Wonderland Dreaming.
Tag Archives: Wonderland
When Alice met the King of England
Alice, still dusting crumpets from her apron after a particularly rambunctious tea party with the March Hare, found herself tumbling, not down a rabbit hole this time, but into a most peculiar, exquisitely manicured rose garden. The roses, all red and white, seemed to be bickering amongst themselves about the proper shade of crimson for a royal eyebrow.
“Oh dear,” Alice murmured, adjusting her hair ribbon. “It seems I’ve wandered into another spot of bother.”
Suddenly, a voice, rather like the rustle of a silk dressing gown, boomed from behind a topiary shaped suspiciously like a corgi. “Who goes there, interrupting the delicate negotiations between my prize-winning petunias and the Royal Horticultural Society’s most fervent critics?”
From behind the bush emerged a gentleman of a certain age, with a twinkle in his eye and a crown that seemed to be listing slightly to port. He wore a magnificent, if somewhat patchwork, velvet robe, adorned with what looked like tiny embroidered teacups and miniature marmalade sandwiches.
“I’m Alice, Your Majesty,” she curtsied, remembering her manners, even if the monarch seemed to have misplaced some of his.
“Majesty, you say? Well, I suppose I am rather majestic, aren’t I?” He preened a little, almost tripping over his own sceptre, which was topped with a tiny, albeit slightly squashed, golden pineapple. “And you, young lady, seem to have rather a lot of sense for someone not wearing a hat adorned with a flock of startled pigeons. Are you perhaps here to discuss the optimal length of a royal wave, or the existential dread of a lost sock?”
Alice blinked. “I… I think I just followed a very enthusiastic squirrel.”
The King clapped his hands, sending a flurry of startled butterflies into the air. “A squirrel, you say! Excellent! They’re far more reliable than those blighters in Parliament, always chattering about nuts and bolts when what one truly needs is a good, solid acorn! Tell me, Alice, have you ever considered the philosophical implications of a well-buttered scone?”
He then led her on a merry chase through the garden, past a fountain spouting Earl Grey tea, and a chessboard where the pieces were miniature, sentient guardsmen who kept complaining about their aching knees. The King himself seemed to communicate primarily in rhetorical questions about the monarchy, the weather, and the surprisingly intricate history of a particular brand of digestive biscuit.
“You see, Alice,” he explained, pointing a finger at a particularly flustered flamingo trying to play croquet with a hedgehog, “the key to a successful reign is not merely waving, or even smiling at babies. It’s about knowing precisely when to offer a slightly stale crumpet and when to unleash the full might of the Royal Corgi Brigade upon an unsuspecting dandelion patch! One must be prepared for anything, even a sudden shortage of perfectly symmetrical teacups!”
Alice found herself nodding along, even as her mind reeled. This King was certainly mad, but in a rather charming, harmless way, like a well-meaning but slightly eccentric uncle. He seemed to genuinely enjoy her company, even if he mistook her silence for profound agreement.
Suddenly, a bell chimed, a sound like a thousand tiny spoons clinking against porcelain. “Ah, tea time!” the King declared, his eyes lighting up. “And this time, I’ve insisted on a fresh batch of cucumber sandwiches, precisely 0.5 centimeters thick, with the crusts removed by a team of highly trained, miniature badgers!”
As they sat down at a long table laden with treats, surrounded by an assortment of chattering teapots and a grumpy-looking White Rabbit who kept checking his watch, Alice couldn’t help but smile. She had met talking flowers, disappearing cats, and even a Queen who threatened to chop off heads, but a King who obsessed over scone philosophy and badger-removed crusts was a whole new level of Wonderland absurdity. And somehow, she felt perfectly at home.
“More tea, Alice?” the King asked, pouring from a teapot that had a tiny crown for a lid. “We simply must discuss the geopolitical implications of a slightly burnt toast point.”
Alice, with a sigh of delightful surrender, reached for another perfectly badger-trimmed cucumber sandwich. “Why, I’d love to, Your Majesty.”
Goth Alice in Wonderland
In shadows deep, where
Curiosity’s flame ignites,
Alice, a vision in black lace,
Wanders through enchanted nights.
