Jabberslop
Jabberwocky, by Lewis Carroll. 650 words, 3 minute read. With Gemini.
'Twas brillig! Aye, the slithy toves did gyre, oh they did gimble, right there in the wabe! All mimsy, mimsy were the borogoves, quite forgetting how their mome raths outgrabe (a frightful past-tense, that!). The sun, quite sluffed, did slipple down the sky. An oldish man, whose chin-fuzz flowed most whifflingly, stood grimble-grave beside a time-telling stone stuck fast on ‘brew-o’clock’.
He chumbled at his son, a lad whose look was uffish, full of doubtle-thoughts. "Boy!" the old man burbled, pointing one knobbly knuckle towards the Tulgey Wood, where shadows scrumpled thick. "Ware the Jabberwock, my beamish boy! Those jaws! They bite so grim! Those claws! They catch so quick!"
The son blinked. "A Jabber-which?"
"Wock! Wock!" the father frumpled. "Bitesy-snatchy! Clawsy-catchy! And ware the Jubjub bird, that screamy snipe! And shun – oh shun! – the frumious Bandersnatch!" His voice went all quivery-shaky, like a borogove on thin ice.
Then, from some mimsy pocket, flooped the Vorpal sword! It gleamed quite snarky-sharp. "Take this!" he hissed, thrusting it hence. "It goes snicker-snack, it does! When Jabber-jaws gape wide! Go seek the manxome foe!"
The son took the blade. It felt… chortle-keen. To seek a foe whose name was mostly noise? Armed with a snicker-snacking sword? In brillig light? Why, 'twas a frabjous task! Or frightful. Mostly both.
So, through the Tulgey Wood the Vorpal-wielder went! The trees stood chock-a-block, all twisty-gruff, and burbled leafy secrets overhead. The air felt thick and glumphy; sounds got stuck halfway. His feet went flip-flap-flumble on the path (if path it was, and not a wabe-ish whim).
He listened hard for Jubjub-squawks, his ears all prinkled up. He gripped the Vorpal tight, lest Bandersnatch (oh, frumious!) should loomph nearby. A rustle-bustle in the brumble-brush! He jumped! Just slithy toves, mid-gimble. Or perhaps a rath, outgrabing late. The wood grew tulgier, whiffing damply strange.
His thoughts turned uffish, whirling slow and glum. He needed… pause. And there! A Tumtum tree! All smooth and swobble-some it stood. He slumped beneath its tum-tum shade, the Vorpal blade across his knees, and shut his eyes against the gimbling gloom. The wood felt… watchful. Waiting-like.
A rumble-burble woke him! Then a whiffle-whuff! It slither-crashed much closer now! Through tulgey trunks, like eyes of flame, two burny spots did glare! It burbled as it came! The Jabberwock! All manxome-grim, with jaws agape and claws outstretched! It whiffled through the wood, direct for him!
No time for uffish thought! He sprang! The Vorpal blade, it seemed to leap itself! It sang a snarky song! He side-stepped quick the bitey-jaws, the grabble-claws!
The Vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
Through scaly neck it sliced so clean! The Jabber-head, all flame-eyed still, went tumble-thump upon the green! The body wobbled, gave a gurgle-groan, then crashed down, still and stark. Dead as a doorknob! Dead as wabe-stones in the dark!
He stood. The Vorpal sword felt warm, and dripped some icky-goo. The Tulgey Wood was hushful now. The manxome foe lay… floored. Quite thoroughly un-wocked.
He looked upon the Jabber-head. Proof positive! Oh, frabjous day? Perhaps. He grabbed it by a horny snag (a handle-hold most handy!) and hefted it aloft. A grumbly weight!
And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Indeed! He turned him back. One two! One two! And through and through the Vorpal blade felt… light? He started then, a sort of jumpy-stomp. He went galumphing back! Oh, yes! Galumphing through the tulgey tracts, the Jabber-head held high (or high-ish, dangling by his thigh). The slithy toves all stopped their gyres to watch him glumphing by. Back towards the wabe he went, galumph, galumph, galumph…