Today begins the November Kobo promotion, focusing on Romance, Thrillers, SF/F/H. My current title in the promo is my lovely horror/Weird Western novel, Chance Damnation, which, when I think about it, is really one long piece of sarcasm about how some people have trouble coping with change–even if they are in the middle of inflicting the same change on someone else.
As you do.
I have a short story, “Attack on Pirion,” in the Misunderstood anthology from Wolfsinger Press. The publisher, Carol Hightshoe, says that we are a GO for promoting it.
If you are a book reviewer or blogger, let me know and I’ll arrange that you get a free copy of either ebook. Otherwise, please enjoy
Are you the kind of person who cheers for the underdog? Or in this case, under-gargoyle, homunculus, or orc? When the action’s at its fullest, are you peering past the hero or heroine, looking to see what the supporting cast is up to?
If so, this is the anthology for you!
From a feline familiar who’s got to fill his boss’s shoes to a minotaur who is forced to fight to entertain humans, and trolls who are completely out of control, Misunderstood is twenty-six tales of the characters who usually stand on the sidelines supporting either the derring-do or dastardly deeds of the main character. You’ve read their tantalizing few lines in popular fiction. Now read their stories, and hopefully they will no longer be—misunderstood.
Featuring stories by:
Jody Lynn Nye, Bonnie Rehage, Brenda Clough, Cynthia Ward, DeAnna Knippling, Edward Ahern, JA Campbell, Rebecca McFarland Kyle, LR Broberg -Moffitt, Nina Kiriki Hoffmann, Philip Thorogood, Jonathan Shipley, Jonathan S. Pembroke, Andrew M. Seddon, DJ Tyrer, Cael Jacobs, Jason Lairamore, Joseph Ramshaw, Claire Davon, John Lance, Sara Lundberg, Douglas Sanburn, Shane Porteous, Jean Graham, Carol Hightshoe, David Turnbull and Lyn Godfrey
From a training academy for henchmen to a super-villain’s final throes and last thoughts, enter the dark world of scoundrels where the line between good and evil is drawn and crossed.
You’ll meet scheming mad scientists, career desperadoes, evil queens, necromancers, and people of questionable character defeating even more dubious foes. These pages contain mayhem, devilry, and outright evil. Proceed, if you dare.
Mwaaa haaa haaa!
Featuring stories by:
David B. Riley
J.A. Campbell/Rebecca McFarland Kyle
Dale W. Glaser
Robert Lowell Russell
C. R. Asay
Fern G. Z. Carr
Max D. Stanton
R. Donald James Gavreau
A Cautionary Tale – Rie Sheridan Rose
The Butcher’s Daughter – Shannen Malone
The Last Will and Testament of a Career Villain – Shoshanah Holl
Treats for Halloween! Click here for a collection of fifteen authors with free and discounted ebooks over at the fine website of M. Todd Gallowglas, author of the Halloween Jack books. I have Alice’s Adventures in Underland posted for U.S. $0.99 on Amazon today (and comparable low prices in other countries.)
Two promos on Kobo:
1. Alice’s Adventures in Underland: The Queen of Stilled Hearts (all the episodes, that is), is on sale for $0.99 at Kobo from October 28-30.
2. You can redeem 50% off any title published by KWL (Kobo Writers’ Life) by using the promo codes below. The code can be used an unlimited number of times. See below for the exact dates for each region.
My applicable titles include:
Tales Told Under the Covers: Zombie Girl Invasion & Other Stories (middle grade, 8-12 years old, pen name De Kenyon)
Guinea Pig Apocalypse (middle grade, 8-12 years old, pen name De Kenyon)
October 28th – October 31st
Promo Code: CA50SALE
United States/Australia/New Zealand
October 27th – October 30th
Promo Code: GET50SALE
October 30th – November 2nd
Promo Code: UK50SALE
I think what this means is that you can get Alice for $.50, if you play your coupons right
Here at Wonderland Press, we are always fighting the extreme shininess of multiple projects, pen names, and various distractions, including both Real Life and Facebook.
It would probably be smarter to shepherd one book at a time through the process, but we don’t do so well when we aren’t writing every day. (It probably would have been smarter not to despair that the stories one was writing were horrible shite and thus one would not have such a horrendous backlog of unpublished work, but that’s another story.)
