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Alice and the Wild Boar of Wonderland

17 Dec
Alice and the Wild Boar of Wonderland

Alice and the Wild Boar of Wonderland:

The Director’s Cut (Now With 300% More Chaos)

Alice had returned to Wonderland for one reason: nostalgia. Big mistake.

The place had gone full corporate dystopia. The White Rabbit was now a crypto bro shilling “CarrotCoin,” the Mad Hatter ran an NFT tea party where every cup was a unique digital collectible worth exactly nothing, and the Queen of Hearts had rebranded as an influencer with the handle @OffWithTheirHeads69.

Worst of all, the Cheshire Cat had launched “GrinR,” Wonderland’s premier ride-sharing app. Slogan: “We vanish when you need us most.”

Alice tapped the app. Destination: Home.

Vehicle arriving: “Kevin the Boar – 4.9 stars (deducted 0.1 for chronic truffle addiction).”

Kevin arrived looking like a warthog that had lost a bet with a taxidermist. He wore a tiny saddle, a Bluetooth earpiece, and an expression that screamed, “I went to boar school for this?”

Alice climbed on. Kevin immediately side-eyed a glowing mushroom.

“Don’t even think about it,” Alice warned.

Kevin thought about it. Hard.

The ride began politely, past teacup gardens, under rainbow toadstools, until Kevin spotted the Holy Grail of truffles: a massive, glistening beauty sprouting right in the middle of the Queen’s private croquet lawn.

Kevin floored it.

“KEVIN, NO!” Alice screamed, clutching his mane as they bulldozed through a hedge maze like it was made of tissue paper.

Card soldiers dove left and right. One guard yelled, “License and registration!” only to be flattened into the shape of the two of clubs.

They skidded onto the croquet field just as the Queen was about to execute a flamingo for “unsportsmanlike squawking.”

Kevin launched himself at the truffle like a furry missile, uprooted it, and inhaled it in one obscene slurp. Then he let out a belch so powerful it parted the Queen’s wig, revealing a tattoo that read “Live, Laugh, Lob.”

The entire court froze.

The Queen’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato having a stroke.

“OFF WITH HIS TROTTERS!” she shrieked.

Alice, panicking, did the only thing she could think of: she pulled out her phone and fake-reviewed on the spot.

“Your Majesty, please! Kevin has 4.9 stars! He’s verified! He accepts tips in acorns!”

The Queen paused, mallet raised. “Reviews?”

Alice nodded frantically. “Read them yourself! ‘Best ride ever, 10/10 would be stampeded again.’ ‘Kevin took a shortcut through a caterpillar’s hookah lounge, legendary.’ ‘Only complaint: he ate my picnic.’”

Kevin, sensing an opportunity, turned on the charm. He sat. He gave paw. He even attempted a smile, which looked like a constipated bulldog discovering taxes.

The Queen lowered her mallet. “Fine. But he’s banned from my lawn. And someone get this pig a breath mint.”

As they trotted away, the Cheshire Cat materialized on Kevin’s head like a smug helmet.

“Not bad for a rookie driver,” he purred. “Next fare’s the Dormouse, he tips in half-eaten crumpets.”

Alice groaned. “Just get me out of here.”

Kevin suddenly braked. In the path ahead: a single, perfect truffle.

Alice glared. “Kevin. I swear to Lewis Carroll.”

Kevin looked back at her with big, innocent eyes.

Then he winked.

And floored it again.

Somewhere in the distance, the Queen’s scream echoed: “OFF WITH ALL OF THEM!”

Alice clung on for dear life, laughing in spite of herself.

Wonderland, it seemed, was exactly as mad as ever, just with worse customer service.

 
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Posted by on December 17, 2025 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure, alice on top of the world, Lewis Carroll

 

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Alice and the Places That Think: Ballykillduff Wonderland

16 Dec

Alice and the Places That Think: Ballykillduff Wonderland

Prologue

Alice decided later that the most troubling part was not the sheep.

The sheep was troubling, certainly. It stood in the middle of the lane with the quiet confidence of something that knew it had always been there and always would be. Its wool was the colour of old clouds, its eyes were thoughtful, and around its neck hung a small wooden sign that read:

BACK SOON

Alice read it twice.

“I don’t think that’s how sheep work,” she said politely.

The sheep regarded her in silence, chewing in a manner that suggested deep consideration of the matter. Then it turned, quite deliberately, and began to walk away down the lane.

