The Return of Alice

By Robert Jeschonek

Alice has had a lousy life since she left Wonderland. All grown up and trapped in an uhappy marriage, she longs to escape. But when she finally manages to leap through the mirror, she gets one twisted shock after another. What ever happened to the crazy, charming Wonderland of her youth? This time, the Mad Hatter, Cheshire Cat, Mock Turtle, Humpty Dumpty, Tweedledum and Tweedledee are out for blood. Something has warped the magical mystery realm, sending Alice reeling from one close shave to the next. And when she gets her day in the Queen of Hearts' court, the verdict could be even more awful than "Off with her head!" Can a grown-up Alice survive the nightmare and escape her demented Wonderland? Or would she be better off staying in the lesser of two hells? The trip home could be a real killer.

Don't miss this twisted dark fantasy tale, available here as an e-book for the first time anywhere. Welcome to the latest shocker from award-winning storyteller Robert T. Jeschonek, a master of mind-bending fantasy and horror.

Contents

Short novel plus novel preview

Reviews

"Robert Jeschonek is the literary love child of Tim Burton and Neil Gaiman--his fiction is cutting edge, original, and pulsing with dark and fantastical life. His stories suck me in and refuse to let me go until the last page, even as his characters are busy stealing my heart." – Adrian Phoenix, critically acclaimed author of The Maker's Song series and Black Dust Mambo

Robert T. Jeschonek "sees the world like no one else sees it, and makes incredibly witty, incisive stories out of that skewed worldview." – Mike Resnick, Hugo and Nebula Award-winning author

"Jeschonek ́s stories are delightfully insane, a pleasure to read..." – Fábio Fernandes, Fantasy Book Critic

About the Author

Robert T. Jeschonek is an award-winning writer whose fiction, comics, essays, articles, and podcasts have been published around the world. DC Comics, Simon & Schuster, and DAW Books have published his work. His story, "Fear of Rain," was nominated for the British Fantasy Award. His young adult urban fantasy novel, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist, is now available from Clarion Books and Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

Visit Robert T. Jeschonek online at The Fictioneer website, www.thefictioneer.com. You can also find him on Facebook. Follow him as TheFictioneer on Twitter. For news on his latest online projects, visit the Tsetse Press website at www.tsetsepress.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Jeschonek
• Release date: Jun 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458169716

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE: THE GREAT ESCAPE

She stared into the mirror.

For the past thirty years, the thing had haunted her. It was hidden away in her attic, up the creaky stairs, through the heavy trap door, across the junky piles of clothing and packing crates. But still, it lingered in her thoughts, always burning in the back of her mind. Maybe it would have been better to have left it downstairs above the mantle. In the half-lit mustiness of the attic, it seemed all the more mysterious; and when she could not see it, she thought of it all the more.

Now, the only light in the attic was a single candle, burning to a nub on a chest behind her. She saw its dim point get lower and dimmer as she watched; she put out a hand to touch the reflection, and it disappeared.

She felt a thrill when she touched the mirror, a shiver of remembrance that trickled up her arm and down her spine and made her catch her breath. Slowly, she moved her hand across the glass, across her own reflection. Her fingers were light on the pane, pink-nailed tips brushing along it. As she caressed the reflection, a tear beaded in her eye and softly ran down her cheek.

She reached up and traced the tear's image, following it down the mirror with her finger. Another tear followed, then one from the other eye.

As she cried, she took her hand from the mirror and slowly touched her own face. Her eyes were still fixed on the reflection as she wiped away a tear, shaking a little. She moved slowly and stiffly, as if hypnotized, transfixed by her own image.

Then, her voice weak and catching, she spoke. Oh rabbit, where are you? Where are you?

There was no answer. She began to sob, and plunged her face into her hands. It was still the same, though she half expected it would not be; she half expected it would not be, though every day it was.

A few drops of rain rapped the roof above her, and through her sobs, she heard the far-off rumble of thunder. It was night, and the attic was growing darker as the tiny candle dimmed.

Still choking with sobs, the woman stared through her fingers at the mirror. She stared at her reflection, flickering in the shadows; her long blonde hair was tangled and limp, her face and eyes were red behind her hands. Her housedress was rumpled, the white blouse folded like paper around her heaving chest. She was a mess, and the mirror, the cause of it all, reminded her.

Suddenly, she whirled away from the mirror and stumbled across the attic. She tripped over an old rocking horse, caught herself on a lampstand; it rattled like coat-hangers when she rell against it.

Quickly, she pushed away, and ran through the old trap door, slamming it shut behind her. She was gone down the steps as dust flew up around the door.

When Alice had gone, the candle winked out, and the mirror went dark.

The next morning, it was still raining outside. Alice was making breakfast for the family, moving about the kitchen in her housedress and apron. On top of the coal-stove, she was frying a pan of sausages; a kettle of tea steamed behind them, and another pan full of scrambled eggs. Alice watched them all, fixing a plate of bread-and-butter as she did.

Alice had a splitting headache that morning. She supposed it was from the rain. Her eyes were bloodshot and each one had a thin dark ring along the bottom. She supposed that was from crying.

She certainly looked no better than she had the night before. If anything, her hair was limper and more tangled, and her housedress was more wrinkled than before. Her face was no longer flushed, however; it was pale, like a sheet.

Through the doorway, Alice heard her mother-in-law shuffling toward the kitchen. She would be the first one to breakfast, as usual, except for Alice, of course.

It was the same every morning in her husband's house. Every day, it was the very same schedule: Alice up at five, dress and make breakfast; Queenie, mother-in-law, up at six-thirty, hobbling downstairs to the table in her dressing-gown; Tom up minutes later, after Queenie shakes him; Tom to breakfast, Alice fixing a lunch of biscuits and ham; Tom taking lunch-sack, out the door to the print shop. It never changed, not once, like the mirror.

Hmmph, snorted Queenie, trundling through the doorway. I hope his eggs are right, you know. She looked like a bulldog, a pug with flabby jowls and a flat nose and face. Her eyes drooped at the corners, and were