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Alice on Top of the World

29 Jul
Alice on Top of the World

Chapter One
Into the Abyss

It was many years later when Alice found herself on another adventure—though, to her surprise, she was once again a child, no older than when she first tumbled into Wonderland and slipped through that curious Looking Glass.

“How curious,” she whispered, trying to recall the girl she had once been.

Suddenly, the White Rabbit appeared before her, looking impatient. “Took your time getting here,” he quipped.

“I beg your pardon?” Alice replied, recalling how rude he could be—particularly when he felt so inclined.

“I said you took your time. You should have been here fourteen years ago,” he huffed indignantly, hopping briskly away.

“But,” Alice stuttered, running after him, “I have no idea how I arrived, let alone why I’m so late!”

“We accept no ifs or buts here—by now, you should know that,” the Rabbit said, as a door suddenly materialized beside him. Without hesitation, he pushed it open. “Hurry up—please don’t dawdle.”

Alice hurried through the doorway, struggling to keep pace with the rapid-hopping Rabbit. She wondered if he’d got out of bed on the wrong side that morning, for he seemed quite grumpy on such a lovely day. The sun shone brightly, warming everything around them.

“I wonder where I might be,” she mused, admiring the pink forget-me-nots that lined a winding path before her. “Am I in Wonderland?” she asked, just as another door—similar to the first—appeared.

The Rabbit gave her a peculiar look. “Of course we’re not in Wonderland,” he said, opening the door with a flourish. “We’re on top of the world.” Then, with a wink, he scurried down another winding path, bordered by more pink forget-me-nots.

“The top of the world?” Alice gasped, surprised. “That’s impossible!”

The Rabbit stopped and turned to face her. “Then how can you be here if it’s impossible?”

Alice hesitated, flummoxed by his question. The only reply she managed was, “I bet you’re mad!”

“Mad? Oh, that all depends,” the Rabbit said, with a sly grin. “Depends on whether you mean mad or mad.”

“That’s silly,” Alice insisted. “They both mean the same thing.”

“Not quite,” replied the Rabbit, his eyes gleaming. “If you’re mad number one—and someone calls you mad number two—you might just be very mad indeed about such a fundamental mistake.”

“I’m not mad!” Alice declared, stamping her foot in frustration. She changed the subject, noticing another door had appeared. “Look—another door. Shall I try opening it?”

The White Rabbit reached for the handle, but the door stubbornly refused to budge.

“May I try?” Alice asked, feeling quite un-mad.

Standing back, the Rabbit said nothing. Instead, his tiny, beady eyes watched her intently.

Alice grasped the handle and pushed. The door swung open easily, revealing a dark, yawning hole. She stepped through without hesitation and tumbled into a vast, gaping abyss.

“No, I don’t want to go back up there—no matter how tempting the top of the world might be,” she muttered, staring at the tiny speck of light far above her. “It’s much too far!”

Before she could grasp what was happening, something passed her by in the darkness—she couldn’t see what, only hear its rushing sound. Clinging tightly, she rode it out of the well.

Surprisingly, she found herself on the back of a baby hippopotamus, its skin as smooth as silk. She wondered how she’d managed to stay on long enough to escape that shadowy place. But before she could think further, she slipped and slid off the hippopotamus, landing heavily on the dusty ground.

“I don’t like this place,” she moaned. “I don’t like it at all.”

“You don’t like it?” squawked the baby hippopotamus, its voice high-pitched and surprisingly cheerful for such a hefty creature. “How do you think I feel? There’s not a drop of water in sight—none! And we hippos need water—lots of it!”

Alice brushed dust off her dress and nodded politely. “Mr. Hippopotamus, thank you for the ride—truly the most comfortable hippopotamus ride I’ve ever had.” (Though she omitted to mention she’d never actually ridden one before.) “Thank you again.”

“My dear child,” he replied, “you’re so light I hardly felt you at all. Feel free to jump on my back anytime I pass by, if you need another ride out of that dark place.”