The current rotation/progress report thus looks something like this:
- Currently Writing: Unnamed Gothic/Ghost Story ~10K words of ~90K words finished. Pen name: Probably Kitty Lafontaine. This is extremely melodramatic.
- Currently Storyboarding/Sanitizing (as in, “making more sane because I didn’t know who done it when I started”): The Second Cabin, muder mystery. Not quite cozy; thinking of marketing it as an amateur sleuth and putting “A Disturbingly Cozy Mystery” as the tagline. Pen name: Diane R. Thompson.
- Currently Prepping for Publication: Exotics Book 4. Kids’ book in the Exotics series. Pen name: De Kenyon.
- Just Released: Alice’s Adventures in Underland: The Queen of Stilled Hearts. [Only reviewers accepted on this one, as it has been published.]
If you are interested in being a beta reader/reviewer (beta readers get the manuscript before final edits; editors get the ebook after final edits) for any of these books, let me know.
My horror/dark fantasy short story collection, A Murder of Crows: Seventeen Tales of Monsters & the Macabre is 30% off of $1.99 today with the code OCT30.
You can use the same code on a ton of other Kobo titles here.
When you’re working a day job, there’s a clear set of guidelines for getting stuff done: show up and get paid. There’s a performance review every year, and sometimes you’ll get feedback from your bosses and coworkers.
And yet these metrics have nothing to do with whether you actually accomplished something, do they? Not really. Which is why we all have that one coworker who does the bare minimum to keep the system off their backs.
When you’re a freelancer, things get more complex. How do you know when you’re getting stuff done? When you get paid. Except that many of the tasks that you have to complete, from doing taxes to hustling for new jobs to continuing education to doing advertising and promotions have no clear relationship between action and payment.
And sometimes it’s not so much a question of getting paid as it is how much you’re getting paid. Are you getting paid enough? Are you working on projects that will build your career, or projects that will disappear so thoroughly that you can’t even list them on your resume? (Grumble.)
I had been measuring my getting-stuff-done factor by measuring word count. For the last two years, I had no problem breaking 500,000 words per year. Easy peasy. But most of that wasn’t on stuff that I was writing for myself, and a lot of it was on redrafting over and over the stuff that I was.
I actually did better for myself as a writer when I a) was working toward a number of rejections (100 per year), and b) having a goal of self-publishing one short story a week. And yet those goals won’t work anymore–I had less freelance work and more time on my hands back then.
I’m going to guesstimate that over the last year or so, for every ten thousand words I wrote for someone else, I wrote a thousand for myself, and then put maybe ten thousand of those out into the world.
I updated my process recently again, after searching around for something good over most of this year.
I’ve always liked Heinlein as a writer and have read most of his published work. (I know there are issues with him as a writer; that’s a discussion for another day.) He has these rules for writers, though, that I’ve always admired but never felt like I was a good enough writer to follow:
- You must write.
- You must finish what you write.
- You must refrain from rewriting, except to editorial order.
- You must put your story on the market.
- You must keep it on the market until it has sold.
Well, I’m following them now. With a spreadsheet.
I gain or add points based on how closely I follow the rules. One point gained if I write 1000 words. A hundred points if I finish what I start; a loss of same if I don’t. A rewrite costs me 25 points (spell checks and final cleanups are fine; I may give myself a pass so I can work on a plotting technique that I’m using to help me get past some weaknesses). A point for putting a short story out on the market; ten for a novel (each time–so 5 points for 5 short story rejections, or 50 for sending a novel out to five publishers). A hundred points for selling a story, OR for self-publishing it.
Ray says I get a treat for every hundred points.
It’s weird the ways your brain just automatically tries to game the system. As soon as I had this worked out and Ray pointed out that I should be rewarding myself, I went, “I should stop being a lunatic wuss and send out my Patreon files, which I haven’t sent out, even though I should have done that when I released Alice.”
It wasn’t until I sat down to write this post that I went, “And of course that would be 100 extra points.” I’m currently having this little mental argument over whether I should get separate points for this (the book’s already published so I shouldn’t count it twice, but clearly I have to bribe myself to post on Patreon at this point…). I think I’ll probably go with some extra points, but not the full 100, because that’s giving myself double points, and, and, and…
(Not counting the hypothetical posting-to-Patreon points, my total since September 1 is 19 points. Woot!)