“Excuse me,” Alice called. “I think you’ve dropped your…”

The sheep did not stop.

Alice hesitated. She had been taught very firmly never to follow strange animals, especially those displaying written notices. But the lane itself seemed to lean after the sheep, curving gently, as if it preferred that direction. Even the hedges appeared to listen.

With a sigh that felt far older than she was, Alice followed.

The lane led her into Ballykillduff.

At least, that was what the sign said. It stood crookedly at the edge of the village, its letters faded and patched over, as though someone had changed their mind halfway through spelling it. Beneath the name, in much smaller writing, was a second line:

Population: Yes

Alice frowned.

The village looked entirely ordinary, which in her experience was often a bad sign. Stone cottages huddled together as if exchanging secrets. A postbox leaned sideways in what might have been exhaustion. Somewhere, a clock was ticking very loudly and very wrongly.

The sheep paused beside the postbox.

It did not look back. It did not need to.

The postbox cleared its throat.

“Letter?” it asked.

Alice jumped.

“I—no,” she said. “I mean, not yet.”

“Take your time,” said the postbox kindly. “We’ve plenty of it. Too much, if you ask me. It keeps piling up.”

The sheep nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Alice said carefully, “but could you tell me where I am?”

The postbox considered this. “Well now,” it said, “that depends. Where do you think you ought to be?”

“I don’t know,” Alice admitted.

“Ah,” said the postbox, sounding relieved. “Then you’re exactly right.”

The sheep turned at last and met Alice’s eyes. For a moment she had the strange feeling that it recognised her.

Then the ground beneath her boots gave a polite little sigh and began to sink.

Alice did not scream. She had learned by now that screaming rarely helped.

Instead, as Ballykillduff folded itself carefully over her like a story closing its covers, she wondered whether anyone at home would notice she was gone.

The sheep watched until she vanished completely.

Then it picked up its sign, turned it around, and hung it back around its neck.

BACK AGAIN.

Chapter One

In Which Alice Arrives Properly, Though Not Entirely on Purpose

Alice discovered that falling into Ballykillduff was not at all like falling into a hole.

There was no rushing wind, no spinning cupboards, no floating bookshelves or jars of marmalade. Instead, there was the distinct sensation of being lowered, as though the ground itself were doing its best to be polite about the whole affair.

The earth sighed again, thoughtfully, and then stopped.

Alice found herself standing upright on a narrow stone path, her boots perfectly clean, her hair only slightly rumpled, and her sense of direction completely missing.

Above her was a sky that could not quite decide what time it was. Clouds hovered in pale layers, some tinged with early morning pink, others sulking in late afternoon grey. A sun of modest ambition shone through the middle, as if unwilling to commit itself fully.

Ahead lay Ballykillduff.

Up close, it was even more ordinary than before. That, Alice felt, was the problem.

A row of cottages leaned together in a way that suggested ongoing conversation. Their windows blinked slowly, like eyes that had just woken up. Smoke curled from chimneys without any particular urgency, drifting sideways and then upwards as though reconsidering.

Alice took one careful step forward.

Nothing happened.

She took another.

Still nothing.

“Well,” she said to herself, “that is either very reassuring or extremely suspicious.”

A man appeared from nowhere in particular, which is to say he stepped out from behind a low stone wall that Alice was quite certain had not been there a moment earlier.

He was tall, thin, and wrapped in a long coat that had known many weathers and disagreed with all of them. In his hand he carried a pocket watch, which he examined with great seriousness.

He did not look at Alice.

“Oh dear,” he muttered. “Not yet. Definitely not yet.”

“Excuse me,” Alice said.

The man startled so badly that he nearly dropped the watch, which he caught just in time and then scolded.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said to Alice. “Appearing suddenly.”

“I didn’t,” Alice replied. “You did.”

He considered this.

“Well,” he said at last, “we’ll call it a draw.”

He finally looked at her, his eyes sharp and kind and far too alert for someone who seemed permanently behind schedule.

“You’re early,” he said.

“Am I?” Alice asked.

“Oh yes,” he said firmly. “Or late. One of the two. We get very upset if people arrive exactly when they mean to.”

“What is your name?” Alice asked.

“Seamus Fitzgerald,” he said, consulting his watch again. “At least, that’s what it says here. And you are Alice.”