“Thank you,” Alice said with a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind—and treasure your kind offer.”

With that, the hippopotamus sank back into the darkness, searching for water. But before he could begin, another soft landing echoed nearby—though it was nowhere near as gentle as Alice’s.

Before she could say “Jack Robinson,” the White Rabbit reappeared—this time riding backwards on the baby hippopotamus’s back, heading toward the bright light ahead.

He scolded Alice for falling down the hole, then paused. “If there’s going to be any hole-falling around here, we’ll need a vote—decide who’s first and who’s second,” he declared. Alice nodded, though she suspected he might be quite mad—or maybe both.

Suddenly, a new winding path appeared before them. But this one was different—less inviting. Instead of pink forget-me-nots, enormous, green aspidistras with snapping beaks awaited, their mouths wide and hungry.

“Come on, Alice,” urged the Rabbit, rushing past the threatening plants. “We need to get to the top of the world!”

Alice gasped as the first aspidistra snatched at his thick fur, tearing a large wad from his back. “We must return to the top of the world,” he insisted, seemingly unbothered by the danger.

Not wanting to admit she was a little frightened of the strange, snapping plants—and not eager to ask for help—Alice prepared to step down that perilous path.

But the Rabbit was already far ahead. Alice hesitated, closing her eyes and taking a tentative step. She hoped—just hoped—to catch up with him before the plants could reach her.

No sooner had she begun than one of the beaks lunged for her left ear, another yanked her hair, and a third tried to nip her nose.

“Stop that!” Alice shouted. “Stop it this instant, or I’ll dig you all up and replant you with rhubarb!”

The beaks froze midattack, and Alice inspected her head. Everything was intact. She heaved a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” she said. “I can’t imagine what’s gotten into you—plants aren’t supposed to be terrible, awful things.”

As she gazed at the towering, beak-mouthed plants, she thought she heard a faint cry. “Who’s crying?” she asked.

Despite listening carefully, she heard no reply—only the swaying of the plants’ stalks. Then they began to shake, their beak mouths moving high above her.

“Stop that,” Alice commanded. “Tell me—who’s crying?”

One of the plants, swaying more than the others, began to speak. “She’s crying,” it said softly, “the little offshoot near my wife—see?” A long, leafy arm pointed across to the right.

“Your wife?” Alice asked in surprise. “Plants can get married?”

“Yes,” the plant replied, swaying gently. “Can you see them?”

“I might, if you’d stop swaying,” Alice said, feeling a little dizzy. “You’re making me feel sick.”

“I can’t help it,” the plant admitted. “When we’re upset, we sway. It’s our way of expressing how we feel—like when the wind blows through us, and we don’t like it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Alice said kindly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You could promise not to dig us up,” the plant whispered, voice trembling.

“Of course I won’t,” Alice promised, “not after how rudely I was treated. I only said that because I was frightened.”

The plants stopped swaying, allowing Alice to see the tiny aspidistra nestled under its mother’s broad leaves. Without fear, she moved closer, reaching out to the little one.

“I’m truly sorry,” she said softly. “If I upset you, please forgive me.”

“Yes,” the baby plant replied, trying not to sob. “And we’re sorry for frightening you. We’re just so hungry… normally we’re happy, with smiling beaks to greet travelers.”

Confused, Alice asked, “Hungry? How can you be hungry when your roots find all the food you need?”

“Fertilizer,” the mother explained. “All plants need it at some point. But none of us have had any for ages. I’ve never even seen it!”

“This is terrible,” Alice muttered, scratching her head. “I’ll find you some—enough to feed you all.”

The beaks seemed to smile—if they could—and began chattering excitedly about the fertilizer mine. Alice listened as they described a place she’d never seen, where the precious stuff was stored.

“Where is this mine?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” the mother admitted. “We don’t know exactly. But we believe it exists.”

