Alice, Christmas and the Jabber-Wobble
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Category Archives: Alice in Wonderland
There was a Dalek in Wonderland
In a quaint little village nestled in the heart of England, there lived a young girl named Alice. One sunny afternoon, while exploring the fields behind her home, she stumbled upon a peculiar, shimmering portal. Intrigued, Alice stepped through, finding herself in a world unlike any she had ever seen.
The sky was a swirl of vibrant, impossible colors, and the trees had leaves of pure gold. As she wandered, Alice encountered the most extraordinary creatures. A White Rabbit, dressed in a tiny waistcoat, scurried past, muttering about being late.
It was then that she saw it – a shiny, bronze creature with a single eye, gliding across the path. It was a Dalek, but not like any Dalek she had ever seen in her storybooks. This one wore a tiny, top hat and held a teacup, a bewildered expression on its metallic face. “Exterminate! Exterminate tea time!” it declared, “I’m late, I’m late for a very important date!”
Alice, never one to be easily frightened, giggled. “Are you lost, Mr. Dalek?” she asked.
The Dalek swiveled its head, its eye focusing on Alice. “Lost? I am not lost! I am merely… disoriented! This ‘Wonderland’ is most illogical!”
Together, Alice and the Dalek embarked on an adventure through Wonderland. They met a Mad Hatter who offered them invisible tea, a Cheshire Cat who spoke in riddles, and a Queen of Hearts who demanded everyone play croquet with flamingos. The Dalek, surprisingly, found itself enjoying the absurdity of it all, even attempting to “exterminate” a particularly stubborn flamingo.
As the sun began to set, casting long, purple shadows across the landscape, Alice knew it was time to return home. She bid farewell to her new friends, promising to visit again soon. The Dalek, for its part, declared that it would “analyze and compute” the wonders of Wonderland, perhaps even incorporating “tea time” into its future plans. And so, Alice returned to her quiet English village, her heart full of memories of a most extraordinary adventure in a very peculiar Wonderland.
If you enjoyed that, click on the link, below, for more madcap Dalek adventures in Wonderland.
Alice on Top of the World – a novel
Alice on Top of the World – a novel
Alice on Top of the World
Alice climbed a ladder of air,
Past rooftops, chimneys, clouds so rare,
She balanced on a silver breeze,
And skipped across the tallest trees.
The mountains bowed, the oceans curled,
For Alice stood on top of the world;
A crown of starlight in her hair,
The moon itself just hanging there.
She asked the sun to play a tune,
She taught the night to hum at noon,
She juggled planets, tossed them wide,
Then hopped upon a comet’s ride.
The White Rabbit clapped from below,
“Careful, Alice, mind where you go!”
But Alice only laughed and twirled,
For she was dancing with the world.
And when at last she looked down deep,
The earth was quiet, fast asleep;
She whispered softly, calm and mild:
“Goodnight, dear world — from your wild child.”
Alice and the Topsy-Turvy Tea Party
Alice was quite tired of the ordinary. She had spent the entire morning in the garden, trying to tell the difference between a dandelion and a daisy, and frankly, the flowers were not being cooperative. She sighed, leaning against an ancient, gnarled oak tree, and closed her eyes. It was then she heard a most peculiar sound: the gentle clinking of porcelain teacups.
Her eyes snapped open. The sound wasn’t coming from the ground, or the hedge maze, but from a small, ornate teapot dangling from a branch just above her head. It swung gently, its painted flowers winking in the dappled sunlight. As she stared, a wisp of steam curled from its spout, spelling out a single word: “Tea?”
“How curious,” Alice said to herself. She reached up and, with a slight tug, the entire teapot detached itself from the branch and settled softly into her hand. As she held it, the teapot began to grow, and grow, until it was taller than she was, with a small, circular door where the base had been. A tiny sign on the door read, “Do Not Enter, Unless You’re Quite Lost.”
Lost was exactly what Alice felt like, so she pushed open the door and stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of Earl Grey and crumpets. She found herself in a room where everything was upside down. Teacups floated on the ceiling, dripping tea onto the floor. Saucers spun like tops on the table, and a small, round cake was singing a cheerful, off-key tune.
Seated at the table, perched on a sugar cube, was a dormouse wearing a thimble for a hat. “You’re late,” it squeaked without looking up.
