Book Review: Alice Takes Back Wonderland

So, we all know Alice fell down a rabbit hole where things became curiouser and curiouser, but what happened once Alice went home? After her adventures in Wonderland were finished, where did Alice's story lead? In his book, Alice Takes Back Wonderland, David D. Hammons tells us that Alice's parents medicated her to help quell her delusions of Wonderland, and Alice did her best to live a normal life. Except Alice lives in the United States, and it's present day, and she catches the white rabbit robbing her house and follows him back to Wonderland, where nothing is as she remembers it.

The Ace of Spades is sucking the wonder out of Wonderland. He wants it to be more like Alice's world. Alice decides to do everything she can to depose Ace as the ruler of Wonderland and return the wonder to the world she has such fond memories of. The fact that Ace wants her dead proves to be a bit of a challenge.

The Mad Hatter tells Alice she must amass an army and wake the Sleeping Beauty to save Wonderland, and launches her to a new land, where Alice encounters characters from fairy tales, and discovers she may be a fairy tale character herself.

I wasn't immediately drawn into this story. The first chapter is a rushed flight from Neverland when Alice was a young child, and is filled with the nonsensical wisdom of the Cheshire Cat. Alice's mother made me want to throw my Kindle into the wall because she was so unsupportive and indifferent to Alice's discomfort with the medication.

However, once Alice returned to Wonderland, I couldn't help but be drawn into Hammons' story. I love the way that he intertwines the tales of so many characters. So many people make appearances, from Jack the Giantslayer to Tinkerbelle, to Pinocchio, and none of them are the characters you expect. Fairy tales are only echoes of the truth, and the stories have been told through rose-colored glasses for many of these characters. Happy endings are a bit harder to find than our storybooks led us to believe.

I dislike that so many authors have begun to draw their stories out into trilogies. I miss the days when a good adventure could begin and end within the covers of one book. That being said, I actually find myself wishing Hammons had extended this into a second novel. There are so many wonderful characters and settings, that I wish we had more time with some of them.

Overall, I found this to be an enjoyable read, and fans of the original Alice might find this dystopian Wonderland an interesting contrast to the one with which they are familiar.

Flash Fiction Round Two

I'm not feeling as confident going into the second round of the flash fiction contest. I feel like I struggled incorporating all of the prompts into the story. Hopefully, I'm just being too harsh of a critic. I won't find out for about a month. Whether I advance to the next round or not, I will receive feedback on both stories from all of the judges. I feel like that's really the most valuable part of this experience. Unbiased criticism is difficult to find. Readers don't believe me when I say to be brutally honest. If something in my story isn't working, tell me! It's the only way I can fix it.

I don't think there's any saving this one, though.

Genre: Mystery
Setting: A Wax Museum
Object: a zipper






The Wax Museum Weeper

Herb wouldn’t admit that he was scared.  He’d been the night watchman at the Grand Prairie Wax Museum for nearly four years. The wax figures were creepy, sure, but far from frightening. Within the walls of the Grand Prairie, Herb was President Obama’s top advisor. Beyonce always said yes when he asked her out for drinks, and Betty White always had a smile for him.

At the Grand Prairie, Herb was not the quiet kid that everyone ignored. He didn’t hide behind his long hair to avoid being noticed. Company policy dictated that he had to pull it back and tuck it beneath his hat, exposing the acne scars and timid eyes beneath. As a night watchman, Herb finally looked people in the eye. Granted most of them were made of wax, but he still considered it a victory. The uniform lent him a level of confidence that he lacked outside of the museum’s walls. Among the nation’s top celebrities, Herb could be anything and everything. Except brave.

Herb didn’t have to admit he was scared. The sweat on his brow and the unsteady beam of his flashlight undermined any attempt at bravado.

The museum was usually quiet at night. There were dozens of life-like figures frozen in poses that were supposed to look natural. None of them made noise. Herb’s footsteps were the only sound that ever cut through the silence, until tonight. Tonight, Herb could hear someone sobbing.  Muffled whimpers floated on the stale air, following Herb through every room of the museum.