Alice’s Adventures in Underland will be 30% off at Kobo through Monday if you use the following code at checkout: SEPT30. A ton of excellent books are on sale (besides my excellent book). The full list is here.
Volume 1 of Alice’s Adventures in Underland: The Queen of Stilled Hearts is now officially released. Right now, it’s $0.99 U.S., with comparably low prices across the globe, so if you’re going to impulse buy it, now’s the time. Scroll down for links, blurb, FAQ, and first chapter.
Kindle ebook copies and print copies via Amazon here.
Print copy from Barnes and Noble here.
Ebook copy from Kobo here.
Ebook copy from iBooks here.
Or you can message me, and I will absolutely send you a free review ebook copy if you promise to review the book.
IF you know of someone who’s an Alice fan, or who likes both zombies and, say, historical British TV series like Downton Abbey or historical romances, please send them my way.
IF you would like to leave a review, any of the links above will work nicely. Goodreads is also a nice place to leave reviews, here.
* * * * *
Before Lewis Carroll wrote Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, he was humble Charles Dodgson, mathematician at Christ Church college…and a zombie.
Kept sane by a serum, chained to an iron ball, considered one of the finest amateur photographers in Britain, and friend to the three charmingly edible daughters of his superior and owner, Dean Liddell, Mr. Dodgson has quite the story to tell.
And at least one of the girls, Alice, is entirely willing to listen.
Even if it means that her strange zombie friend should have to be killed.
* * * * *
Q: Is it for children?
A: It is for older teens, but not for children.
Q: Are there crumpets?
A: No, there are no crumpets.
Q: What are crumpets?
A: Suspiciously like English Muffins.
Q: Did you cover the entire Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and change all the mad people to zombies?
A: I did. Except for the Lobster Quadrille, which messed up the pacing.
Q: How close are the parts about Alice Liddell and Charles Dodgson (Lewis Carroll’s pen name) to real life?
A: Except for zombies, pretty close, actually. Queen Victoria really did stay at their house at one point. Sleepover!
Q: What about all those naked child pictures that Charles Dodgson took?
A: I’m in the “Wow that was weird, but probably not pedophilia” camp. You can find a brief article with some of the pictures here.
Q: Where should I go looking for more information on Alice?
A: I recommend starting with Martin Gardner’s The Annotated Alice, which is both Alice books with a bunch of notes, including the original poems for “You Are Old, Father William,” and more, so you can see just what Carroll was making fun of. After that, I recommend the Morton N. Cohen book, Lewis Carroll, A Biography.
Q: Didn’t you know the whole zombie thing is over? And the whole “add monsters to out-of-copyright masterpieces” thing is, too?
A: ….Yes? Sorry. I love what I love, even if it takes a while for me to get there.
Q: Is there a sequel?
A: Yes. Alice’s Adventures in Underland: The Knight of Shattered Dreams is written and has a cover. I just have to finalize everything, which, admittedly, will take some time.
Q: I don’t like gore. Should I read this?
A: While the story isn’t unremittingly gory and most of the incidents involve the denizens of the fictional Underland, there are a couple of places that go all out. Contact me if you need to know what places to skim and/or what level of violence is involved, so you can make an informed decision.
* * * * *
“Alice! Hold still this instant!”
Mother pinched the top of Alice’s ear with sharp fingernails. The small side parlor hadn’t been dusted properly. Alice and her sister Ina had tried to do the dusting themselves, without much success. That is, Ina had done her dusting in half a moment, then refused to help with the rest even though she didn’t have as much to do, in addition to which Alice had been told to stay off the chairs, which meant that she had only dusted what she could reach from the floor and of course Mother always looked at things from such an incredible height that she only saw what had been missed, and now Ina was staring daggers at her because Mother was annoyed, despite Alice having done her best. Edith, the baby, looked ready to break into tears.
“Ow!” Alice cried. “Stop pinching me.”
“And shush.” Mother picked up the brush and began to apply it vigorously, too vigorously. “We’ll just have to hope that the dust on your pinafore won’t show in the photograph when Mr. Dodgson comes to take your picture. What were you thinking, doing maids’ work?”