With a skeletal rabbit by her side,
And the Cheshire Cat’s grin above,
She dances through the twisted woods,
A dark queen of Wonderland’s love.
Top hat adorned, with an inky feather,
A single eye, a haunting stare,
She sips from cups of bitter tea,
And breathes the melancholic air.
Crimson roses, black as night,
Bloom where her solemn footsteps fall,
A symphony of silent sighs,
Echoes through the magical hall.
For in this land of eerie dreams,
Where madness holds a gentle sway,
Gothic Alice finds her peace,
And forever chooses to stay.
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.
Alice and the Clockwork Garden.
Alice and the Clockwork Garden.
**********************************
The city where Alice lived was a place of endless hums and flickers. Towers of glass stretched into the clouds, their reflections looping infinitely in the mirrored streets below. People moved like clock hands, precise, predictable, and always on time. But Alice was different. She collected broken things: cracked lenses, tangled wires, forgotten keys. She said they whispered to her when no one else was listening.
One evening, while exploring the outskirts of the city, she stumbled upon an abandoned greenhouse. Its glass panes were fogged with dust, and vines had crept through the cracks like green veins reclaiming a body. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of rust and wilted petals. In the far corner, half-hidden behind a curtain of ivy, she found a small brass door no taller than her knee. It ticked faintly, as though it had a heartbeat.
When she turned the handle, the world folded, not down, but sideways. The air rippled like water, and she fell through layers of sound and color until she landed softly on a bed of moss that smelled faintly of machine oil.
She stood up and found herself in a garden made entirely of gears and glass. Flowers opened and closed with the precision of pocket watches, their petals clicking in rhythm. The sky above was a swirling clock face, its hands spinning in opposite directions. Bees made of copper buzzed between the flowers, leaving trails of golden dust that shimmered like static.
A signpost nearby spun wildly, its arrows pointing to places that made no sense: “Yesterday,” “The Hour Between,” “Nowhere in Particular,” and “The Place You Forgot.” Alice hesitated, then chose the last one.
The path wound through hedges that whispered secrets in mechanical tones. Every few steps, the ground shifted beneath her feet, rearranging itself like a puzzle. She passed a pond that reflected not her face but a dozen versions of herself, older, younger, smiling, crying, all blinking at different speeds.
A cat made of smoke and mirrors appeared on a branch above her. Its grin flickered like a glitch in a screen.
“Lost again, are you?” it purred.
“I’m not sure I was ever found,” Alice replied.
“Good answer,” said the cat, and its body dissolved into a cloud of static, leaving only the grin behind. The grin blinked once, then vanished too.
“Lost again, are you?” it purred.
“I’m not sure I was ever found,” Alice replied.
“Good answer,” said the cat, and its body dissolved into a cloud of static, leaving only the grin behind. The grin blinked once, then vanished too.
Further along, she came upon a tea party set in the middle of a clockwork clearing. The table was long and crooked, covered in teapots that poured themselves and cups that whispered secrets to one another. The host was a clockmaker with a hat full of ticking hands and a monocle that spun like a compass.
“Time’s broken again,” he sighed. “Keeps running backward when no one’s looking.”
Alice peered into one of the teacups and saw her reflection aging and un-aging in rapid succession.
“Maybe time isn’t broken,” she said. “Maybe it’s just tired.”
The clockmaker blinked. “Then perhaps it needs a nap.” He handed her a small silver key. “Take this to the Heart of the Garden. It winds everything that dreams.”
“Time’s broken again,” he sighed. “Keeps running backward when no one’s looking.”
Alice peered into one of the teacups and saw her reflection aging and un-aging in rapid succession.
“Maybe time isn’t broken,” she said. “Maybe it’s just tired.”
The clockmaker blinked. “Then perhaps it needs a nap.” He handed her a small silver key. “Take this to the Heart of the Garden. It winds everything that dreams.”
The path to the Heart was not straight. It twisted through forests of glass trees that sang when the wind passed through them. She met a girl made entirely of paper who folded herself into a bird and flew away. She crossed a bridge that whispered her thoughts aloud, embarrassing her with every step. At one point, she found herself walking upside down, the sky beneath her feet and the ground above her head.