Herb knew the stories they told about this place, anyone who had lived in this town for more than five minutes knew them. The old owner had been poisoned, strychnine-laced cough syrup found at her bedside. Her assistant had died suspiciously months before, though no one could prove her death was anything other than an accident. Neither murder had been solved. Halloween was one of their busiest days. Tourists and locals alike packed into the museum hoping to catch sight of the ghosts of the two women who met such a tragic end.

Herb didn’t believe in that nonsense. At least, he tried to remind himself that he didn’t as he resumed his rounds. He’s also heard that ghosts weren’t very keen on the scripture, so he began to hum Amazing Grace, just in case.

When the cries became a little louder, a sudden rush of cold air ran down Herb’s leg and he shivered.  He grabbed his flashlight tighter and swallowed the lump, that was definitely not fear, in his throat.

For the first time, Herb found himself longing for the buzz of conversation that filled the museum during business hours. A group of schoolchildren had been loading up a bus when he got to work this evening. Their playful laughter would be a welcome break from this anticipatory silence. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the flashlight so hard his hand shook. Something crackled under his foot when he took his next step. His weak beam of light slashed down to his foot. It was just a granola wrapper. One of the school kids must have dropped it as they wandered around.

The whimper amplified, growing steadily until it became a wail. The sound bounced off of the walls and echoed through the empty corridors. Goose bumps ran up Herb’s arms and down his legs. He clung to his few remaining scraps as his panic bounded through his chest like a caged rabbit.

Herb was in the hall near the restrooms and water fountain.  It sounded like the noise was coming from the men’s bathroom.  Herb tip-toed to the door. C’mon, Herb. You can do this. He braced himself against the doorframe, took a deep breath, and kicked the bathroom door in.

There was a young boy huddled in the far corner.  He squealed, burying his head between his knees when Herb’s boot hammered the door.

“Jesus, kid. You ‘bout gave me a heart attack,” Herb said, relaxing his grip on the flashlight.  He flicked the light switch and the florescent bulb sputtered to life. The boy continued to weep quietly in the corner.  Herb guessed the boy had still been in the bathroom when the school group left. The chaperones must have botched their headcount as they corralled the children onto the bus.

The automatic timer for the museum lights is set to turn them off five minutes after close. There was a small window above the paper towel dispenser, but it didn’t even let in much light during the day. At night, the bathroom was pitch dark. The poor boy must have been terrified.

Herb approached slowly and softened his voice as if he was trying to soothe a skittish kitten instead of a child. “Hey, now. It’s ok. Let’s get you out of the bathroom, eh?” He reached for the boy, who let himself be pulled to his feet. His eyes were pink and swollen.

“What’s your name?” Herb asked.

“Jason,” the boy sniffled.

“Alright, Jason. I think I’ve got some hot cocoa in the office. Would you like a cup?” Herb put on his most reassuring smile.

Jason nodded, though his tears continued to run in a silent stream down his cheeks. When they stood to go meet her at the front door, Herb’s body shook with another cold chill. What was with him today? Maybe he was coming down with something.

“Hey, mister,” Jason said as he wiped at his cheeks. “Did you know your fly is down?”

Herb’s eyes darted down to the crotch of his pants. Sure enough, the zipper was completely down. Well, that explains some things. He wasn’t catching a cold after all. Herb rolled his eyes and pulled his zipper up before escorting Jason through the dim hallway.

Flash Fiction

Flash fiction has always been a challenge for me. Telling a story, a good story in only a few thousand words is tricky. Limiting the words to less than one thousand seems impossible.

Because I love pushing my brain to its limit, I decided to enter NYC Midnight's Flash Fiction contest. You have 48 hours to write a short story of one thousand words or less. They also throw in a twist, as if that wasn't challenge enough. They give you a genre, a setting, and an object that all have to be included in the story.

I got rom-com, which I wasn't too thrilled about, a private island, and a walking cane. The thing is, I misread the prompts and wrote about an island paradise instead. I didn't realize the mistake until after I had submitted my story. I resigned myself to a low score for failing to follow the rules, and did my best to forget about the contest.