Determined to help, Alice promised, “I’ll find you fertilizer. I’ll make sure you have enough to grow strong and happy.”

CONTD

a new alice in wonderland story

 
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Posted by on July 29, 2025 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, alice in wonderland adventure, alice in wonderland christmas, eBook download, ebooks, free, free ebooks

 

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Bolf was sick…

02 Jul
Bolf was sick…

Troll Bolf lay heavy upon his stone slab bed, a slab he had hewn from the mountainside himself in a single afternoon. Now, the effort to simply roll over made his cavernous chest ache and his rocky limbs feel as brittle as dried twigs. His strength, once the pride of the Whispering Peaks, was a grim, forgotten tale. A dreadful misfortune had shadowed his cave, and the great, simple troll was utterly baffled.

He wasn’t wounded. No knight had been foolish enough to challenge him in a decade. He hadn’t wrestled a rockslide or angered a river spirit. Yet, a weakness he’d never known had seeped into his very bones. The healer-moss he chewed on tasted like dust, and the cool cavern air felt thick and suffocating.

A colossal sneeze, a true earth-shaker, ripped through him. It sent pebbles skittering across the floor and disturbed the ancient dust motes dancing in the single shaft of light from his cave’s entrance. With a shuddering gasp, Bolf grabbed a burdock leaf the size of a shield and blew his nose. The sound was like a mournful foghorn. He wiped his tired, bloodshot eyes with the back of a hand that could once pulverize granite, a hand that now trembled with a quiet, sad clasp.

The diagnosis, whispered by a wise old badger who dabbled in forest ailments, was as perplexing as it was dire. Bird flu.

Bird flu! Bolf had grumbled, his voice a low rumble. Bolf has no wings. Bolf does not soar. Bolf keeps his feet on the good, solid ground.

But the badger had just twitched his whiskers knowingly and scurried away, leaving Bolf to his misery and the looming mystery. How could it be?

In the feverish haze, as shadows of sickness flickered and danced on the damp stone walls, his thoughts drifted back. Back a week, to the great storm that had lashed the mountains. He had been checking his snares when he heard it—a pathetic, high-pitched peeping from the base of a giant pine. There, half-drowned and trembling in a puddle, was a tiny fledgling, a scrap of brown feather and fear, fallen from its nest.

Ordinarily, Bolf might have ignored it. Trolls were not known for their tenderness. But something in the creature’s desperate fight for life stirred a forgotten softness in his stony heart. With a gentleness that defied his immense size, he had scooped the little bird into his palm. It was so light, it felt like nothing at all. He had taken it back to his cave, tucking it into an old, moss-lined helmet near the warmth of his fire pit.

For three days, he had been its clumsy, devoted guardian. He mashed wild berries with his thumb for it to eat and let it sip water from the cup of his hand. He remembered the little bird shivering, letting out tiny, wet sneezes that misted his calloused skin. He had watched, filled with a strange, gruff pride, as its strength returned. One morning, it had hopped onto his finger, chirped a song that was surprisingly loud for its size, and then, with a brave flutter, had flown out of the cave and into the morning sun.

Bolf’s foggy mind cleared for a moment with a jolt of horrid understanding. The fledgling. The sneezes. The sickness hadn’t come from the sky; it had come from an act of kindness.

A wave of despair washed over him, colder than any mountain stream. His good deed had brought this peril upon him. As his hopes flickered dim, he felt a tear, hot and gritty, trace a path through the grime on his cheek. He refused to yield, but the fight felt impossibly lonely.

Just then, a faint sound reached his ears. Chirp-chirp-tweet!

A tiny shadow darted through the sunbeam at the cave’s entrance. It was the fledgling, no longer a shivering scrap but a confident young robin. It landed without fear on the edge of Bolf’s stone bed. In its beak, it held a single, deep purple elderberry, glistening and perfect.