Alice blinked. “How do you know that?”

Seamus smiled apologetically. “You’ve been expected.”

“I have only just arrived,” Alice said.

“Yes,” Seamus agreed. “That’s what I mean.”

Before Alice could ask anything else, a bell rang.

It was not a loud bell, nor an urgent one. It sounded as though it had rung many times before and had learned not to get worked up about it.

Seamus gasped.

“Oh dear,” he said. “That will be Bridget.”

“Who is Bridget?” Alice asked.

Seamus was already walking away.

“You’ll see,” he said over his shoulder. “Everybody does.”

Alice followed him into the village.

As she did, she noticed that the houses were watching her now, not rudely, but with the quiet interest one might show a guest who had arrived without luggage and clearly intended to stay.

Somewhere behind her, the sheep coughed.

Alice did not turn around.

She had a feeling that once you began turning around in Ballykillduff, you might never stop.

And that, she suspected, was how the village liked it.

To read the rest of this story, click HERE – and enjoy

 
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Posted by on December 16, 2025 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure, alice on top of the world

 

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Alice and the Winter Wonderland.

16 Dec
Alice and the Winter Wonderland.

Alice and the Winter Wonderland.

Alice had not meant to follow the White Rabbit again.
She had promised herself, after the trial of the Knave of Hearts, after the croquet madness and the endless tea party, that she would stay firmly on the sensible side of looking-glasses and rabbit holes.
But it was Christmas Eve, and the snow had fallen so thickly that the world outside her window looked like one of Dinah’s half-finished dreams. A single lantern glowed in the garden, and beneath it hopped a small white figure in a scarlet waistcoat, brushing snow from his whiskers and consulting a pocket watch that chimed like tiny bells.
“Oh dear, oh dear, I shall be too late for the Queen’s carol!” he muttered.
Alice sighed, pulled on her blue coat (the one that matched her favorite dress), and stepped into the night.
The rabbit hole was exactly where she remembered it, hidden behind the old oak, but tonight it was lined with frost and strung with colored glass ornaments that swayed like fruit on invisible branches. Down she slid, not tumbling this time, but gliding gently, as though the air itself had turned to soft feathers.
She landed in snow up to her ankles.
The Wonderland she stepped into was not the bright, feverish place of her childhood. It was hushed and silver-blue, every hedge dusted white, every path paved with checkered ice that gleamed like the hallway floor of a grand, frozen palace. Lanterns hung from bare branches, casting pools of golden light, and from somewhere far off came the sound of bells and laughter.
The White Rabbit was already hurrying away, his ears tipped with frost. “This way, Alice! Her Majesty is expecting guests!”
Alice followed, her boots crunching softly. The trees grew taller and stranger: pines decorated not with tinsel but with teacups and playing cards frozen mid-flight. A dormouse snoozed inside a hanging ornament, curled around a thimble of hot cocoa. Snowflakes drifted down, large, perfect, and oddly deliberate, as though someone had cut them from paper with tiny scissors.
They came at last to a clearing where the Queen of Hearts had erected an enormous Christmas tree. It rose higher than any tree Alice had ever seen, its branches heavy with crimson baubles, golden crowns, and hearts made of ruby glass. At its base sat the Queen herself, no longer shouting “Off with their heads!” but humming a carol while directing a troop of playing-card soldiers as they hung the last ornaments.
The Queen spotted Alice and beamed, an expression so unfamiliar that Alice almost didn’t recognize her.
“There you are, child! We’ve been waiting. No croquet today. Only singing, and presents, and far too much plum pudding.”
The Mad Hatter arrived next, wearing a top hat trimmed with holly. The March Hare carried a tray of steaming teacups that smelled of cinnamon and pepper. Even the Cheshire Cat appeared, grinning from a branch, his stripes flickering like candlelight.
They sang, first awkwardly, then with growing joy. The cards formed a choir, their voices thin and papery but sweet. The Dormouse woke long enough to join in a sleepy alto. Snow kept falling, soft and endless, turning the clearing into a shaken snow globe.
Later, when the singing was done and the pudding eaten, the Queen pressed a small gift into Alice’s hands: a single red ornament shaped like a heart, warm to the touch.
“For remembering,” the Queen said quietly. “Even queens grow lonely sometimes.”
Alice looked around at the glowing lanterns, the decorated trees, the strange friends who had once terrified her and now felt like family. Wonderland, for one night, had chosen peace over madness.
When it was time to go, the White Rabbit led her back to the frosted rabbit hole. He bowed, a little shyly.
“Merry Christmas, Alice.”
“And to you,” she said.
She climbed upward through the soft dark, the heart-ornament tucked safely in her pocket. When she emerged into her own garden, the snow had stopped. The lantern still glowed, but the White Rabbit was gone.
Alice hung the red heart on her own small Christmas tree that night. And every year after, when the snow fell thickly and the lanterns shone, she thought she heard faint bells from somewhere below the roots of the old oak, inviting her, gently, to come again.
But she was older now, and Wonderland, she suspected, had learned to celebrate Christmas quite nicely without her.
Still, she always left an extra teacup by the fire.
Just in case.
 