The email came today to announce the results. I checked my group. I got second place. Second, even with twisting the prompt about like I did.

Round two starts at midnight tonight and runs through Sunday. I'm ready to be a jittery wreck until submission. Apparently, I'm better at this flash fiction stuff than I thought. Here's the story I submitted. Hope you like it!

A Change is Gonna Come

The Waikiki Community Center smelled faintly of stale sweat and the fake lemon scent of bargain cleaning products. Gloria almost walked back to her rental car. She felt ridiculous. She was too old to be prancing about at a singles dance. She should never have let the concierge talk her into coming here. The thought of returning to her empty hotel room renewed her resolve to enter the dance hall.

She found a table in a dimly lit corner and eased herself into a metal folding chair. She didn’t dare gaze around the room out of fear that she would catch someone’s eye, or even worse, draw them over to her table.

She closed her eyes and tried to let the sound of Otis Redding’s voice calm her frayed nerves.

It's been too hard living, oh my,

and I'm afraid to die.

Not exactly the most soothing lyrics.

“Did it hurt?”

Gloria was startled out of her near-doze. “Sorry. What?”

“When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?”

Gloria laughed, her chuckle degenerating into a raspy wheeze.  It took her a minute to regain her breath. She studied the stranger’s face while her breathing grew steadier. Deep crow’s feet showed that he smiled often. His lips were actually spread in a toothy grin now.

“Good heavens! That line is older than I am!”

“You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little rusty. It’s been awhile since I tried to impress a beautiful woman. It doesn’t make you any less of an angel.”

“I’m afraid flattery will get you everywhere.” She extended a liver-spotted hand. “I’m Gloria.”

The man gently caressed her arthritic knuckles before he planted a leathery kiss against the back of her offered hand. He was at least ten years her junior. His fingers were long and delicate, a sharp contrast to her misshapen digits. Her fingers were so crooked she could no longer wear her rings.

“Harold,” he said. “And I am ever so glad to make your acquaintance.”

Gloria waved a dismissive hand at him. “We both know I’m no spring chicken,” she smiled. “But I appreciate the attention all the same.” She felt color rising in her cheeks and hoped the dim light masked her embarrassment. Cheesy as his lines were, his attention had her flustered.

“Would it be alright if I joined you?”

Gloria surprised herself by pushing the chair beside her away from the table toward Harold. “Please do.” After five years of dinners for one, it was nice to have someone to talk to. She had forgotten how flattery warms your cheeks and compliments can set your pulse racing. She suddenly found it difficult to stop smiling at Harold.

As Harold sat, he tucked a cane beneath the seat. Gloria hadn’t noticed it at first, too distracted by Harold’s smile. Now that she looked closely at it, she could see there was an eagle, mid-flight, perched at the end of the cane.  The detail of the wings was so intricate that she wouldn’t be surprised if the wooden bird took to the air.

“That’s lovely,” Gloria said, pointing to the cane. “Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift from my wife--my late wife.” Harold’s smile faltered. Gloria reached across the table to take his hand.

“I’m so sorry. How long ago did you lose her?”

“Almost a year.  It’s still hard to believe she’s gone.” Harold tried to withdraw his hand, and Gloria gave it a gentle squeeze before letting him pull away.

“What was her name?”

“Bethany. She always wanted to come here, but we never made it.  After I lost her, I said ‘Harold, you’re going to get your shit together and go to Oahu.’ So, here I am.”  He spread his arms wide, the brilliant smile returning, though it was duller around the edges. “So, what brings you to paradise, Gloria?”

“A promise I made to my George. When he got sick, he made me swear that I would come here.  We were supposed to come the year he got the cancer.  We cancelled our plans so he could start chemo.  He wanted to make sure I came, even if he couldn’t. Maybe especially because he couldn’t.  So, here I am.” She raised her own arms and returned Harold’s smile.

“It must be fate.” Harold’s crow’s feet deepened as his smile perked up at the corners.