The bird hopped closer, nudging the berry against Bolf’s rough chin. It looked at him with its bright, black eyes, a look of pure, uncomplicated trust. It was a gift. A thank you. A reminder of the life he had saved.

In that small gesture, something shifted inside the mighty troll. The courage and love that had prompted him to save the bird were now being returned to him. He was not alone in his fight. Though peril threatened, the spirit of that small act of kindness refused to be concealed.

With a monumental effort, Bolf pushed himself up on one elbow. He opened his mouth, and the robin gently dropped the berry inside. It was just one berry, not nearly enough to cure him, but it tasted of hope. It was a promise.

So heal, brave Troll Bolf. Rise from despair. Watched over by his tiny, winged friend, he would drink the water and chew the moss, letting health and joy chase away the dark glare. For he had learned a profound truth in his sickness: even for a great troll of stone and earth, the spirit may soar, and brighter tomorrows, filled with the most unlikely of friendships, were waiting to restore.

The single berry was a spark in the vast, cold emptiness of his sickness. It was not a cure, but it was a reason. The robin, having delivered its precious cargo, fluffed its chest feathers and let out a trill of encouraging chirps before darting back out of the cave. Bolf watched it go, a tiny brown dart against the brilliant blue sky. He lay back on the slab, the singular sweetness of the elderberry still on his tongue, a taste so profoundly different from the dusty moss and stale air that had been his world.

A new thought, slow and heavy as a glacier, began to move through his mind. Kindness brought the sickness. Kindness can bring the cure.

The little robin, who Bolf decided to call Pip, seemed to have the very same thought. Pip did not abandon his giant friend. He became a tiny, feathered general marshalling an army of the woods. The story of the sick troll and the grateful bird spread on the forest wind, whispered from branch to branch, chittered from den to den. At first, the other creatures were hesitant. Bolf was a force of nature, a landmark to be avoided. His sickness was his own affair.

But Pip was persistent. He chirped the story to the squirrels, who remembered Bolf once dislodging a whole branch of ripe acorns for them during a lean autumn, an act they’d mistaken for clumsy destruction. He sang it to the deer, who recalled the troll diverting a rockslide that would have destroyed their favourite grazing meadow. He even found the wise old badger again, not to scold him, but to show him the single elderberry stalk, a symbol of a debt being repaid.

The badger, shamed by the tiny bird’s courage, was the first to act. He knew of a hidden grove on the sun-drenched southern slope where elderberries grew thick and heavy. He organised the squirrels, their nimble paws perfect for harvesting. Soon, a procession began. A constant stream of small creatures, brave in their shared purpose, scurried to the mouth of Bolf’s cave. They brought elderberries, dropping them one by one into the same moss-lined helmet that had once cradled Pip. They brought tangy sorrel leaves to soothe his throat and fat, juicy grubs, which Bolf politely declined but appreciated the gesture.

Bolf watched the proceedings in a feverish daze. A family of field mice dragged a single, glistening drop of morning dew on a broad leaf, a minuscule offering that required their entire family’s strength. He saw them, and something inside his rocky chest, something harder than bone, began to soften. He had lived his long life in solitude, priding himself on his independence. He had seen the forest animals as incidental, background noise to his immense existence. Now, they were his lifeline.

Pip was his constant companion, perching on the craggy landscape of Bolf’s brow, cleaning his beak on a stony earlobe. He would chirp updates from the forest and peck gently at Bolf’s lips to remind him to drink from the pool of water gathering in a hollow of his stone bed, a pool slowly being filled by the leaf-cup brigade.

With each berry consumed, with each sip of water, Bolf felt the fever loosen its grip. The aches in his cavernous chest became less pronounced. The weakness in his limbs was replaced by a slow, returning tide of power. One morning, he sat up without the world spinning. He took a deep breath, and for the first time in weeks, the air tasted clean and sweet.

He looked at the helmet, now overflowing with berries, roots, and leaves—a tribute from a world he had never truly known. He looked at Pip, who was preening on his shoulder, a loyal speck of life.