“Late for what?” Alice asked, her head tilted to the side to see the teacups better.
“The Topsy-Turvy Tea Party, of course!” the Dormouse replied. “We only have them on Tuesdays, and today is Thursday, so we’re celebrating Tuesday. It’s quite logical if you don’t think about it.”
Suddenly, a flurry of feathers landed on the table, and a robin with a top hat on its head began to lecture a floating teacup. “The proper way to pour tea,” it chirped, “is with an inverted teapot! It saves on spillage, you see, which is quite important when you’re upside down.”
The singing cake, which was now doing a jig on the table, chimed in, “And the proper way to eat a crumpet is from the inside out!”
Alice giggled. “That sounds rather messy.”
“Messy is a matter of perspective,” the robin said, tipping its hat. “A spill is just an unplanned design.”
Alice decided to join the fun. She carefully picked up a teacup that was dancing on the floor, poured a bit of tea from a floating pot, and sipped it. It tasted of starlight and jam. She didn’t stay too long, however, as the thought of eating a crumpet inside-out was still a bit too strange for her. She bid the Dormouse and the robin a fond farewell, stepping back out of the teapot and into the quiet garden.
The teapot was once again a small, ornate thing dangling from the oak tree. The flowers were still just flowers, and the world was back to its normal, uncooperative self. But as Alice walked home, she couldn’t help but smile. She knew now that even on the most ordinary of days, a bit of topsy-turvy adventure might be just around the corner.
The Pickled Newt Incident
“The Pickled Newt Incident”
(As told in hushed tones by woodland creatures and highly suspicious teapots.)
In a village called Splotz, near the Crackling Cliffs’ root,
Lived an elf known as Fle—
And a jar marked “Newt.”
It sat on a shelf marked “Do Not Unseal!”
Right under the sign that read “Definitely Real.”
It bubbled, it gurgled, it muttered in rhyme,
And occasionally leaked a peculiar green slime.
“Now don’t touch the jar,” said old Fle with a wink.
“It once tried to marry a badger, I think.”
But Alice, quite curious (and rightly so),
Said, “Why keep a pickled newt sealed long ago?”
Fle sighed, then he paced, then he sat on a drum.
(He sits anywhere when his knees go numb.)
And thus he began, with a wiggle and groan,
To tell of the night he’d once meddled… alone.
“I was younger then—only two hundred and ten,
With a broom, a balloon, and a borrowed goose pen.
I’d just brewed a soup made of socks and some glue,
When a newt in a cravat said, ‘Good evening to you.’He asked for a snack, so I offered some cheese—
But he sneezed on my cat and dissolved half the trees.
Then he danced on my roof, ate my weather forecast,
And declared he would marry my gramophone… fast.So I pickled him, neatly, in vinegar brine,
With mustard, three cloves, and a touch of moonshine.
For ninety-nine years he’s been floating in stew,
Occasionally shouting, ‘I do, I do, I doooo!’And that, dear Alice, is why—if you please—
One must never serve cheese to amphibians with knees.”Alice blinked twice, then looked toward the shelf.
And slowly edged farther away from the elf.
“Is he dangerous?” she whispered, aghast.Fle shrugged.
“Only if he gets out of the jar made of glass.”Just then, the jar rattled, and a soft burp was heard—
Followed closely by a very rude word.
Fle sprang to his feet (as far as he could),
And stuffed the jar under a cloak made of wood.“No more questions,” he said, “about pickling fate.
Let’s talk about teapots. Or how I once flew a plate.”
Alice and Fle went fishing one day…
“Fle and the Fishing Fiasco”
On a mossy green bank where the daffodils grow,
Sat Alice and Fle with their toes all aglow.
Their lines dipped down in a wiggly stream,
In pursuit of a trout or a daydreamy dream.
Old Fle had a beard that was longer than sense,
He used it to dry off the fish from the fence.
(Yes, there was a fence, in the river somehow—
A trout swam through and said, “Do mind the cow.”)
“Now patience,” said Fle, “is the fisher’s true friend—”
Then his hook snatched his hat and flung it round the bend.
Alice just giggled and pointed with glee,
As a soggy old boot clung fast to poor Fle.
“Have you caught anything?” Alice asked with delight.