“Ow-wow-wow!” The harder her mother brushed her hair, the louder she shouted, until Ina and Edith had their hands over their ears.
“She won’t let you go until all the knots are out of your hair, Alice,” Ina said. “It’s your punishment for not brushing it yourself.” She sat in one of the pretty chairs with the flowers on the cushions with her legs crossed at the ankles and a book in her lap.
Alice rather thought that Ina needed a handful of mud put down her pockets, because she seemed so very older-sisterish and tidy, which must have
“What about Edith? She always has knots in her hair.”
“She’s only a baby,” Ina said, then turned the page in the heavy book. Alice wasn’t allowed to read books by herself any longer, after an accident with a pressed frog two years ago, when she was quite younger than she was now. At any rate, none of them wanted to tell Father if anything should happen to one of the books, which meant that keeping Alice (and Edith) away from them was rather safer.
“Don’t worry about Edith’s hair, Alice,” her mother yanked the brush again. “Worry about your own.”
“Why can’t Miss Prickett brush my hair?” Alice asked, speaking before she thought, as usual. “She brushes better than you do.”
Ina’s eye flicked towards Alice while she turned another page. Edith banged a wooden spoon on the leg of the chair, trying to crush the dust-motes that
sparkled in the air. In a second, Mother had taken the spoon from her, dumped Alice over her lap, and beat her several times with the spoon.
“Don’t…talk…to me…about…Miss Prickett!” her mother exclaimed.
Alice bit her lip. Crying out now would only make things worse, because then she would be sent to explain herself to Father.
“Oh!” her mother cried. “Even your underthings are brown with dust. Alice! What kind of manners is Miss Prickett teaching you?” And then her mother hit her again.
Ina glanced at Alice again, and Alice understood that now was the time to submit to Mother without another word or whimper: Miss Prickett was something precious, and not to be dragged into Mother’s attention more than necessary, especially not today.
“It’s all my fault, Mother. I’m rather wild, you know.”
Mother released her, brushing her skirts down for her. “If you can’t behave, then I shall tell Miss Prickett that it is time that she was replaced with someone sterner.”
“Yes, Mother. I shall be quite good.”
Mother nodded. “Indeed you shall, one way or another.”
If Alice’s contriteness wasn’t entirely genuine, it wasn’t entirely false, either. The children were all fond of Miss Prickett, even though Alice’s fondness tended to show itself as pranks and teasing.
Mother was not one to cross.
Eventually, Mother left them in the hot parlor with strict instructions not to move a muscle. Alice couldn’t help pointing out that they would soon suffocate if they weren’t allowed to breathe, but her mother had ignored her and swept out of the room, her skirts brushing against the carpets and the furniture with a heavy swish that scattered Edith’s toys and the chess game that Ina had been trying to teach Alice when they had first been deposited in the room earlier that morning.
Alice paced around the parlor, looking into corners and behind chairs.
“What are you doing?” Ina asked.
“Looking at what?”
“Everything.” Alice was never allowed into the small parlor, which was rarely used. Alice peered at the silhouettes and the paintings on the walls. Dozens of stern faces looked down at her, intermixed with castles and churches.
Ina said primly, “Mother said we are all related to the people in this room, and we should always remember that our actions reflect upon them. Their greatness reflects on us, so we should do our duty and reflect it back to them—oh, Edith. Don’t put that in your mouth.”
Alice sighed, stomped over to Edith, and took the pawn away from her. Edith burst into tears.
“Now see what you made me do,” she told Ina.
“I did no such thing.”
“You did too.”
“Give her a sweet,” Ina said.
Alice sat in one of the fancy chairs and crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t mind the sound of her crying.” She looked at the ceiling, trying to see if there were any spiders she could capture and drop onto the back of Ina’s fancy chair.
Ina closed the book with a thump and picked up Edith. “Don’t cry, little mouse.” She pulled a tin of pastilles out of her pocket and gave one to Edith. “Only one, now, or you’ll spoil your luncheon.”
Edith, well-trained, popped open her mouth, accepted the sweet, and sucked contentedly.
Alice jumped out of her chair and stood next to Ina as she put Edith back on the floor in the middle of her overturned toys. Alice opened her mouth like a small bird.
“Oh, Alice,” Ina said.