His strength returned, but it was different now. It was not the lonely, brute force of a mountain but the deep, rooted strength of a forest, interconnected and alive. When he finally stood and walked to the mouth of his cave, the sunlight no longer felt like an intrusion but a welcome. The forest did not fall silent as he emerged. Instead, a chorus of chirps, chitters, and rustles seemed to greet him, a quiet acknowledgement of their shared victory.

Bolf, the great troll of the Whispering Peaks, was no longer just a fearsome resident. He was a neighbour. And he had learned that true strength wasn’t just in hewing stone from a mountainside; it was in the gentle scoop of a hand, the offering of a single berry, and the quiet, unshakeable loyalty of the very smallest of friends.

 
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Posted by on July 2, 2025 in children's stories, free, free ebooks

 

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He caught bird flu though he don’t even fly…

02 Jul
He caught bird flu though he don’t even fly…

Troll Bolf lies heavy, feeling so frail,
His strength now wanes, a silent, grim tale.
A dreadful misfortune has darkened his day,
And mystery looms—what could it be, pray?

He caught bird flu, though no wings to soar,
A puzzling illness he’s never known before.
He blows his nose with a shuddering gasp,
Wipes his tired eyes in a quiet, sad clasp.

In shadows of sickness, hopes flicker dim,
Yet strength resides deep within his grim,
Though peril may threaten, he refuses to yield,
For courage and love refuse to be concealed.

So heal, brave Troll Bolf, rise from despair,
Let health and joy chase away the dark glare—
For even in sickness, the spirit may soar,
And brighter tomorrows await to restore.

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Ireland is calling…

 
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Posted by on July 2, 2025 in children's stories, free, free ebooks, humor, humour, poems, Stories for children

 

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Free eBooks for EVERYONE – it’s true!

30 Jun

Free eBooks for everyone, for sure, at… free eBooks for everyone

an american man enjoying himself in ireland

 

 
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Posted by on June 30, 2025 in ebooks, free, free ebooks

 

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The Crazymad Writer Writes Again

27 Jun
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again

The Crazymad Writer Writes Again. Yes. it is true, I am writing again, in a mad frenzy to tell you all that I know.

 
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Posted by on June 27, 2025 in crazy, crazymad writer, eBook download, ebooks, free, free ebooks

 

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My FREE eBooks shop online

26 Jun
My FREE eBooks shop online

Click on the link and download as many free books as you want. Enjoy.

https://payhip.com/ebooksforchildren

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Posted by on June 26, 2025 in free, free ebooks

 

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32nd December.

02 Feb

32nd December.

If you liked Harry Potter you will love this story
As I sat uneasily atop my hound-horse, a large and fast animal as much greyhound as horse, I slipped my left hand into my jacket pocket and felt the cold steel of my trusty old lighter. Grasping tightly securing it in my sweating palm I carefully removed it from my suit pocket exposing the shiny metal to the bright rays of sunlight. My eyes, looking down onto my now open hand, squinted as the reflected rays tore away in several distinct directions, and my fingers clutched its familiar presence ever tighter. It was only a common and ever so ordinary cigarette lighter, but I felt an affinity with it; like that of an old friend. I ran my fingers along it, like petting an dog, then suddenly an almighty crack of thunder exploding directly overhead, in a tempestuous fury, brought my attention back to the task in hand the outcome of which promised life or death to each and everyone of us. So, without further ado, I cleared my mind and began speaking. I began reciting words, words which had only seconds earlier entered my tired brain, I said…”

“I hold this item in this my hand
To act as a bridge in these our plans
We need a distraction, a disturbance right now
To help Kakuri and the HU BA HOU.”