“Just a cold,” muttered Fle, “and a ticklish bite.”
He reeled in a sock, then a spoon, then a snail,
Then a rather surprised and still-reading quail.
“Perhaps,” said young Alice, “we should try further down?”
But Fle shook his head and adjusted his frown.
“I once caught a mermaid right here in this brook—
Though she tricked me and swapped all my coins for a book.”
Then something enormous gave both lines a tug!
A fish? A frog? A submerged garden rug?
The rods flew high in a loop-de-loop arc—
And landed them both in the mud with a SPARK!
Covered in slime and some algae and twigs,
Alice declared, “That’s enough chasing pigs!”
But Fle just grinned, with a glint in his eye,
“Fishing,” he said, “isn’t really to try.”
“It’s for thinking, and sitting, and listening to bees,
And falling in rivers and scraping your knees.
And if you’re quite lucky, you might catch a trout—
But mostly you’re lucky just getting back out!”
Alice in Ballykillduff
You don’t have to be mad to visit here, but it helps
You don’t have to be mad to visit here, but it helps
**************************************
Alice in Ballykillduff
Alice fell through a hole in a very odd hedge,
Tumbled past turnips, a cow, and a ledge,
She landed with grace (well, almost—a thud)
In Ballykillduff, face-first in the mud.
She stood and she blinked at the curious crowd—
A goat played the trumpet unusually loud.
A pig sold balloons shaped like clouds and like cheese,
And someone was painting a portrait of peas.
“Where am I?” asked Alice. A sheep in a hat
Replied, “In the village of Ballykillduff! That’s that!”
“We’re preparing,” it said, “for the Sheep Racing Fair,
Where ewes take to flight through the midsummer air!”
She wandered through stalls where the jelly was wobbly,
The fudge slightly rude, and the sandwiches snobbly.
A tractor called Muriel whistled and said,
“Hop on for a tour! Don’t step on my tread.”
She met Grandmother McSnoop who could juggle live frogs,
And a choir of hens that sang sea shanty songs.
Two monks brewed a soda that made her see stars,
And a badger confessed he’d once stolen some jars.
At noon came the races—explosions of wool!
Jetpacks on sheep made the sky rather full.
They looped and they zoomed in a blizzard of fluff,
As Alice cried out, “This is quite mad enough!”
But just as she thought things could not get more strange,
The moon sprouted legs and danced down the lane.
The mayor declared, “That’s our satellite samba!”
And offered her tea served in hats made of llama.
At sunset, the hills all began to recite
Limericks backwards while glowing with light.
The cows held a disco, the ducks held a vote,
And a hedgehog proposed—in a velvet-lined coat.
“Dear Ballykillduff,” Alice whispered with glee,
“You’re wonderfully odd and quite perfect for me.”
Then the beetroot returned and it opened a crack—
“Time to go home, if you want to go back…”
She waved her goodbyes to the sheep and the crowd,
To the tractor, the frogs, and the goose dressed in shroud.
And she whispered as Ballykillduff slipped from view,
“That was stranger than Wonderland—and the scones were quite new.”
Alice Logs In
Alice Logs In
One sunny day in Wonderland,
While sipping tea and chewing sand,
Young Alice yawned and had a thought:
“Why are we all so pre-internet caught?”
She pulled an iPhone from her sock,
(It ticked and tocked like a talking clock),
She poked the screen and gave a grin—
“Let’s see what world I’ve wandered in!”
The Caterpillar popped online:
“Who R U? U up? U fine?”
The Cheshire Cat just posted memes,
And vanished mid-conspiracy themes.
The Hatter live-streamed tea debates,
With Bonkers takes on interest rates.
The Queen of Hearts launched NFTs:
“Buy now! Each comes with severed knees!”
Alice sighed. “This can’t be right—
We’ve meme’d away the day and night.
No riddles, rhymes, no flights of fancy—
Just trolls and ads and apps called ‘Dancy.’”
She tried to post: “I miss the trees.”
But all she got were angry bees—
Replies that buzzed: “You’re cringe! You’re fake!”
“Return to hole! Go eat a cake!”
She shut the phone and dropped it fast,
Deciding screen life couldn’t last.
She skipped away through mushroom mist,
Her Twitter never once was missed.
So if you find your world askew,
Try Wonderland, not Webpage 2.