“Maybe so,” she conceded, suddenly feeling very much like she did at sixteen when George asked her to her first Spring Fling. She had paced her room for two hours and tried on at least ten dresses before he came to pick her up. His eyes never left her as she descended the stairs to the front door. She had blushed then too, knowing from the intensity of his gaze that the blue dress had been the right choice. They danced to every song, and she had never been so happy to have sore feet. She hadn’t danced since before George got sick. Even then, she was barely nimble enough to rock side to side in his arms as he led her around the kitchen.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to dance?” Harold asked. He pushed himself to his feet with the assistance of the table edge and reached a hand toward her invitingly.

Gloria pushed herself to her feet with the assistance of her own cane, unadorned white aluminum. She stared at it for a moment before she tucked it into the empty chair beside her.

“I would love to,” she said, and Harold led her out onto the dance floor where Otis Redding’s voice followed them around the room.

It's been a long long time coming,

But I know, but I know a change is gotta come.

Oh, yes it is.

New beginnings

The writing challenges have had a wondrous effect. I can feel creativity returning to me bit by bit. Today, while waiting in the doctor's office, I began a new novel, and I'm excited about it.

For the first time in ages, I'm excited to be writing again. While challenges and mini contests I've competed in have been successful in preventing my creative juices form drying up altogether, they feel a bit like a chore. They all have guidelines, criteria, provided plot elements, that I have to meet or include. It is restrained creativity.

Writing a novel leaves all of those constraints behind. The characterization, setting, and genre are my choice. I'm free to take the story where it wants to go. It's refreshing.

Now comes the hard part: maintaining enough momentum that this novel doesn't get discarded before it's finished. I have at least half a dozen beginnings of novels that are collecting dust, most of them deservedly so. They weren't any good.

But the Fraud Police are a powerful force, and can convince me than nothing I write is good enough to see the light of day. It's a constant struggle to overpower their negativity, but I want to write, so even if it isn't any good, even if not a single person will ever read it, even if it's doomed to spend eternity in a dusty notebook hidden away in storage, I will write. I will fill every page.

Weekly Writing Challenges

Once again, I find myself out of the habit of writing daily. I recently discovered that Joseph Gordon-Levitt has this thing, HitRecord. It's a pretty awesome thing. One of the awesome things they do is host a weekly writing challenge. I always want to do it, but never manage to write anything. The deadline for this week is tomorrow, so I forced myself to just sit down and write something tonight. The challenge is to write a letter to the love of your life, who just happens to be marrying your best friend in 48 hours. I chose to write the story directly on the website, so it hasn't been edited, and it was written very quickly. I'm going to take this approach more often because it forces me to submit something without over-thinking. When it comes to my writing, I need to think less.


The challenge, and contributions to it, can be found here:


http://www.hitrecord.org/collaborations/9571?page=1


And here's my contribution:


Dear John

So, it's almost the big day. The first day of the rest of your lives together and blah, blah, blah.
I'm not very good at the romantic crap. But you know that already.

I know you and Steph really want me to come to the wedding, but I can't. I'm a terrible friend and a coward, and I don't trust myself. I'm fairly certain I would get extremely drunk and say inappropriate things at a socially unacceptable volume. You know I have no filter once I get a few beers in me.

Steph is a lovely girl, and I can't do that to her. She deserves her fairy tale, not some goblin clumsily knocking shit over or throwing up in the bushes near the cake.

Do you remember the night you met her? She was my lab partner in Chemistry sophomore year, and I brought her back to the room so we could finish writing up our notes. I knew you were lost from the time you saw her face. Your eyes nearly glassed over. I probably could have seen your imagined future play over your irises if I had stared closely enough. Instantly smitten, man.

I never stood a chance.

Even without Steph, I never would have had a chance with you. And that's ok. I've accepted it. There's nothing that I value more than our friendship.

So, that's why I can't come. I love Steph. She's probably the only reason I passed Chem that year. You couldn't have fallen in love with anyone more perfect. I know you'll have a beautiful life together. Save me a piece of cake, will ya?

Seriously, I hope you can forgive me for sitting this one out.

All my love,

Chet