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Posted by on December 16, 2025 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure, alice in wonderland christmas story, Christmas

 

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Alice and the Case of the Unexpectedly Swift Hippo

11 Dec
Alice and the Case of the Unexpectedly Swift Hippo

Alice and the Case of the Unexpectedly Swift Hippo

“Faster, Barnaby, faster!” squeaked Alice, clinging desperately to the leathery hide of her unusual steed.

Barnaby, who was, to be perfectly clear, a baby albino hippo wearing a tiny, slightly crooked monocle, did not need encouraging. He was currently tearing across a very normal-looking riverside meadow—which was, of course, absolutely unacceptable for a meadow adjacent to Wonderland—with the speed and grace of a terrified washing machine. His little legs pumped like pink pistons, and his substantial body bounced alarmingly, causing Alice’s blonde hair ribbon to stream out behind her like a distressed banner.

“We must retrieve the Duchess’s runaway teacup!” she yelled, her voice vibrating from the sheer velocity. “It’s got all her important thoughts in it! Specifically, the one about why flamingos are structurally unsound as croquet mallets!”

Barnaby snorted, a sound that was half sneeze and half submerged tuba, causing his monocle to slip precariously over his eye. He did not slow down, mostly because he believed the patch of particularly lush clover just ahead held the secret to solving his life’s great mystery: “Do my toes have a collective name?”

The absurdity had begun precisely three minutes earlier when Alice, having narrowly avoided a philosophical debate with a disgruntled caterpillar about the proper use of semicolons, stumbled upon Barnaby trying to organize a pile of damp pebbles by their emotional state.

“Excuse me,” Alice had said politely, “but are you running away from something?”

Barnaby had looked up, adjusted his monocle, and declared, “On the contrary, Miss. I’m running towards the inevitable conclusion that I am an under-appreciated dramatic prop in this entire affair! Also, a teacup just rolled past me. It was humming something by the Mad Hatter, which is simply poor form for porcelain.”

And so, the chase was on.

They thundered past a family of hedgehogs attempting to build a miniature, functional guillotine out of biscuits. They leaped over a giant chessboard where the Queen of Hearts was having a surprisingly mild-mannered argument with a pawn about dental hygiene.

“It’s catching up!” cried Alice, glancing over her shoulder.

“Nonsense!” shouted a small, reedy voice from inside her pocket. It was the Duchess’s teacup, which had, apparently, decided to reverse course and hitch a ride on Barnaby’s tail before Alice noticed. “I’ve been here the whole time! I just wanted to see if the view was better from the back of a moderately athletic ungulate! Now, if you please, I need to get back to the Duchess before she tries to substitute the March Hare for a serving dish!”

Barnaby, hearing the word “ungulate,” skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust and slightly bruised daisies. He turned his wide, innocent, pink face back to Alice.

“Did I just hear someone refer to me as an ungulate?” he asked, deeply offended. “I’ll have you know, I am a pachyderm! A magnificent, mud-loving pachyderm! And now that the philosophical dilemma has been resolved, I shall revert to my natural pace of ‘ponderously waddling to the nearest body of water to look thoughtful.'”

Alice sighed, slid off the hippo’s back, and neatly caught the monocle before it hit the ground. She tucked the teacup safely under her arm.

“Well, Barnaby,” she said, giving his moist snout a pat. “That was entirely too much excitement for a Thursday. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I need to find a nice, quiet rabbit hole where nothing makes sense but everything is at least stationary.”

Barnaby simply smiled, the picture of serene, monocled pachyderm wisdom. He then slowly, carefully, and with great dignity, rolled into the river and sank immediately out of sight, leaving only a single, enthusiastic bubble.