“No sooner had I finished speaking, and the last word left my lips, the sky began to darken. The dark clouds, appearing from nowhere, grew larger and larger and blacker and blacker until they had joined together in one congealed mass of undiluted anger. In a few short minutes the sky had changed from a deep summer blue to a black so dark day had turned into night.
Some of the assembled hound-horses sidestepped nervously, their handlers struggling to calm them. The wind began to blow, soft at first, but increasingly stronger. Then the heavens, opening in a deluge of rain, spewed thunder and lightning the likes of which I had never before seen; a storm, a full-blown storm was upon us.”
“And a storm was exactly what Kakuri needed. Through the driving rain, speaking directly to the HU BA HOU, she said, ‘Now my friend, it’s up to you – do your best.’ And with those words still lingering in its cavernous ears the huge animal took off at full-gallop heading straight for the Timeless Gates guarding the walled city of Onisha. The animal, sensing this was the final offensive, kept its large heavyset and armour-plated head well down. The storm now so intense Kakuri had, after only a few seconds, lost all sense of direction. She had no way of knowing if she was still on course, all she could do was trust the HU BA HOU, and hold on for dear life.”
“As if that were not enough for me to be worried about Kiliki had, meanwhile, given the order to the impatient, assembled Onishians to attack. And who could blame their impatience? It was their land, and they wanted revenge! The entire rag-tag collection of Onishians and their assorted animals plus the Orlu (a separate race of small ever obliging speedy people) were now hot on Kakuri’s heels with no intention of being left behind in the middle of nowhere, and in such a terrible storm. Soaked to the skin they all rushed headlong into the unknown. Some shouted, others roared and still others screamed with the delight they felt rising up against the man who had promised so much, who had given so little and who taken everything.”
“I could see the huge beast’s armour-plated defences, which had, only hours earlier, been carefully crafted by the ingenious Orlu, sparkling brilliantly in the reflected lightning flashes. The plates, of every conceivable shape and size, colliding with one another clanged loudly in a surreal musical tempo, and if there was anybody, within the walled city, still capable of seeing through the blinding, driving rain they would have been filled with the fear of God.
Suddenly, just short of the still-defiant gates, the HU BA HOU stopped. We all stopped dead in our tracks, wondering just what could be the problem. Then the tank, the ugly humpy-tank of an animal, clawing at the ground (like a bull), rising on its hind legs (like a horse) while roaring its own unique ear-shattering cry lifted its large, ugly head one last time before hurling itself forward with the gates set firmly in its sights, nothing could stop it now…”

“Watching, from the relative safety of a short distance behind, my mind wandered trying to remember how this had all come about. Why, only a few days earlier I had been all set for Christmas. I remembered sitting comfortably in front on the TV, looking forward to a well-earned rest. And now, here I was in an alien land about to follow a fair maiden atop an abomination of a creature called a HU BA HOU in an assault on a walled city, searching for a man called Miafra – for a man who would be a god. Searching for a man who had stopped time, stolen the chi (the free will) of the people and drained the powers of the most revered Mystic in the entire land. My thoughts, racing, drifted back to Christmas Eve those few short days ago…”

fantasy story

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Posted by on February 2, 2021 in fantasy, fantasy story, free, free ebooks, Uncategorized

 

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St. Capitolina

27 Oct

St. Capitolina October 27th feast day

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Posted by on October 27, 2020 in free, free ebooks

 

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October 23rd, 1973

23 Oct

October 23rd, 1973

The price of gas increased by 400% and there were long queues at Gas Stations during the 1973 Oil Crisis.

The crisis was caused by the war in the Middle East and OPEC deciding to cut oil supplies as a way of forcing the rest of the world to stop support for Israel.

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Posted by on October 23, 2020 in ebooks, free, free ebooks

 

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Harry Potter is such a Rotter

20 Oct

Harry – Potter?

Potter, Harry Potter, are you sure that it’s so,

His title, that label, or are you having a go,

At me, your poor servant, a man dearthly low?

Harry – oh she is a Rotter

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Posted by on October 20, 2020 in free, free ebooks, Harry Potter, Harry Rotter

 

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