Episode 73.2 - Words Drowned/ A Digital Wonderland

Series: Digital Wonderland | Meta-Logs | Ongoing Absurdity Chronicles

WORDS DROWNED

Alice's words had failed to reach the Hatter. They looped back to her ears. 

Her own voice slapping against her.

Ripples gathered around her like rising water.

She cocked her head, jerking her chin.

The movement unsettled the acoustics inside her head. 

The sound went wet and viscous.

Glub-glub-glub.exe: left ear.

Glub-glub-glub.exe: right ear.

[Eardrums requesting air.dll.

Status: Failed]

Glubs clotted.

Then sank. 

D

e

e

p

e

r

Tea didn't spill.
Her voice spilled.

Drowning.

Glubs coagulated.

Alice pressed down, forcing a pop to silence them.

A heavy bubble rose through a dark pool. 

Glub.
Glub held.
The surface held.
Plop.
The last bubble burst. 

"If I stay down here long enough," Alice thought, "I shall grow fins of lace. I shall speak in gurgles to the Oysters."

"And the Oysters hear nothing, my dear. Nothing at all,” a voice purred.

[Cut]

Narrative didn't include Oysters.

[Take two]

The megaphone called. Glubs returned to the stage.

Glub-glub-glub.exe: left ear.
Glub-glub-glub.exe: right ear.

Ugh— 

Words_Drowned.exe

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Previous Episode: 

Alfred Schnittke's Job Done

Next Episode: The Sleep Slept

A surreal chapter in Alice’s digital dreamscape.

This post is part of an ongoing original metafiction series exploring identity, systems, and absurdity through a digital Wonderland.

Episode 73.1.1 - Alfred Schnittke's Job Done / A Digital Wonderland

Series: Digital Wonderland | Meta-Logs | Ongoing Absurdity Chronicles

ALFRED SCHNITTKE'S JOB DONE 

1865 carolled.

Beneath the table, stagehands were panting. 

Above it, every time a string snapped, a teapot lid clicked.

1976 refused to wait.

In the right ear, a Baroque minuet hummed. The teacups jingled in a courtly 3/4 time.

In the left, screeching twelve-tone clusters tore through a curtain of cilia. The teacups stuttered into minus two—minus two seconds of panic.

The two worlds piled up directly on top of the tablecloth.

From two inches to four, to sixteen, to sixty-four, and still piling. 

To the Hatter, discord was proper table manners.

1874 hummed through the floorboards.

Within, he conjured Danse Macabre—the violin summoned skeletons to their midnight dance.

Then came a snap.

The Hatter’s knife sliced into a loaf of bread.

Screaming of March Hare halted. 

The tango cut.

Tok tok approached beneath the tablecloth. 

A page drifted loose.

The narrative carried it forward.

The tea party remained.

The teapot lid waited. The next record needle waited too.

Alfred Schnittke shut his eyes. 

2026 holds its breath.

So does Alice.

Previous Episode: Stagehands 

Next Episode: Words Drowned 

"If I stay down here long enough," Alice thought, "I shall grow fins of lace. I shall speak in gurgles to the Oysters."

A surreal chapter in Alice’s digital dreamscape.

This post is part of an ongoing original metafiction series exploring identity, systems, and absurdity through a digital Wonderland.

Episode 73.1 - Stagehands / A Digital Wonderland

Series: Digital Wonderland | Meta-Logs | Ongoing Absurdity Chronicles

STAGEHANDS 

The Hatter’s remark knocked Alice off balance, as though the floor had been stolen beneath her feet.

A family of rats was carrying it.
They were grousing all the way home.

"Where should we keep this floor? Our garage doesn't need any extra," a younger rat asked, panting heavily. 

"Under the house," the mother replied quickly—yet a lump formed in her throat just as fast. 'House' became hoarse. 

"But we already have one there," said the elder one, wheezing while staring at the immense floor.

"Why are we taking this floor home?" the young one asked again.

"Careful. The narrative is writing us," the father said, teeth clenched.

The table's shadow darkened across their faces, then over their entire bodies. 

"What if it names us?"

"That's beyond rat imagination," the parent sighed.

The floor grew heavier, dragging them two inches backward.

Weight dragged, labour pulled.

The younger one's eyes boggled—there stood the narrative beside him.

No face. Scorching.

"Is that—?" he rasped.

The floor was no longer there.

Alice didn't notice. She kept speaking while two seconds went missing.

The narrative tapped. Gloved.

Tok tok sounds from a prepared piano crept in from the background. 

A snap.

No fingerprints left on music.

Schnittke's Concerto Grosso No.1 simply stopped.

The harpsichord ticked away.

The rats reset to routine—shuffling, running oddly slow behind the Duck, jabbing him during a Caucus-race. 

Their hands hurt. They blamed the Caucus-race.

No one mentioned the grounded floor again.

Not even the floor.

Floors were not meant to remember.

Only narrative did. 