 
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Posted by on December 11, 2025 in alice and the baby hippo, Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure, alice on top of the world

 

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The Hippo Rider’s Splash.

26 Nov

The Hippo Rider’s Splash.

 
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Posted by on November 26, 2025 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, alice and the baby hippo, Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure, funny song, hippo

 

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Wonderland Christmas Countdown 2025

19 Nov

Wonderland Christmas Countdown – ENJOY.

 

 
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Posted by on November 19, 2025 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, alice and the baby hippo, Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure, alice in wonderland christmas story, alice on top of the world, Lewis Carroll

 

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Alice and the Sun-Dappled Clearing

16 Nov
Alice and the Sun-Dappled Clearing

🌸 Alice and the Sun-Dappled Clearing 🐇

 

Alice stood quite still in the sun-dappled clearing, the light filtering through the canopy in warm, impressionistic blobs of gold and lemon. She was surrounded by a riot of oversized, pastel flowers—irises the size of her head, and roses that seemed to blush with a painter’s deepest pink. The air felt thick and sweet, like crystallized honey.

“Oh dear,” she murmured, adjusting the bow in her auburn hair. “Everything looks rather splashed here.”

From above, a lazy, white form materialized, hanging suspended between two sun-kissed trees. It was the Cheshire Cat, looking more like a puff of painted smoke than a proper feline, his famous grin a translucent arc.

“Splashed, my dear?” the Cat purred, his voice like silk sliding off a palette knife. “But the world is much more interesting when it’s spilled, wouldn’t you say?”

Alice smoothed down her blue dress. “I suppose. But everything seems to be hurrying, even when it stands still. Look at those blossoms—they look like they’re dancing!”

As if on cue, a sudden blur of white flashed past the rose bushes on the right. It was the White Rabbit, his pink eyes wide with that familiar panic, though he carried no waistcoat, no watch, only a sense of frantic urgency.

“Late, late, late!” chirped the Rabbit’s distant voice, sounding rather like a squeezed tube of paint. “The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party is beginning! And I haven’t time to dry!”

Alice sighed, a small smile touching her lips. She recognized this place—this beautiful, illogical field. It was her moment of calm before the chaos, the brief, quiet breath before tumbling back into the whirlwind of Wonderland. The light felt like a warm invitation, and the flowers nodded their permission.

“Well,” Alice decided, stepping forward into the swirling pink and green. “If I’m to be late for a very important date, I might as well enjoy the view first.”

 

 
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Posted by on November 16, 2025 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, alice in wonderland adventure, alice in wonderland christmas, alice on top of the world, Lewis Carroll

 

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The Air is Screaming

15 Nov
The air is a screaming cyan and gold,
Where whiskers of madness are fiercely unrolled!
The Hatter’s hat spins, a chaotic cyclone,
His eyes like two clocks, ticking wildly alone!
The Hare beats a drum on a teapot quite cracked,
Yelling, “NO ROOM! NO ROOM!” and can never track back.
The Queen’s face is purple—a temper-tantrum hue—
“OFF WITH THEIR HEADS! And your teacups too!”
Alice, she stands in the whirling Van Gogh,
Her ribbons are snapping, a frantic bow!
The Caterpillar smokes ’til the canvas turns green,
A dizzying, madcap, and glorious scene!
Swirl, swirl, goes the paint, like a turbulent ocean,
Lost is all reason, logic, and motion!
The White Rabbit weeps, for he’s utterly lost,
In this masterpiece maelstrom, whatever the cost!
 
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Posted by on November 15, 2025 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, alice and the baby hippo, Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure, alice in wonderland christmas, alice on top of the world, lewis carroll

 

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Dalek in Wonderland

11 Nov
Dalek in Wonderland

Alice had always considered “topsy-turvy” a quaint, almost charming state of affairs. Until, that is, the very air began to hum with an unfamiliar, metallic thrum that made the giant mushroom caps quiver like startled jellyfish. One moment, she was admiring a particularly vibrant cluster of sapphire roses; the next, a bronze behemoth with a singular, unblinking eye had materialized amongst the petals.

“EX-TER-MIN-ATE!” boomed a voice that sounded like a thousand angry kettles boiling simultaneously.