Alice sniffed and whimpered like a baby about to burst into tears and rubbed one fat finger under her eye, just like Edith would insist on doing. Ina laughed and gave her a pastille. “You are such a naughty little kitten.”
Alice purred and rubbed her head against Ina’s arm, then set the chess pieces to right again, this time on the sideboard. “Will you play with me?”
“I’m reading,” Ina said.
“You’re always reading. It’s dull.”
“It is not.”
“It’s dull for me.”
Ina sighed and closed the book, this time quietly, with her finger in between the pages to mark her place. “All right. I’ll tell you a story then. But only a short one, and then you have to play with Edith and keep her amused and not let her fuss.”
“All right,” Alice said. She sat on the floor next to Edith, puffing up twinkling clouds of dust, which would have made Mother unhappy, although Alice still thought it rather clever of herself, using her petticoats to dust the rugs. She picked up the scattered toys and set them within Edith’s reach in rows, as though they were her audience at a play or her soldiers in a war. Edith wiped out a row of them with one cruel gesture.
Ina announced, “The photographer, Mr. Dodgson, is a zombie.”
Alice squealed with delight. “Oh! Is he?”
Ina snorted. “Yes. And that’s the end of the story. Remember, you promised.”
Alice gaped at her. “That’s not a proper story.”
“It is, too.”
“No it isn’t!” Alice shouted.
Edith’s face screwed up in a way that reminded Alice of a blister ready to burst.
“All right, hush. Mother said that he was infected years and years ago, but nobody knew, because it was dormant and he was so careful about concealing
The corner of Ina’s mouth twitched. “Hidden under a rug. Door-mat.”
Alice leaned forward and slapped Ina on the leg. “That’s not true. Stop making up words.”
Ina pulled her stockinged leg out of Alice’s reach. “It’s a real word.”
“It is not.”
They sulked, with Ina reading and Alice setting up the toys for Edith, until the door opened and Mother swept back into the room, knocking all the toys over again. “Girls! Mr. Dodgson is here.”
Alice groaned and started to set the toys aright.
“Up, please. Off the floor,” Mother said.
Ina put her book on the little table beside her, and Alice jumped up and stood next to her. Ina poked her in the side and pointed, and Alice bent over and picked up Edith, who opened her mouth and started crying.
“Give…her…a sweet,” Ina hissed.
“I don’t have any,” Alice whispered back. “You have all the sweets, you selfish cow. You give her one.”
The gentleman who had followed Mother into the room coughed softly into his glove, and the two girls looked up at him, leaving Edith to cry as she would. Really, there was no stopping her for long, and the two of them had simply learned to ignore the noise unless adults were around.
Mr. Dodgson was very tall, taller even than Father, and quite thin. He had brown hair that was nearly as long as Alice’s (hers had been cut quite short after an incident with a hedge) and stopped near his chin.
“Are you a zombie?” she asked.
“Oh, Alice,” Ina moaned.
Mother reached towards Alice to get at her ear again, but Alice stepped behind Ina and switched Edith to her other side. Edith was as fat as anything, probably from all the sweets that Ina had given her, and made a good shield against being pinched or poked.
The man coughed into his glove again, this time a little more loudly. After a few seconds, he said, “I’m…afraid so.”
“You’re afraid of being a zombie?” Alice asked. Edith was wiggling to get down, so she let her slither down to the floor and pick up a toy, which she chewed between bouts of sobbing. As Mr. Dodgson was standing quite close to them, Alice noticed that his left leg was manacled to a heavy iron ball, which he apparently dragged behind him. “Have you been press-ganged?” She had heard all kinds of stories about people doing things they oughtn’t, then waking up the next morning to find themselves turned into zombies and press-ganged onto a ship with a heavy cannonball chained to their legs, so if they tried to escape they would sink over the side of the ship and be forced to walk along the bottom of the ocean for ever and ever, because zombies didn’t die, not unless they were spiked in the back of their heads with a horrific crunch! Alice had always wanted to see a zombie spiked, but she supposed that Mother wouldn’t allow her to try it out on Mr. Dodgson, or not until after their pictures had been taken, at any rate.
“Ah, ah, ah, yes. I mean, ah, um, no.”
She wasn’t sure whether he was laughing at her or not. “Which is it?” She took a deep breath to see if he smelled bad. At any rate, something smelled bad, but it might have been Edith.
