Alice and the Rampaging River-Hog
Alice and the Rampaging River-Hog
(A Curious Account of Mud, Mayhem, and Marmalade)
Chapter One: A Splendid Splash
It all began, as such stories usually do, with a very odd puddle.
Alice had just been to visit the Museum of Misplaced Mittens (a rather draughty building made entirely of forgotten wool), when she spotted a suspiciously sploshy puddle right in the middle of the path.
“It hasn’t rained for three days,” Alice muttered, tapping the puddle with the toe of her shoe. “Which means either someone’s dropped their teacup… or this puddle is hiding something.”
She leaned in closer. The puddle blinked.
That’s when the baby hippo erupted out of it like a hiccupping submarine.
“BRONK!” it bellowed cheerfully, launching Alice skyward with a wave of muddy water.
Alice landed squarely on its back with a splish and a squelch, arms wrapped tightly round the beast’s slippery neck.
“Oh no you don’t!” she shouted as the hippo galloped off down the path, hooves (or possibly toes) flapping in all directions.
It galloped past the Whispering Willows, through the Muddle-March Market (where it trampled a pyramid of pickled pineapples), and straight into the River of Remarkably Rambunctious Currents.
Which, as you might imagine, was not ideal.
Chapter Two: The Nautical Nonsense
Alice, still clinging on for dear life, found herself bobbing along on the baby hippo as it paddled heroically through white-water whirlpools, grinning as though this were all a marvellous lark.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” Alice demanded.
The hippo gave a joyful snort and blew a raspberry with its nostrils. A duck, who had been peacefully napping on a lily pad, was instantly blown halfway to Belgium.
Just then, they were joined by a talking fish in a top hat, who paddled up alongside them on a leaf.
“Excuse me!” the fish called. “Is that a regulation flotation hippo? You’re causing chaos downstream!”
Alice opened her mouth to reply, but a marmalade jar floated past and bonked her on the head.
“Oi!” she shouted at the sky. “We’ve already had jam weather this week!”
Suddenly, the hippo made a sharp turn left—at least, Alice assumed it was left—and dived straight into a waterfall.
They emerged on the other side in a hidden lagoon, completely surrounded by enormous floating teacups.
“I don’t like the look of this,” said Alice.
“I do!” squealed a voice from nowhere. And then—SPLAT!—a crumpet the size of a coffee table landed beside them, narrowly missing the baby hippo’s tail.
“Oh no,” said Alice, recognising the voice. “Not the Scone Goblins again…”
Chapter Three: Crumbs of Danger
The Scone Goblins were small, grumbly, flour-dusted creatures who lived inside abandoned picnic baskets and worshipped a stale croissant named King Flake the Crumbly. They were infamous for hurling baked goods at anyone who trespassed in their floating teacup territory.
As Alice and the baby hippo floated uncertainly between bobbing saucers and soggy spoons, a goblin with a spatula helmet leapt onto a biscuit raft and screamed, “INTRUDERS! ARM THE TOAST CATAPULT!”
From behind a soggy sugar cube fortress, two more goblins appeared, pushing an alarming contraption made entirely of forks, elastic bands, and something that looked suspiciously like a jellybean cannon.
BOINK!
A crumpet flew through the air and slapped the baby hippo squarely on the nose.
It blinked.
It snorted.
It sneezed.
And then, with a magnificent bronking battle cry, it began charging across the floating tea-crockery like a wobbly pudding tank.
Alice clung on, yelling, “STEADY! Watch out for the—”
CLATTER! “—saucer stack!”
The baby hippo skidded left, right, upside-down (briefly), and somehow managed to leap clean over a biscuit barricade and land inside a half-submerged gravy boat.
From the deck of a doughnut dinghy, the goblins shrieked, “THEY’VE REACHED THE GRAVY! SOUND THE GRAVY ALARM!”
A nearby gravy flag burst into flames. Confetti rained from the sky.
Suddenly, from the teacup skyline above them, a robed figure descended on a hover-platter, holding a crook made of cinnamon sticks.
It was none other than…
Chapter Four: The Crustodian of Crumbopolis
“WHO DARES SLOSH IN THE SACRED GRAVY?” boomed the Crustodian, a stern-looking elderly biscuit with a monocle, an icing beard, and a very bad attitude.
“We didn’t mean to slosh!” shouted Alice. “Well—he did,” she added, gesturing to the hippo, who was now attempting to eat the gravy boat.
The Crustodian narrowed his crumbs. “This creature violates Article Forty-Scone of the Tea-Time Treaties. It must face… The Dunking.”
Alice gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“I might,” said the Crustodian. “I’m very daring when I’m annoyed. And I skipped breakfast.”
Just then, a loud twinkle echoed across the lagoon, and a paper parasol floated gently down from above. Attached to it, sipping a cup of thistle-tea and humming a sea shanty, was—
Fle the Elf!
Only now, he was dressed as a biscuit inspector, complete with clipboard, magnifying monocle, and a sash that read:
“Official Crumb Compliance Inspector, Level 73.”
“Sorry I’m late!” he said, floating in for a landing. “Had a jam emergency in Biscuit Borough. Who’s being improperly dunked today?”
The Crustodian paled. “O-oh… Inspector Fle! We weren’t expecting… an audit!”
“Clearly,” said Fle, eyeing the flaming gravy flag. “This place is a health hazard. Jelly splatter, rogue goblins, dunking violations… honestly, it’s a miracle the Queen’s Crumble hasn’t revoked your charter.”
