The Vinegar Doctor
There is no author. I open at a random page:
“It excites you, doesn’t it?”
This is indeed a very ODD thing. What was the last thing I recall? Mmmmmm, I think I was talking to a butterfly. I was kissing a butterfly. I saw a shark, I saw a shark. I SAW A SHARK.
I pick another page:
Black as boiling nightfall. Unripe fruits hung like poisonous gifts, lustrous greens, other-worldly blues, beetle blacks, devil reds, pomegranate.
Whose bedroom is this? Some sort of demon I can only presume. My mind is a little muddled, a spoon in the jam.
blood-orange
blood-orange
blood-orange blood-orange
blood-orange blood-orange blood-orange blood-orange
Brain damage perhaps? Am I inside a fairytale? IF SO, who am I? I am the black-eyed prince. I am the thing that kills the wicked magician. I AM THE LORD OF THE DEAD. I reanimate you!
Come here and give me a kiss.
I recall I ate rice pudding with a splodge of marmalade for dinner.
Inside the forest there are dead shiny creatures.
I wonder if anyone will bring me supper for I am awfully hungry. Perhaps some toast? Thickly buttered.
I eat eerie bulging-eyed insects.
Am I within a dream. Inside a space, a room, a brain? Tiny flowers of starlight. I REMEMBER! My name is JOHN and I like cake.
Don’t be alarmed. Everyone is made of marzipan.
How curious. I pick another page
You will have to eat your way out, Mr Loveheart.
Or cut his head off.
Aha! A book that is helping me. Now, where is my sword?
You’re standing on it.
Ah! Yes of course. Thank you.
You’re welcome.
I shut the book. I think I am a PRINCE. I am a fairytale. I am a fairytale. I look in the mirror at my face. I have black eyes. That, perhaps, isn’t quite normal.
I move closer to the surface of ripple, up to the curious mirror. Am I a demon prince? I feel my heart beat. I feel the thud, the spongy thud thud thud. I remember now. Ah, I understand, I am a bit broken inside. THUD THUD THUD
I am quite mad.
THUD THUD THUD
I am not really human anymore. I want to step inside the mirror, wiggle my toes under the waters. BECOME LIQUID.
A CREAK!
The door opens and a queer-looking butler, for he is wearing a pink turban and holding a blowpipe, enters.
“Mr Loveheart, you are required for dinner,” and he shoots the pipe. A dart hits me in the thigh.
“I feel rather ill-used!” I proclaim before it oozes into my bloodstream. Fizzing, wobbly jelly, wobbly jelly wobbly jelly.
I hear a screech, see him bring in an old iron wheelchair which he plops me into, squeaks me off down the corridor. Into a darkness that oozes. Rather splendid plum velvet walls dripping with splodges of vanilla scented wax. Lots of tapestries hanging about the place, withery dithery!
“I don’t believe I have any tapestries at Loveheart Manor,” I say to the butler, “Or, come to think on it, there may be one of an infamous and weird-bearded ancestor in the basement.”
The butler ignores me.
“I am feeling rather wooooooooozy.”
I see the pretty pictures; a knight is battling a great white coiled worm. Poppy red, bone white, sea serpent green, Aztec gold. They fizzle and dazzle my head. Eggy splat and green jelly flubber. Oohh another one. A mermaid the colour of seaweed splat and foam. She wriggles, she giggles, fish tail question mark.
I sink out of the chair, stare at the carpet, “IT IS BLUE!” I shriek.
Tapestry tapestry: black dragon, a maiden tied to a tree, waiting to be devoured. She is smiling. How extraordinary!
Fairytale fairytale fairytale fairytale SPRUNG to life! leap from the walls!
I AM WITHIN A FAIRYTALE
The wheel chair squeaks, “AND THE CARPET IS BLUE!”
TAPESTRY tapestry tapestry: this time a magician in a top hat speckled with stars, sawing in half a girl confined within a magic box.
“MAGIC BOX!” I shout, “MAGIC BOX.” Above him hangs a moon, a wax egg. “I WOULD LIKE SOME CUSTARD.”
The butler sighs wearily and opens a door into a dining room, a room with food on a big red dining room table. I see custard tarts! macaroons, butterfly cakes, sponge fingers, gingerbread. I want to gobble up the goodies, suck my fingers of sugar.
There is a man at the head of the table. A big man. I KNOW HIM! HE IS THE SHARK.
“Hello, Mr Shark!” and I wave.
He looks happy and his words are all jelly squish and cherry flavoured. I don’t understand, but I watch his lips move. Gums like a rubbery fish. He has got a big spoon in his hands.
I am wheeled to the table. In front of me is a big trifle dish.
The butler pours me wine. He smells of peppermint and formaldehyde – corpse preservation stink.
“Why is my head funny?” I say.