Alice in Wonderland Stories

Alice in Wonderland Stories

“Three Alice Fell out of Wonderland”

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The Shimmering Shore of Wonderland had lost its shimmer. Once a kaleidoscope of shifting sands and whispering seafoam, it now glistened with an unnatural, oily sheen. The air, usually redolent with the scent of fantastical blooms and freshly baked tarts, carried a faint, acrid tang, like burnt sugar and damp soot.

Alice, the singular Alice, had felt it coming. A strange disquiet had settled over Wonderland for weeks, a feeling that something precious was being leached away. The Mad Hatter had begun serving tea that tasted faintly of rust, the White Rabbit’s frantic pronouncements now included mumbled worries about “unforeseen quarterly losses,” and even the Cheshire Cat’s grin sometimes appeared upside down.

One particularly dismal morning, as a viscous, grey mist rolled in from what used to be the Tulgey Wood, Alice found herself staring at her reflection in a puddle that smelled suspiciously like diluted axle grease. Her iconic blue dress seemed dull, her golden hair a little limp. She felt… stretched. As if too many demands were being placed upon her singular self, too many opposing desires pulling her in different directions.

“It simply won’t do,” she murmured, pinching the bridge of her nose. “One cannot maintain one’s composure when one’s entire reality is seeping away like treacle through a sieve.”

Just then, a tremor, deep and resonant, shook the very ground beneath her. It wasn’t a playful Wonderland tremor; it was a guttural, grinding rumble, utterly alien and terrifying. The puddle before her didn’t just ripple; it fractured.

A brilliant, agonizing light erupted from the fissure, accompanied by a sound like a thousand angry teacups shattering. Alice felt herself being pulled, stretched, and then – a terrifying snap.

When the light faded, the singular Alice was gone.

In her place, three figures lay sprawled on the grimy shore, each identical in face, yet utterly distinct in form and temperament.

The first, clad in a vibrant yellow dress and white apron, sat up with a gasp, her eyes wide and sparkling. A cluster of bright, multi-colored balloons, seemingly conjured from thin air, floated above her head, tied to her wrist with an impossibly long string. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, a giggle bubbling up. “What a peculiar tumble! Is this a new game? It feels rather like a particularly energetic hopscotch!” This was Sunny Alice, her optimism an unshakeable shield against the encroaching gloom.

Next to her, a second Alice slowly pushed herself to her feet. Her dress was a deep, earthy green, adorned with delicate leaf embroidery, and her apron pockets bulged with what looked suspiciously like a small, potted sapling and a miniature trowel. She surveyed the polluted shoreline with a look of profound dismay. “Good heavens!” she cried, rushing to a sickly-looking, three-eyed toadstool. “The ecological degradation! The pH levels of this soil are simply unacceptable! We must start a remediation project at once!” This was Green Alice, her practical, eco-conscious spirit instantly activated by the blight.

The third Alice rose last, with a slow, deliberate grace. Her dress was inky black lace and deep velvet, her apron a stark, almost spectral white. Her hair, now dark as a raven’s wing, framed eyes that held a knowing, weary glint. A single, skull-shaped balloon, as black as midnight, tethered to her slender wrist, swayed gently above her. She looked at the oily shore, the grey mist, and the other two Alices, and a faint, sardonic smile touched her lips. “Ah,” she murmured, her voice a low, resonant whisper. “So this is the true nature of reality. A crumbling facade, revealing the beautiful despair beneath. How… utterly predictable.” This was Goth Alice, embracing the inherent bleakness with a profound, almost artistic melancholy.

Before the three could properly acknowledge their impossible triplication, another, even louder rumble shook the ground. The grey mist parted to reveal an unimaginable sight: not the whimsical trees of Wonderland, but colossal, skeletal structures of rusting iron, spewing thick plumes of black smoke into the wan sky. A network of dark, muddy tracks stretched into the gloom, crisscrossed by strange, chugging iron beasts. The scent of soot and burning coal was overpowering.

Sunny Alice clapped her hands. “Ooh, a giant’s playground! I wonder if they have swings!” Green Alice gasped, pointing a horrified finger at the smokestacks. “The emissions! The sheer, unmitigated air pollution! This is a catastrophe!” Goth Alice merely sighed, a profound, world-weary sound. “This,” she intoned, “is precisely what I meant by ‘beautiful despair’.”

They had not landed in a new section of Wonderland. They had landed in Mad Mr. Viscous’s Industrial Wasteland, a realm where wonder was being systematically extracted, processed, and burned away. And in the distance, a faint, rhythmic thump-thump-thump echoed, like a giant, metal heart beating a funeral dirge for a dying world.

The portal, still faintly shimmering on the grimy shore, began to shrink, spitting out a final, absurd item: a small, tarnished silver pocket watch. It wasn’t ticking. Instead, it was slowly oozing a thick, brown goo.

“Oh dear,” Sunny Alice giggled, pointing to the watch. “It seems time itself has come unstuck!” Goth Alice picked it up, her brow furrowed. “Or merely revealed its true, viscous nature.”

Little did they know, the owner of that watch, a man named Mr. Henderson, would soon be wondering why his shift started at “Never Past Noon” and why his tea kept tasting like existential dread.

CONTD