“W-we’ll tidy up immediately!” squeaked a scone-foot soldier, shoving the toast catapult into the gravy and whistling innocently.
Fle turned to Alice and the baby hippo. “Fancy an exit?”
“Yes please,” said Alice, already climbing onto his parasol. “This hippo smells like custard and calamity.”
The hippo honked joyfully and launched itself onto a flying biscuit tray, which promptly took off, spiraling into the sky.
Chapter Five: The Map Beneath the Muffin
As they drifted away from Crumbopolis and toward the Jamish Skies, Fle pulled something from his pocket. It was a muffin. A blueberry one, to be precise.
He peeled back the paper casing. Inside, tucked beneath the first layer of crumbs, was a tiny parchment map.
“This,” he whispered, “is the path to the legendary Lake of Lemonade, where the Moon-Goats dance and the Forbidden Fizz burbles eternally.”
Alice’s eyes sparkled. “Does it also explain why that hippo came out of a puddle and ruined my afternoon?”
“Not exactly,” Fle replied. “But it might explain where he’s going next…”
Chapter Six: The Lemonade Lake and the Moon-Goats’ Waltz
The muffin was eaten within twelve seconds.
Alice managed only one bite before Fle—muttering something about “perishable cartography”—snatched the rest and stuffed it in his mouth.
“But I hadn’t finished decoding the icing inscription!” she cried.
“I hadn’t finished chewing it!” replied Fle, crumbs flying in all directions. “Anyway, it clearly said: ‘Follow the fizz, past the whizz, avoid the whirly jiggly bits, and knock three times upon the citrus stone.’ Easy.”
“Easy?” Alice blinked. “You do realise we’re flying through a sky full of jellyfish-shaped clouds on a hippo-powered biscuit tray?”
“Exactly,” said Fle. “We’re on schedule.”
And sure enough, as the biscuit tray wobbled dangerously over a raspberry ripple rainbow, a lemon-scented mist rose from the horizon, shimmering like golden steam from an overexcited teapot.
They had arrived at the Lake of Lemonade.
It was vast. It bubbled. It smelled like summertime and disobedience. And floating across its surface were boats made entirely of sugar cubes and parasols.
On the shores danced the Moon-Goats—graceful creatures with spiral horns and hooves that clinked like teacups. They pirouetted on lily pads, kicked confetti into the air, and sang songs in haunting harmony:
“We twirl at dusk, we leap at noon,
We dance to summon the Citrus Moon.
But if the Fizz should start to freeze…
Prepare your spoons and bend your knees!”
Alice turned to Fle. “Did that last bit sound like a warning to you?”
Fle nodded grimly. “They only sing that verse when something fizzy is about to go very wrong.”
Just then, a chilling breeze swept across the lemonade. The bubbles froze in mid-pop. The lemon mist turned icy. And then…
Chapter Seven: The Lemonade Warden Rises
From the centre of the lake, the liquid erupted—fizz first—and out rose a towering figure made entirely of chilled citrus slices, sugar cubes, and fury.
It was the Lemonade Warden, guardian of the fizz, wobbly tyrant of all things zesty.
“WHO DARES SIP FROM MY SUGAR SEA?” he thundered.
Alice waved awkwardly. “We didn’t sip! We… sort of arrived by accident. And I only ate part of a muffin.”
The Warden’s lemon-eyes narrowed. “You bear the Map of Muffinhood? That pastry should never have been baked! You must leave, or suffer the fate of the Tangy Whirlpool!”
Behind them, the baby hippo gave a small sneeze and fell headfirst into the lake.
The fizz hissed.
The surface rippled.
And then… it began.
The Whirlpool of Tangy Torment.
The Warden raised his spoon-sceptre. “TO THE SWIRL WITH YOU ALL!”
Chapter Eight: The Spoons of Salvation
Just as Alice was about to suggest running, fleeing, or hiding in a teapot, Fle pulled from his satchel two very large spoons.
“Silver-plated,” he said. “For ceremonial swimming.”
“What?”
“We’re going in!” he cried, diving spoon-first into the swirling lemonade.
Alice followed (after removing her pinafore), and the two of them sliced through the fizz like professional dessert navigators.
Down they swirled—through loops of lime, tunnels of tangerine, and one slightly awkward segment where they accidentally passed through a jellyfish’s birthday party (and were politely asked to leave).
At the very bottom of the whirlpool, nestled in a clump of candied coral, was the baby hippo.
It was licking a glowing stone shaped like a lemon slice.
“The Citrus Stone!” Fle gasped.
“Do we knock?” asked Alice.
“Three times,” said Fle, “and wish for fizz to be free.”
Alice knocked.
One. Two. Three.
The whirlpool stopped. The lake calmed. The Warden—mid-tantrum—froze mid-rant, then burped softly and began to sink back beneath the lake, muttering, “That was rather refreshing, actually…”
Chapter Nine: The Return of the Teacup Armada
The Moon-Goats cheered.
The fizz returned.
The sky turned sherbet yellow.
And from over the hills came the sound of clinking china and distant crumbs—a fleet of flying teacups, crewed by reformed Scone Goblins, sailing in to offer a lift back to wherever the trio liked.
“Where to next?” Fle asked, as they boarded a cinnamon-rimmed saucer.
Alice looked at the hippo, who was now sipping lemonade from a thimble.
She smiled.
“I don’t know. But I’m hoping it involves less gravy and more dancing goats.”
The end.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 