He giggled into his hand.
“Don’t do that,” Alice said. “I don’t like it when people laugh at me instead of answering the question.”
He coughed, then lowered his hand.
“Oh, I’m a zombie,” he said. “A perfectly tame zombie. B-but I haven’t been press, ah, press-ganged. I’m a terrible sailor.”
“You were press-ganged into taking pictures of us,” Alice declared. “I’m sorry that your whole life has been ruined for nothing, because I won’t have my picture taken. It’s dull.”
The man laughed deep down in his throat, making a half-gargling sound as Mother got Alice by the ear again, Alice having quite literally lowered her defenses.
Mr. Dodgson said something about going outside because of the light, and Ina leaned over and whispered, “You’re in for it now.”
Alice kicked at Ina, but as Mother was dragging Alice by one arm into the hall, she missed.
“Come with me, girls,” Mother said. “Let’s do finish this quickly, so Mr. Dodgson can get back to his…other tasks.”
Alice, stumbling along after her mother and twisting around to see behind her, said, “I thought you weren’t supposed to call zombies Mister any more. In all the stories, they’re called the former Mister or arghhhh a zombie run!”
“That was before the serum that allows us to retain our presence of mind was invented, my dear Miss Alice,” Mr. Dodgson said, clearing his throat. “Now, if one remains calm and refrains from eating anyone, one may retain the title of ‘Mister.’ However, if a zombie attempts to bite one, it’s quite proper to begin one’s address with a blood-curdling scream.”
Ina, with Edith on her hip, carefully closed the door behind them and stayed away from Mr. Dodgson’s iron ball, which he dragged behind him, making him walk with a lurch.
“Like this?” Alice let out an earsplitting shriek that made him cover his ears and open his mouth in mock-horror.
“Indeed,” Mr. Dodgson said, as Mother nipped her ear sharply again.
Taking photographs wasn’t quite as bad as Ina had made it out to be. Alice had suspected that Ina had been lying about one or two things, and, as it turned out, Alice wasn’t frozen as a statue forever and ever, so there. Mr. Dodgson made it seem like a game as he and Miss Prickett set up a carpet and a chair in the garden while Mother watched.
“Why can’t we take pictures inside, if we’re going to make it look as though we were inside anyhow?” Alice asked. Mr. Dodgson had asked her to sit on a chair so he could try to focus the camera. She kicked her legs back and forth.
“Alice,” her mother hissed. “Sit still.”
“That’s a good question,” Mr. Dodgson said. “The answer is that cameras are not nearly as good at seeing things as your eye is. Your eye takes a picture with just a blink, like this.” He blinked owlishly at them.
“I can blink faster than that,” Alice said, blinking dozens of times, her eyelids fluttering.
“Your eyes work better than mine, then,” Mr. Dodgson agreed solemnly. “But even my eyes work faster than this camera. In addition to being quite slow, it sees rather poorly in the dark, and even the bright daylight of the parlor is too dim for the poor thing.”
“It’s quite stupid, then.” Alice glanced at her mother, but Mother had become bored with them and had wandered off, checking on the work the gardeners had done; some new roses had been put in, but they hadn’t been the ones she’d wanted, and she was working herself up to being quite cross at someone other than Alice, which was rarely a bad thing.
Mr. Dodgson leaned forward towards her, and she found herself taking a step backward. He mightn’t look like a zombie, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t eat her. He whispered, “Yes, but don’t tell the camera it is stupid. If you get it to crying, I won’t be able to take a clear picture for a month. It cries even more than your sister Edith.” Then he leaned back.
“How did you become a zombie?” she asked. “Have you eaten anyone?”
“Oh, no,” he reassured her. “I have never eaten anyone, although I did have the misfortune to see someone eaten.”
“When was that?” Alice asked, leaning forward.
“At Rugby School,” he said.
Alice nodded. She had once overheard her father saying that Rugby was nothing but a pack of beasts, although it was better than it had been, so very long ago. “How old are you?” she asked.
She nodded again, because that was very old, and tallied with Father’s report of Rugby.
“And how did you become a zombie?” she pressed.
