if she's dreaming."
Phillip brushed away the tear trailing down his cheek as he looked at his love longingly.
"I think--I think I am ready Flor. I've been dreading this moment, and wishing for it at the same time. For her sake. When she started becoming delusional--when she attempted--they were the hardest moments in my life. But this is harder. Now I'm making the decision for her."
"My dear, I can't imagine how you must feel. You love her so much. She knows it. 7 years is a long time to hold out Phillip. You should take some time off work, be with family, I'm sure your clients will understand.
Anyways, I'll tell nurse Merryweather to get Dr. Malefstra. I will give you a moment with her alone before we disconnect. Take all the time you need."
As he looked down at his sleeping beauty, his dearest wife, Phillip could feel individual heartstrings being torn, endless love and eternal sorrow were pulling at his heart in opposite directions. He took a moment to cherrish the sound of her heart monitor, her beat was slow, but it was steady. Then, he bent down towards her, and time stood still for that second, as he kissed her.
"I love you, Aurora. I'll see you again one day. Goodbye."
She wasn't dreaming anymore, but she was not inside of the tower either. In front of her were beautiful trees, greener than any other tree. There was a little cabin, and right next to it, a gentle stream.
She felt so awake, she had felt the kiss, it must have worked! She had felt those lips before, once upon a dream. She didn't know how she had gotten there, or where her prince was, but she was awake, away from that dreaded tower, and it filled her with joy.
As she walked towards the cabin, she could she a bright golden light shining from under the door, welcoming her.
The same sensation that had drawn her to the spindle was now calling her towards the door. But this was different, she felt warm, safe. She felt free.
"Flora, Fauna, Merryweather, my loves, I'm home!"
From afar, she watched as Aurora walked towards the light, her right arm outstretched, reaching for something only she could see. Lucifer knew this one didn't need leading, she had been ready for the light a long time ago.
Sit back and allow me to tell you this tale,
About a girl who was very young and very pale
Her parents died when she was a child,
She how lives with her stepmother and stepsisters, and they are wild
A girl named Cinderella has to now behave like a slave, her bright world is now covered in shade like an umbrella
One day there was a ball, the prince looking for a girl, fairest of them all
Cinderella was so excited and made her own dress,
But her stepmother ripped it, and the stepsisters did the rest
She ran outside to cry and hide,
Then she heard a voice, somewhere near by
Suddenly, a women flew out from the trees and landed easily as if it were a breeze
Hello Cinderella, I see you sad and down,
Do not worry, I will make you a dress that will make all the girls frown!
Cinderella's ripped dress evaporated into a stunning light blue dress,
The women turned rats into horses, a pumpkin into a carriage, then said "now go! Wow the prince and he will take your hand in marriage!"
That night, all heads turned,
men's mouths dropped and the stepmother's forehead began to burn
After a dance and a long talk, Cinderella told the prince " I must go at 12:00."
When he asked why, Cinderella didn't want to say,
So the prince said "whoever you are or whoever you were, it doesn't matter, I love you all the same."
She told him the truth about the stepmother and stepsisters,
She began to see a tear in his eye,
And in anger he asked "would you like them to die?"
Cinderella thought and said " I cannot lie, this will make me very happy inside."
And with a quick order, the stepmother and stepsisters were hanged
And that's just the beginning of princess Cinderella's reign.
"Hello! Welcome to Neverland!" I holler as I watch the family of four make their way into the shop.
They return the greeting but I can see their eyes are busy absorbing all the sights of the store. There are stuffed animals, rocking horses, remote control cars, life-size dolls, wooden blocks, and a train track designed to give children rides around the store. From the ceiling dangles Peter Pan and his friends, pixie dust glistens on the walls where I'd tossed glitter against wet glue months ago, and Tinker Bell hangs over the doorway, chiming the arrival of all customers.
Overall, it's a child's paradise.
I recall my own childhood when I see the smiles etched into the children's faces. So much joy. I was free to be creative and imaginative without a care in the world. Unfortunately, the world has turned dark as I've aged. Ugliness hangs like a noose around my throat, threatening to snatch away my happiness with a simple pull of the rope.
"Are you planning to leave the children here for the day?" I ask the family as they take in all the hidden treasures throughout the store.
Children deserve to be in a place that brings joy. Life has become too serious and I hate that those burdens have begun to reflect on the children.
"No," the mother says, taking her son's hand in hers as they meander down another aisle. "Just looking around."
"The detail in this is incredible," I hear the husband mutter to himself from my left, but I refrain from turning to see what he's referring to.
"Wonderful," I say, smiling at the blond woman. "Let me know if you need anything."
Not ten minutes later, the family is gone. I tap my fingers on the top of the counter, waiting impatiently for more happy faces to enter the store. The seconds tick into hours before those faces arrive, but they're not happy.
The mother is slinging her purse angrily over her shoulder as she makes a beeline for me. Her daughter has disappeared into the back of the store, and I find myself leaning slightly in hopes of catching a glimpse of her whereabouts.
"Where do I sign?" the woman demands.
I hastily pull a form from the top drawer and slide it over to the woman.
"Just fill this out," I tell her with the most genuine smile I can muster.
It's just a legal document that all parents and guardians must sign if they wish to leave their children here for the day to play. I watch the woman scribble something down quickly before leaving. I sigh in frustration at her lack of care. It's parent's like her that don't deserve children.
I glance down at the document, not surprised to find the emergency contact number, email address, and home address blanks all empty. The only information she gave was her daughter's name. I guess it's up to me to provide this child with the happiness she deserves.
"Hi Peyton," I say, finding her in the back corner of the store chatting to a stuffed bunny.
She offers a shy smile but doesn't respond.