When she finally reached the Heart of the Garden, she found a massive clock-tree, its trunk pulsing like a living creature. Its branches were heavy with pendulums, and its roots glowed faintly beneath the soil. In its center was a keyhole, glowing softly. She turned the silver key, and the world exhaled.
For a moment, everything stopped. The gears froze, the bees hung motionless in the air, and even the sky’s hands paused mid-turn. Then, slowly, the world began again, but differently. The ticking softened. The flowers opened wider. The air felt warmer, almost alive.
But something else stirred. From the shadows beneath the clock-tree, a figure emerged, a tall woman with hair made of unraveling ribbons and eyes like shattered glass.
“You’ve wound the Heart,” she said, her voice echoing like a thousand clocks striking midnight. “Do you know what that means?”
Alice shook her head.
“It means the dream wakes up,” the woman whispered. “And dreams don’t like being awake.”
“You’ve wound the Heart,” she said, her voice echoing like a thousand clocks striking midnight. “Do you know what that means?”
Alice shook her head.
“It means the dream wakes up,” the woman whispered. “And dreams don’t like being awake.”
The ground trembled. The flowers began to wilt, their gears grinding to a halt. The sky cracked open, revealing a vast emptiness beyond. The woman smiled, her face fracturing like a mirror.
“Run, little clock,” she said.
“Run, little clock,” she said.
Alice ran. The paths twisted and folded, leading her in circles. The cat reappeared, now flickering between shapes, a bird, a shadow, a reflection.
“Which way is out?” she gasped.
“Out?” the cat laughed. “There’s no out. Only through.”
“Which way is out?” she gasped.
“Out?” the cat laughed. “There’s no out. Only through.”
She stumbled back into the greenhouse, gasping for breath. The brass door was gone, replaced by a single flower made of glass, ticking gently in the moonlight. She touched it, and the ticking stopped. The city outside seemed to pause, as if holding its breath.
When she looked at her reflection in the glass, her eyes glimmered faintly, like tiny clock faces, turning in opposite directions. Somewhere deep inside, she could still hear the faint hum of the garden, waiting for her to wind it again.
Baby Hippo and Alice
Alice and the Baby Hippo
Alice once mounted a hippo one day,
Who’d lost his way in a puddle of clay.
He huffed and he snorted and splashed with delight,
While Alice held on with all of her might.
“Faster!” she cried, “to the edge of the sky!”
The hippo just winked with a mud-sparkled eye.
They galloped through rushes and lilies and foam,
Quite certain they’d never find their way home.
Through puddles of puddings and rivers of tea,
They splashed past a fish who was trimming a tree.
A frog waved his bonnet, a duck tipped his hat,
And a snail cried, “Good gracious! She’s riding on that?”
The hippo just chuckled, “I’m only a tot,
But galloping’s easy when you’ve learned the trot.”
And off they went bouncing, through dream upon dream,
Till Alice awoke by a murmuring stream.
Her dress was still damp, her shoes full of sand,
And she whispered, “Next time I shall learn how to land!”
Steampunk Alice and a Very Mad Hatter
In cobbled lanes where gears convene,
Stood Alice, goggled, quite a queen.
Her skirts of bronze, her boots so grand,
A clockwork wonder, wand in hand.
Beside her, Hatter, wild and bright,
With fiery hair and eyes alight.
A grin so vast, a teethy show,
“More tea, more steam! Where did time go?”
His top hat brimmed with ticking gears,
Ignoring all sensible fears.
For in this world of brass and steam,
A very mad and wondrous dream!
Within the cavern’s crystal-laced embrace
Within the cavern’s crystal-laced embrace,
Young Alice stands, a smile upon her face.
With steady hand, a ladle she does hold,
To stir the secrets of a story told.
Beside her, Fle, the aged old elf,
A gentle guide, in verdant clothing self.
He turns the crank of the arcanum machine,
A bubbly brew, a vibrant, glowing scene.
From humble sacks of ‘FERTILIZER’ and ‘SOIL,’
The earthy base for their enchanting toil.