“Hm,” Mr. Dodgson said. “I should be quite happy to tell you, on one condition. The camera is all ready. If you should sit in the chair like so, I will tell you. While I am talking, that is the time it takes for the camera to blink. As you recall, it does take a terribly long time, almost a full minute, for the camera to blink and take your picture.
“However, during the story, you must be terribly, terribly careful not to cry, for it is a very sad story, and if you should cry, well, that would ruin the picture and we should have to start all over again, and you might even get the camera to crying, and then who knows where we should end up.”
“Should I hold my breath?” Alice breathed until her chest felt like it would pop and held her breath with her cheeks puffed out.
Mr. Dodgson coughed into his hand again, and she scowled at him. “No, no need to hold your breath. Just breathe very shallowly, as though you were pretending to be dead.”
“Hmph,” Alice snorted, but she liked the idea very much: to pretend to be dead while listening to a zombie tell a story about how he was turned into one. “Do you breathe?”
“I do,” Mr. Dodgson confirmed, making some last few adjustments in the darkness of the cloth covering the back of the camera. “But not as often
as I used to.”
“Then press-ganged zombies would drown if they were thrown off a ship,” Alice exclaimed.
“Oh, no. They simply would be unable to speak very well until they had come up to the surface again. Now, let us begin the picture and the story. Remember, it is vitally important that you make not a single change of facial expression until the story has finished.” And then he removed the cap.
Here is the story that Mr. Dodgson told, as Alice sat in front of the camera and listened. (Despite her mother’s complaints to the contrary, Alice did listen most of the time. However, she was of the opinion that listening didn’t oblige her in any way to do what she was told.)
* * * * *
One day, as I was attending school in Rugby, I happened upon a dark hole in the middle of a field. The hole hadn’t been there the day before, and, as you will see, it wasn’t there even an hour after I left it.
I was laying on my stomach over the hole and reaching down with a stick to see if I could reach the bottom, when suddenly I saw a white rabbit running towards me. My experience had previously been of rabbits doing the opposite: that is, running away as fast as possible.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I cried.
The rabbit, apparently not even noticing I was there, ran bang-on into me and bounced backward, unable to take another step for fright. I looked up to see what could have possibly scared it so. Charging towards us was a maddened zombie, quite ready to eat any body it should happen upon, and it seemed only too glad to see both Mr. Rabbit and myself.
I jumped to my feet with only the stick as a weapon. I swung the stick at the zombie as though it were a sword: one, two, one, two! However, the stick soon snapped in half, and I was left defenseless. I stood my ground and dared the zombie to do its worst.
Just then, the rabbit gave a roar (if you have never heard a roaring rabbit, it is quite memorable) and attacked the zombie! You see, the poor thing had been
bitten earlier and was starting to turn into a zombie, no serum having been administered.
I took a step back and stumbled, almost falling down the hole. The rabbit and the zombie wrestled for a few moments, the rabbit too small and light to do much damage, but the zombie unable to dislodge the rabbit from his throat.
Fortunately, the zombie took a step too close to the hole, and down they both went. I went back to the school, and one of the other boys noticed that I was bleeding. I went to the headmaster and told him the story of what had happened, but by then the hole was gone, and I taken to the doctor and given the serum before I should change into entirely the wrong sort of zombie, and do say you believe me, or else I should be terribly sad.
* * * * *
He had put the cap back on at some point during the story, but Alice hadn’t noticed. As soon as he stopped talking, she took a deep breath—towards
the end of the story, she’d been holding it.
“That was longer than a minute,” she said.
He gave her a little bow. “I entirely agree, my dear, but I did so want to finish the story. However, now I must go and develop the picture.” He disappeared
into the little tent.
Alice looked around her. The black tent on the garden grass was sitting right where they usually set up their croquet game. Mother was nowhere to be seen; Miss Prickett was working on a basket of torn things that were usually Alice’s fault, or so Miss Prickett claimed; and Ina was reading a book while Edith began to crawl off under the bushes.
“No, Edith,” Alice said. “There might be rabbits under there. Come away.” She scooped up the little girl, then carried her over to Miss Prickett. “You might take better care of her,” she said, and went looking for a stick.
If there were zombies about (and not the nice kind, like Mr. Dodgson), she would be the first to attack. One couldn’t allow one’s friends to be bitten.
It simply wasn’t done.
* * * * *
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