Alice, who had faced jabberwockies, irate queens, and logic-defying tea parties without so much as a proper shriek, found herself doing a rather ungraceful hop-skip-jump backwards. “Oh dear!” she gasped, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of terror and utter bewilderment. “Are you quite alright, sir? You sound rather cross, and honestly, shouting ‘exterminate’ at the scenery is dreadfully rude to the fungi.”

The Dalek, for that is what it was, swiveled its dome-shaped head, its ocular stalk focusing intently on Alice. “OBSERVATION: ORGANIC LIFE FORM IS SPEAKING ILLOGICALLY. THREAT ASSESSMENT: HIGH. INITIATING ELIMINATION PROTOCOL.”

“Elimination protocol?” Alice clutched her apron. “But I’ve only just arrived! And I haven’t even had a chance to ask if you’d like a spot of tea. Though, I must confess, your rather peculiar shape doesn’t look particularly suited for holding a teacup. Perhaps a saucer? Or a very large thimble?”

The Dalek emitted a series of rapid, clicking noises that sounded suspiciously like frustrated whirring. “TEA IS IRRELEVANT! SURRENDER FOR EX-TER-MIN-ATION!”

“Surrender?” Alice scoffed. “And miss out on discovering what’s beyond those particularly tall, stripey mushrooms? Not on your life, you peculiar brass kettle on wheels!” With a burst of courage fueled by sheer absurdity, she turned and darted through the towering roses and lilies, her blue dress a fleeting blur against the soft pink and blue hues of the fantastical garden.

The Dalek, surprisingly nimble for its bulk, began to pursue, its menacing shouts echoing through the quiet glade. “YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE! EX-TER-MIN-ATE! EX-TER-MIN-ATE THE INSOLENT ORGANIC!”

Alice, giggling despite herself, glanced back. “Honestly, if you’re going to chase me, at least try to keep up a sensible conversation! Do you know the way to the Mad Hatter’s tea party? I suspect he’d find your insistence on ‘extermination’ rather droll, provided you didn’t actually exterminate the biscuits.”

And so, under the enormous, dappled caps of the enchanted mushrooms, with the spiraling vortex of the sky watching overhead, Alice led the indignant Dalek on a merry, illogical chase, proving once and for all that in Wonderland, even the most terrifying threats could become just another part of the mad, wonderful scenery.

 
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Posted by on November 11, 2025 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure, alice on top of the world, dalek, daleks

 

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“Alice and the Swirling Canvas.”

09 Nov
“Alice and the Swirling Canvas.”
“Alice and the Swirling Canvas.”
*********************************
Chapter 1: The Yellow Crescent
The museum air was thick with the scent of old wood and quiet reverence. Alice, now seventeen and perpetually bored by the linear world of geometry and etiquette, paused before a small, heavily-framed oil painting. It was a night scene: a landscape of gnarled, dark trees reaching toward a sky that was less a void and more a seething mass of light. Every star was a thick, buttery dollop of paint, and the enormous crescent moon, a luminous, impossible yellow, seemed to push out from the canvas.
She knew the style instantly. It wasn’t just painted; it was felt.
Alice leaned closer, her nose almost touching the varnish. She noticed something odd about the moon. While the rest of the canvas held firm, this single yellow crescent seemed to vibrate, its impasto texture shifting, almost like wet paint refusing to settle. It was an instability in an otherwise frozen moment.
Drawn by an irresistible impulse that defied every museum rule she’d ever learned, Alice reached out a finger.
The moment she touched the paint, it gave way.
There was no sudden drop or dizzying vortex. Instead, the sensation was like plunging her hand into a bowl of thick, warm honey. The paint swallowed her fingers, then her hand, then her entire arm up to the shoulder. A gentle, viscous pressure pushed her forward, and in a blink, the quiet, dry museum fell away.
Alice stumbled onto a path that crackled under her feet.
The air was no longer still; it hummed with the energy of creation. The ground beneath her was a road of visible brushstrokes—thick, woven lines of ochre and burnt sienna—leading between two impossibly dark, gnarled trees. They were not trees of wood, but of coiled, energetic black and blue paint, their branches spiraling upward to meet a sky that was terrifyingly alive.
Above her, the Realm of the Saturated was dominated by the very yellow crescent she had touched. It blazed like a furious sun in the indigo turbulence, casting expressive, blue-black shadows that seemed to claw at the ground.
A feeling of intense, urgent motion seized her. She looked at her hands. Her skin was perfectly normal, but her dress and apron were rendered in the same high-relief style as the landscape, every seam and fold defined by a bold, blue outline.
“Stay still and you dry,” a thin, reedy voice whispered from the brushy undergrowth. “Drying is fading. Fading is being finished. And finished is the worst word of all.”
Alice spun around just as a figure leaped onto the path in front of her. It was the White Rabbit, but he was a portrait of anxiety. His white fur was ragged, rendered in hasty, unfinished lines of grey and zinc white. One ear looked fully realized, while the other was a mere suggestion of a stroke. He clutched his pocket watch, which had been reduced to a frantic, broken circle of orange dashes.
“Oh, it’s you,” he sighed, his voice full of disappointment. “Another element of disorder. But at least you’re wet. Tell me, child, do I look complete to you?” He thrust his unfinished ear toward her. “Am I resolved? Or am I still just a preparatory sketch for a better idea?”

