Cheshire Milk

Your roommate leaves a bottle of pink liquid in the refrigerator, labelled: 



Since she ate your entire stash of chocolate, you uncork the bottle and down its sugary contents. 

It tastes mostly of strawberries, marshmallows. 

You lick your lips. “It could do with a little less salt.”

Later that night, you dream of falling down a massive hole. When you land, a white rabbit stands over you, and he’s looking pissed. 

“You’re not Alice,” he says.

“Why would I be?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Since you’re in possession of my master’s seed, you’d better follow me.”

The rabbit leads you to a room where the Cheshire Cat sits on a throne. 

“What’s this?” He points at your belly. “Why is it flat, when you agreed to take my milk?”

You glance around, finding there’s a bunch of maternity clothes hanging in the wardrobe as well as a crib. 

“Male cats don’t produce milk—”

You clap a hand over your mouth, remembering why it tasted so salty.

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