"You like that toy?" I ask, bending down so I'm more at her level.
"You want to see how I make them?"
Her eyes light up and she jumps from the bean bag she's been lounging in. I lead her silently to the back of the store and through a doorway. Flipping on the lights, my workshop comes to life. I watch Peyton eye the space with awe, her fingers skimming over a paint tray and fiddling with a box of buttons.
"Why don't you sit down over there," I tell her, pointing to a stool next to the work table.
She silently obeys and then watches with curious eyes as I gather my supplies. I slip on a pair of gloves before dipping my brush in paint and then grazing it over the young girl's face. She's surprised by my actions but doesn't try to stop me.
"You like dolls?" I ask her conversationally as I continue to decorate her face with the finesse of an artist.
"Yeah," she mutters as I coat her lips with cherry red paint.
I drop the paintbrush in a cup of water before reaching for my next instrument.
She barely makes a sound as I fill her veins with the sedative. Her eyes droop without a fight. She wants this; I can tell. The hours stretch on as I perfect her with just a few stitches and a heavy layer of makeup. Her lips form a permanent smile as her glass eyes stare unblinkingly back at mine. Slipping the small dress over her little frame, I smile at my handiwork.
She'll never be sad again.
What people don't realize here at Neverland is that I make all the toys myself. I've created the perfect place for children, a place where darkness doesn't exist. It's a place where a child's innocent will live on forever.
Because here at Neverland, children never grow up.
Just a spoonful of sugar helps the arsenic go down, Mary Poppins merrily sang to herself, tucking a chestnut-colored lock behind her right ear. Dabbing her pinky with spit, the nanny - my grief, she hated that word!, but whatever got the job done - glued the strand into place with the saliva, then stepped back to survey her work.
Michael Banks was lying on his left side on the tarp - thank goodness her man friend always had the cloth available in his home! - his left arm in a weird position underneath his body. His strawberry-blonde hair covered most of his face, but Mary could still make out a small trail of spittle, descending from his bottom lip. His cheeks were also ruddy, indicating that he wasn't far from the edge.
Lying on her right side, Jane Banks' face was completely covered by her platinum locks, but Mary could still tell that the child had succumbed to the poison. Nevertheless, she bent down and checked the siblings for pulses. The thumping of blood underneath her white-gloved finger was soft but still somewhat strong, but that was good. She didn't want them completely dead before she could have her fun.
The arsenic go do-o-o-o-own, the arsenic go down, Mary whistled while she continued working. Wrapping the children enchilada-style in the dark green canvas, she went to the open door and beckoned for Bert to bring the truck over. The chimney-sweep positioned the truck, then helped Mary load them into the back. Hopping into the passenger seat up front, Mary arranged her navy blue coat around herself and stuck the small matching topper back on her head.
Putting the vehicle into gear, Bert furrowed his brow and asked Mary, "What do you do with the children, anyways?"
"Never you mind what I do with them, Bert. You just do as I asked and drive."
He frowned, but said no more and they drove silently on.
Arriving at the small abandoned warehouse where Mary had created her dream play-land, Bert helped her carry the children into the mid-sized playroom then, with a tip of his black cap, he was gone, probably off to remove all evidence of Mary and the children's visit.
Unwrapping the children, Mary carried them, one at a time, to the two dressing tables covered in burgundy cloth, which didn't do much to camouflage the blood, but she still liked it. Starting with Jane, she freed the youngster from her indigo naval uniform-style dress. Licking the girl's soft cheek, covered in a light peach fuzz, Mary felt a dampness in her loins. Oh, yes, the girl would do very nicely. But before she could start removing the child's undergarments, she heard a moan coming from the other table.
Rushing over, she saw John fighting to open his eyes and come to. Even though she was certain he couldn't do her any harm, she nonetheless didn't want his noises to interfere with her enjoyment of the female. Grabbing a hammer from a nearby table, she struck him once, twice, thrice upon his temple. He fell silent. Waiting a moment, she took the dirty glove from her hand and felt for a pulse. There was none. She sighed, thinking of the things she had wanted to do to him when it was his turn. Alas, she thought, life does not always give one what one wishes. Leaving his body, she went back to Jane.
Jane too was attempting to come to, which was fine with Mary, as her ministrations brought her all the more pleasure when her victims were partly aware of what was happening. That was why she used juuuust enough poison during the course of a few weeks that another dosage would knock them out, but not kill them off just yet. They usually awoke after a few hours, which was just the time she needed to get them into position. She had noticed the signs of impending semi-consciousness during the last few days and guessed, correctly, that this dosage would be the one.
Tossing away the bloody glove and her hat - now was no time for neatness - Mary took the straps from the sides of the table and buckled them around the girl's form, making sure to leave the area around her privates loose. Leaning close to the child, Mary crooned in her ear, "Hello, Jane. It's playtime. I have another game for you!" Chuckling and grabbing a pair of scissors from the adjoining table, Mary then proceeded to cut the child's underwear from her body. She looked in wonder at the girls hairless mound. Though she had seen many, it still always took her breath away when she saw a new, unused pussy. Wiping the light perspiration from her brow, she picked up a small wooden mallet and began...
Later that night, Mary sat on the side her bed - decked out in all black cotton; sheets, pillowcases, everything - remembering her time with Jane. The girl had whimpered and whined during her examination, but that just got Mary all the more excited. She'd barely been able to keep from poppins-off in orgasmic splendor until Jane had screamed in torment, causing herself to scream in pleasure as she was overcome with tremors. Too bad playtime had left the child completely unusable afterwards; she was one she would like to have had an encore with.
Picking the evening paper up from the other side of the bed and leaning against her pillows, Mary began looking for the newest 'Nanny Wanted' ads.