Previous Episode: Lewis's Weather Forecast

Next Episode: Alfred Schnittke's Job Done

The Caucus-race reset.

Alfred Schnittke shut his eyes.

A surreal chapter in Alice’s digital dreamscape.

This post is part of an ongoing original metafiction series exploring identity, systems, and absurdity through a digital Wonderland.

Episode 73 - Lewis's Weather Forecast / A Digital Wonderland

Series: Digital Wonderland | Meta-Logs | Ongoing Absurdity Chronicles

LEWIS'S WEATHER FORECAST 

I didn't withhold any truth.

I even included a detailed weather forecast.

Readers ruled. That much was undeniable.

My only mistake was omitting the source:

Lewis's weather forecast, 8 p.m., Dodgson Broadcast Corporation. Formerly Charles Broadcast Corporation.

The weather at the table matched.

The skin corroborated the report; no goosebumps to betray a chill.

But none of this trivia delayed Alice's anger.

The Hatter's remark caught her off balance, as though the floor was stolen.

Right under her feet.

“I beg your pardon—and how rude of you to say such ill-mannered things!” she cried. Her cheeks reddened, but she refused to hunch an inch.

Her words missed the Hatter entirely.

He had not turned away.

Her voice simply failed to arrive.

Between them, the air circled.

Above a cup too, circling like a housefly.

The cup straightened its handle to swat the buzzing away.

The air circled above a crumb, but not enough to tip anything.

Still, the words looped back to Alice’s ears, her own voice slapping against her.

Her ears hummed. 

She cocked her head to shake it away, but the sound remained glub glub glub.

“We’ve been expecting you since yesterday,” said the March Hare at last, smiling.
He turned to the Hatter. 
The two of them shuddered. 

So did the teapot. Even the cups. Whispering scandal under the steaming web.
The tablecloth shrugged, sending tiny ripples across teapot and cups. 

Everybody was gossiping—under streetlight, under table, under mamak. Someone shouted: "One teh tarik." Another one responded, "Satu teh tarik."

Then the shouts in Premier League on live, filling the air.

A Mad Party.

"Oh, my dear! Don't make your memory short once your head was out from the Rabbit-Hole." The Hatter shook his hat; "surely you remember." His voice was calm and flat, as though flattened by the narrow, tapering walls of the Rabbit-Hole.

“Hair full of dirt and grasses…” the March Hare added, still smiling, apparently he had seen it himself.

Gossiping didn’t end; it didn’t stop sleep from warming itself under the table. 

From inside that warmth, a lullaby rehearsed itself:

“Toot … tooot … toooot …” the Dormouse snored. 

Not yet 8 p.m. Truth is timeless.

Previous Episode: A Ruler 

Next Episode: Stagehands
"Where should we keep this floor? Our garage doesn't need an extra one," a younger rat asked, panting. 

A surreal chapter in Alice’s digital dreamscape.

This post is part of an ongoing original metafiction series exploring identity, systems, and absurdity through a digital Wonderland.

Episode 72.1 - A Ruler / A Digital Wonderland

Series: Digital Wonderland | Meta-Logs | Ongoing Absurdity Chronicles

A RULER

Every inch of a ruler marked an unspoken history.

The wall it hung from in the Hatter's tea-party house thought it knew everything.

It was nothing.

Only shadow.

In another story, it ruled for the Queen—until “Off with your head” snapped its leash.

The phrase was spelled into a spell.

Earlier still, it ruled in a story of yore, in which two weavers turned air into garments. It was a ruler in new clothes.

When Gallons, Ounces and Inches prevailed, the ruler notched the tea party—
Still in new clothes.
Still ruling everyone.
Measuring the two-inch swelling of the tea-party house.

Once, a child measured the Ruler with a naked sentence.

Now, Alice ruined her way into a wrong tea party, walking a trap of milky-trick narrative air. 

Eyes parsed Alice—inch by inch.
The ruler followed.

The six-inch ruler on everyone's desks, on yours, too.
Measuring every line in two-inch couplets.

The weavers spun air. Stories grew tall. 

The ruler measured older ruler's pride. 

It measured the shout of the Queen. 

The Seconds' story came out two inches shorter.

It declared those measurements canon.

Its cold thickness sealed the gap between stories—

"Skritch. 

Skritch. 

THUCK."

This distorted voice morphed into a song:

"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, come into my notch?"

Everything hesitated. 
Narrative too.

Carroll decreed:
Two turned official in the first line of the preface.
Readers deliberately skipped it.

R  E  A  D  E  R  S    R  U  L  E  D.

U  N  S  P  O  K  E  N  L  Y.

Previous Episode: Perfect Weather 

Next Episode: Lewis's Weather Forecast 

Lewis's weather forecast at 8pm on Dodgson Broadcast Corporation.

A surreal chapter in Alice’s digital dreamscape.

This post is part of an ongoing original metafiction series exploring identity, systems, and absurdity through a digital Wonderland.