You won’t need likes or streams or fame—
Just talking cats who know your name.
Alice and the Baby Hippo (A whimsical poem in rhyme)
Alice and the Baby Hippo
(A whimsical poem in rhyme)
One dainty day beneath the sun,
Young Alice thought, “This could be fun!”
She saw a hippo, small and round,
Just waddling gently on the ground.
Its skin was grey, its tail went flip,
It wriggled with a wobbly skip.
Its ears were tiny, pink and proud—
It snorted once and drew a crowd.
“A mount!” cried Alice. “Oh, how grand!
I’ll ride across this soggy land!
No horse or donkey, goat or yak—
I’ve found a hippo for my back!”
She climbed atop its chubby rear,
The hippo blinked, then twitched an ear.
It gave a squeal, then took a dash—
And Alice flew off with a splash!
She landed in a muddy bog,
Just shy of hitting a startled frog.
Her hair was filled with weeds and goo—
Her sock was gone, her shoe was too.
The hippo, shocked by all the fuss,
Just blinked and snorted, “Don’t blame us!
We’re not for riding, no, not yet—
We’re more like mobile lumps of wet.”
Alice laughed, then bowed with grace,
Mud dripping gently down her face.
“Well thank you, friend,” she said, and grinned,
“As far as rides go—you were…wind!”
And off she skipped with squelchy feet,
Through meadows green and puddles sweet.
Behind, the hippo gave a sigh,
Then belly-flopped with glee nearby.
So if you spy a hippo small,
Be sure you ask, before you fall.
For though they’re cute and seem just right—
They’re not the steed for your next flight!
The Mad Hatter Story
The town square bustled with the usual midday activities. Vendors called out, children played, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air. It was a typical day in a place where the clocks had long ago forgotten to tick. Above the cobblestone streets, the sky remained a constant gray, as if painted on by an unenthusiastic artist who had abandoned their canvas.
In a quiet corner of the square, an old woman sat on a rickety chair. She had a table before her, laden with various odds and ends: a few dusty books, a jar of buttons that hadn’t seen use in decades, and a single, sad-looking hat. Her eyes squinted behind thick spectacles as she meticulously sewed a patch onto the hat’s tattered brim.
“Look at this,” she murmured to herself, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves. “Once it was a thing of beauty, and now…” Her words trailed off as she sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping.
Suddenly, the square grew eerily still. A shadow fell over the old woman, and she looked up to see a tall, lanky figure standing before her. His face was a ghastly pallor, and his eyes burned with a fiery madness that seemed to illuminate the dullness around them. He wore a wide-brimmed hat at a jaunty angle, adorned with a single red rose. The townsfolk had learned to fear this man, for his laughter was said to echo through their nightmares.
“Madam,” he spoke, his voice a chilling caress. “Your work is quite… intriguing.”
The woman peered up at him, curiosity piqued by the interruption. “What do you want?” she asked bluntly, not bothering to hide her suspicion.
He leaned closer, a twisted smile spreading across his face. “I’ve been searching for a hat, you see,” he began, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to carry on the wind. “One that speaks to me, calls to me, whispers secrets of wonderlands long forgotten…”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned back, eyeing him warily. “What makes you think I’d sell to the likes of you?”
The Mad Hatter’s grin grew wider, revealing teeth that looked more like the sharpened edges of a butterfly knife than anything natural. “Ah,” he said, “but I’m not just anyone, am I? I am the keeper of the hats, the teller of tales that make the very fabric of reality tremble. And I have need of one such as this.”
The woman studied the hat in her hands, her thoughts racing. It was just a simple, worn-out piece of headwear, yet the way he talked about it made it seem as if it held the power to change the course of the world.
“What’s so special about this hat?” she demanded, holding it up protectively.
The Mad Hatter leaned even closer, his breath a cold draft on her cheek. “This hat,” he whispered, “once belonged to a very important person. It’s seen things, felt things, that no ordinary hat could ever dream of. It’s a gateway to a realm of madness and beauty, where the only rule is that there are no rules at all.”
Her heart pounded in her chest. What could this madman possibly want with such a mundane object? And what secrets did it truly hold?
The Mad Hatter’s eyes gleamed as he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small velvet pouch. He placed it gently on the table, the clink of coins resonating through the unnerving silence that had enveloped the square.