A sudden, jarring shift in color drew Alice’s attention away from the White Rabbit’s existential crisis.

A short distance away, through a thicket of gnarled, swirling branches, the landscape erupted. It was a riot of color that fought against itself: streaks of raw vermillion clashing with aggressive viridian greens, all under a canopy of electric violet. It was loud, visually overwhelming, and undeniably wet.

The White Rabbit, clutching his hastily drawn watch, shuddered, his unfinished lines seeming to vibrate with distaste. “Don’t go that way, child! That’s the Saturation Zone! The Hatter has completely abandoned all sense of proportion or harmony. He’s destroying the value! It’s all so terribly… loud.”

But Alice, already overwhelmed by the thick texture and anxious energy of her arrival, found herself drawn to the visual noise. At least there, the danger wasn’t fading into the canvas; it was being intensely, brilliantly there.

“I think,” Alice decided, stepping over a thick, coiled stroke of blue that served as a root, “I need to speak to someone who understands color. Perhaps they understand how this world is painted.”

She plunged through the dark, expressive undergrowth.

 

🎨 The Mad Hatter’s Color Party

 

Alice emerged into a clearing where the air didn’t just smell of paint; it smelled of turpentine and fermented tea.

The famous long table was there, but it wasn’t set for tea; it was set for a lesson in chromatic chaos. Instead of fine china, there were pots and buckets overflowing with thick, undiluted pigments. The table itself was not wood, but a slab of brilliant, sticky Cadmium Yellow.

The Mad Hatter, his face painted with feverish, opposing stripes of cyan and magenta, was shouting at a trembling Dormouse who was struggling to balance a tiny teacup. The cup was filled with a liquid that glowed with the unnatural intensity of a pure Phthalo Blue.

“No, no, you infuriating rodent!” the Hatter shrieked, splashing a handful of Alizarin Crimson onto the table, creating a violent, wet mess. “You are sipping Primary Blue next to a background of Primary Yellow! You need a mediator! You need an Orange, or perhaps a delicate Tertiary Violet! Do you have any idea the visual friction you are causing?”

The Dormouse whimpered, his face a perfect, frightened circle of dull beige. “B-but this is the only color that won’t dry, sir!”

The Hatter ignored him and spotted Alice. He slammed his hand down on the yellow table, sending splatters of red and blue pigment flying.

“Ah! A new subject! And look at that lovely, pedestrian blue-and-white contrast!” He circled her, his eyes manic. “You, girl, are a walking exercise in simplicity! Tell me, what is the complement of that dreadful little apron?”

“White?” Alice ventured.

The Hatter threw back his head and laughed, a shrill, manic sound. “White is the absence of color, you dullard! The complement is pure black! You want contrast! You want the tension! The friction that keeps the canvas alive! Sit down, sit down! We are about to perform a great experiment in Value and Hue!”

He gestured wildly to an empty chair next to the March Hare. The Hare, unlike his usual frantic self, was sitting perfectly still, coated in a thick, dull layer of umber brown, patiently waiting to dry out.

“Don’t worry about him,” the Hatter muttered, pouring a cup of neon Naples Yellow tea and thrusting it at Alice. “He decided the sheer complexity of color theory was too much, and now he’s waiting to become a restful, non-committal background element. Now, drink! And tell me if you feel the visual heat of that yellow against your blue dress!”

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To be continued.
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Posted by on November 9, 2025 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure, alice on top of the world, Lewis Carroll

 

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