They add the Arcanum, a liquid bright,
A splash of magic in the cavern’s light.
The air is thick with whispers of the old,
A tale of wonders, beautiful and bold.
As colors swirl in the machine’s deep bowl,
They mix a potion to enrich the soul.
And watching on, a mouse with curious eyes,
Nibbles on cheese beneath the cavern skies.
The scent of magic, a soft, ethereal haze,
Fills Alice and the elf with sweet amaze.
Alice tumbled into a fissure
Alice found the elf by accident, as she found most things: by tumbling into them. This time, it wasn’t a rabbit hole, but a fissure in the earth, hidden by a blanket of moss and the shade of a weeping willow. She landed with a soft thump on a bed of ferns, her gingham dress a bright splash of blue in the dim, green light.
A pair of very, very old eyes blinked at her from the shadows of a gnarled oak. They were the color of faded leaves, and the wrinkles around them were like the rings of a tree. “Well, bless me,” a voice rasped, like dry leaves scuttling across a stone path. “Another one.”
Alice, never one to be flustered for long, brushed a stray leaf from her nose. “Another what?” she asked, her head tilted to the side.
“Another child who has lost their way,” the elf said, emerging from the gloom. He was slight and stooped, with a beard the color of winter frost. His name, he told her, was Fle. “I’ve seen so many. They all come seeking something. A way home, a lost toy, a purpose they’ve misplaced.”
Alice considered this. “I’m not lost, exactly,” she said. “I know where I am. I’m in a sort of underground forest, and you are a very old elf.”
Fle chuckled, a sound like gravel rolling down a hill. “Ah, but you are. Lost in the way that all mortals are. You are looking for an adventure, aren’t you?”
Alice’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been watching the world for a very long time,” Fle said, settling himself on a mossy root. “And I’ve learned that the ones who fall into the quiet places are the ones who are looking for the loudest stories.” He gestured with a spindly finger to the world around them. “This place is full of them. The tales that have been forgotten. The songs that have been silenced.”
He told her a story of a talking mushroom that wept tears of light, and of a river that flowed with liquid dreams. He spoke of a queen who ruled over a kingdom of clouds, and a knight who wore armor made of moonlight. His words were like a spell, weaving pictures in the air, and Alice listened, her heart thrumming with the rhythm of his ancient tales.
“So, you see,” Fle said, when he had finished, “the world is not just a place to be. It is a place to be discovered. And sometimes, the most wonderful discoveries are found when you fall into the quiet places.”
Alice stood up, her blue dress a beacon in the twilight. “Thank you, Fle,” she said, her voice full of a new kind of wonder. “I think… I think I understand now. It’s not about finding my way back. It’s about finding my way forward.”
Fle smiled, a thousand years of wisdom in the gentle curve of his lips. “Precisely,” he said. And then, as quietly as he had appeared, he faded back into the shadows of the old oak, leaving Alice alone with the rustling ferns and the whispers of a thousand forgotten tales, ready to write her own.
Alice on Top of the World
🌟 Alice on Top of the World 🌟
Alice climbed the tower tall,
Above the streets, above it all.
No rabbit late, no ticking clock,
Just breezes dancing ‘round the block.
The rooftops bloomed with flowers bright,
A secret garden kissed by light.
She twirled her skirt, her bow held fast,
And waved at clouds that floated past.
“Hello!” she called to birds in flight,
Who answered back with sheer delight.
The sun on glass made castles gleam,
The city shimmered like a dream.
No Hatter fussed, no Duchess frowned,
No Queen to shout, “Off with her crown!”
Instead she ruled with gentle cheer,
The sky her throne, her realm so near.
Her subjects? Windows, bricks, and bees,
And secret whispers in the breeze.
Her courtiers? Flowers, tall and free,
Her crown? A wreath of greenery.
So Alice laughed, and Alice sang,
Her joy across the skyline rang.
For Wonderland was not below,
But up above, where gardens grow.
And every soul who paused to see,
Felt lighter, brighter, suddenly—
For happiness, when shared, can twirl…
Like Alice, on top of the world.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 