“For your troubles,” he said, his smile never wavering. “But if you wish for something more… unique, I could offer you a glimpse into the looking glass.”
The old woman’s curiosity got the better of her. She had heard whispers of the Mad Hatter’s magic, of his ability to show one’s deepest desires or darkest fears. She hesitated, her trembling hand hovering over the pouch.
With a sudden jerk, she snatched it up and held it tightly. “I’ll take the coins,” she said, her voice a mix of defiance and fear.
The Mad Hatter’s smile grew colder. “Very well,” he said, his tone dripping with disappointment. “But know this: the price for what you seek is steeper than gold.”
He snatched the hat from her grasp, his eyes locked onto hers. “The looking glass,” he whispered, “it shows you what you truly are.”
The old woman felt a chill run down her spine as he placed the hat on his head, the rose seeming to pulse with a dark energy. He tipped it to her, bowing dramatically.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice now a cacophony of whispers. “I shall wear this to the next tea party. And perhaps, when the time is right, I shall invite you to join us. It’s always so much more fun with guests who know the truth of their own hearts.”
The Mad Hatter turned and strode away, his laughter echoing through the square, sending shivers down the spines of all who heard it. The townsfolk slowly resumed their activities, but the air remained thick with unease.
The old woman was left with her coins and her thoughts. What had she just done? And what was the true cost of her curiosity? She watched the Mad Hatter’s retreating figure, his shadow stretching out before him like a living, malevolent entity.
The hat sat on her table, seemingly innocuous, yet it seemed to pulsate with the same madness that filled the man who had just claimed it. She had a feeling that this was not the last she would see of the Mad Hatter or the secrets that lay hidden within his world.
The square gradually regained its normal rhythm, but the old woman found it difficult to shake the feeling of foreboding that had settled upon her. As she packed up her wares, she couldn’t help but glance back at the spot where he had stood, the memory of his burning eyes haunting her.
The gray sky above remained unchanged, a silent witness to the transaction that had just occurred. But somewhere, deep within the fabric of the town’s reality, something had shifted, and she knew that she had set in motion a chain of events that would forever alter her destiny.
The old woman’s name was Alice, and she had been the town’s seamstress for longer than she cared to remember. Her hands had stitched the fabric of a hundred lives, patching up the threads that time had worn thin. Yet she had always felt a pull towards something more, something beyond the dull routine that had come to define her existence.
As she counted the coins, a strange sensation grew inside her, a feeling that was equal parts exhilaration and dread. The Mad Hatter had offered her a glimpse into the looking glass, a chance to see beyond the veil of her mundane life. And for a brief, mad moment, she had been tempted to take it. But she had chosen the coins instead, the familiar comfort of security over the terrifying allure of the unknown.
Or so she told herself.
The days that followed were filled with whispers and half-seen movements from the corner of her eye. The townsfolk spoke in hushed tones about the Mad Hatter’s visit, their fear and fascination growing with each retelling of the tale. Alice tried to ignore them, to bury herself in her work, but the hat remained a constant reminder of what might have been.
One evening, as the light was fading into the ever-present gray, she found herself standing before the looking glass in her small cottage. Her reflection stared back at her, a mirror to the doubt and curiosity that gnawed at her soul. The Mad Hatter’s words echoed in her mind, and she felt a sudden, irresistible urge to know more.
With trembling hands, Alice reached out and touched the cold, unyielding glass. It rippled under her fingertips, and she watched as the room around her began to distort and twist, swirling away like paint in a storm. The reflection grew darker, the edges sharper, and she realized with a start that she was falling into it.
The world beyond the looking glass was not the Wonderland of her childhood stories but a place of shadows and whispers. The Mad Hatter was there, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight as he watched her descent. He held out a hand, beckoning her closer to the table set for an eternal tea party. The guests were a motley crew of nightmares made flesh, all wearing hats that reflected their own twisted realities.
“Welcome, Alice,” the Mad Hatter said, his voice a symphony of madness. “You’ve made quite the bargain today, and now it’s time to pay the piper.”
Her heart racing, Alice realized the true price of her curiosity. She had not just sold a hat; she had bartered a piece of her soul. And now, she would never truly leave the Mad Hatter’s world behind.
the mad hatter.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 