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 shouted back, "OK."
Then the Premier League on the TV, filling the silence.
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.
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