Alice Draws Attention

By Pamela Love

“Ahchoo!” Alice’s blonde hair bounced as her head jerked forward.

“Goodness, Alice.” Her sister, Lorina, raised her eyebrows. “God bless you, but remember to cover your mouth when you sneeze. Even when a lady has a cold, she never draws attention to herself.”

“Excuse me,” Alice said stuffily. Yawning, she settled back against the fireside settee with her book of fairy tales. Suddenly, she let out a sneeze twenty times as tremendous!

Opening her eyes, she discovered she had sneezed herself right out of the house. Someone must’ve opened a window or door, for I didn’t go up the chimney. She smoothed her rumpled yet still snowy-white apron. And that’s not my house, either.

Alice stood on a vast patio in front of a gigantic brick building. A large white sign upon it read Wonders of Wonderland Museum. “I’ve blown myself back into Wonderland!”

A mouse scampered by her into a hole in the museum’s foundation. Startled, she blinked. It’s the same size as I am. I must have sneezed so much air out of myself that I’ve deflated.

Enormous shadows fell across the patio, then something splashed behind her, followed by another splash to her right. Immense thuds and a shower of jet-black drops, each as large as a pailful to tiny Alice, followed. Could this be an inkstorm? Recalling the sea of tears she’d made during her previous Wonderland visit, she mused, Or is someone crying? Either way, she needed to avoid them lest Lorina scold her for staining her dress.

Rather than a storm, the source of both ink and noise was two towering men, one in a purple beret and smock and another garbed alike but in orange. They were fencing with fountain pens, thrusting, parrying, and a great many other things one does with swords, if one does anything at all with them. Their boots—elephant-sized to Alice—thundered back and forth, narrowly missing her.

“Stop! Wait!” Alice cried out, fearing being trampled and not merely—merely!—the ruin of her clothes. With neither umbrella nor ink blotter to shield herself, she dodged the ink and boots as well as she could, darting this way and that while seeking shelter. Perhaps the mouse will share his hole for awhile, if I can reach it. 

Sidestepping a particularly close drop, she tripped over something and fell down.

“Look out!” cried both men, lowering their pens.

Straightening her mussed apron as she stood, Alice asked, “Why are you fighting?”

“Over what’s beside you,” said the man in the purple beret, pointing.

Small as she now was, it was with some difficulty that Alice recognized the long, thin, buff-colored object. “A straw, sirs?”

Both nodded. “We are artists, you see,” said the man in the orange smock with a flourish.

“And this is the famous last straw. You must have heard of it.”

“Therefore, we both want to draw it,” said the purple one, placing a hand on his heart. “Think what a draw that would be for people to come to the museum.”

“You both have pens, likely with some ink left in them.” Hands on her hips, Alice glared at the spotted patio surrounding them.

The purple artist rolled his eyes. “But there’s only one straw. Have you ever heard of two people drawing a straw?”

Alice shook her head.

“And we can’t draw straws to see which of us may draw it, for we have only one,” said the orange artist.

“So we fought, but to a draw. So what shall we do?” asked the purple one, flinging out his arms.

Alice’s forehead wrinkled as she considered their dilemma. “Let me break the straw into two pieces. Then you can draw straws to see who draws the straw. In fact, then you can both draw the straws, for it doesn’t matter which of you gets the short straw, because two people often draw straws, though not usually with pens.”

The artists shrugged. Alice tried to pick up the straw, but it was too heavy to lift for one so small. “Dear me, I shall need to saw it in half.”

“But I already saw the straw.” The purple artist tapped his chest.

“So did I,” said the orange artist. His eyes widened. “So it must already be in at least four pieces. Four straws? We needn’t draw any of them.”

Off they marched into the museum. Alice sniffed. Such silliness! Which reminded her that, Wonderland or not, she had a cold. She sniffed once again, then reached into her pocket as she perched on the straw.

Without warning, it rocketed skyward. Gracious! Alice dropped her handkerchief and grabbed onto the straw. Wind blew her hair back as she shot forward, arrow-like.

From the corner of her eye she spotted something much larger approaching. It raced ahead of Alice. Her pulse quickened. A broomstick! Perhaps I’m riding one of its straws. I’ve heard of ladies being swept off their feet, but never like this.

The broom swerved in front of the straw, then slowed. Its straw bundle rustled like a fearful forest. Sweat dripped from Alice’s forehead as her straw sped up, closing in on the broom. It’s going to crash! Terrified, she gasped.

That deep breath of Wonderland air made Alice puff up and out until she was her proper size again. She tumbled off the broom straw, waving her limbs wildly, then landed in a puddle, which was scarcely a yard beneath her.

Alice scrambled to her feet, shaking mud off her fingertips. She was filthy, from top to toe. “Whatever will my sister say?”

***

“Do wake up.” Lorina gently shook Alice’s shoulder. “Jane needs to sweep the fireplace ashes—why, where are you going??”

For Alice had sprung to her feet, staring wide-eyed at the redheaded maid, hearth broom in hand. “I—I need to draw myself a bath!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

---

More Stories | Twitter