A/N: 'Kay, so I'm totally new to actually posting stories onto FFNET. Yeah... The end.
Disclaimer: I, in fact, do own KH and all Disney items. However, due to some major secret meeting we had like 3 years ago, they said that it would make people jealous if I went around bragging. In conclusion, "I do not actually own Kingdom Hearts. Oh darn." (Read: monotone)
Summary: Due to the shenanigans of a little white rabbit, Alice Pleasance Liddell has forgotten happiness. But that's the least of her worries. With the arrival of strange, new neighbors, bizarre things have been stirring. Worst of all, somebody's been painting the roses.
Life After Wonderland
Prologue: Enter the Narrator
You ever have those days where you wake up and for some reason unbeknownst to you, every action that you do, every person that you meet, and every object of which you use must go under an intense scrutiny? Where under normal circumstances, you would've sat down at the table, grabbed your plate, and with little intervention of the utensils provided, shoveled the food into your mouth and sent it ultimately to the acidic depths of your stomach without so much as a passing thought. But then there are those days, which in case of the same scenario mentioned above, you casually sit at your table, look at the other occupants and note what they're doing (and noticing therefore the horrendous manner of which your brothers eat and then ponder if that is the way that you, too, eat your breakfast in the average situation, all the while moving your seat a fraction of an inch to the right as if devouring your food like an animal is as contagious as the black plague), before looking down and noting your own breakfast and how if you tilt your head to the right just ever so slightly and close your left eye while squinting the right one, your breakfast almost looks like the face of Jesus. Now, were you a religious person, perhaps you'd push your plate forward and decide that you are not about to eat Jesus' face as that would definitely call for some damnation of the soul. However, if you so happen to not be religious or of a conflicting religion to Christianity, perhaps at that precise moment you'd pick up your fork and dig in, while idly wondering why the face of Jesus tastes like sausage and eggs. (At this point, I suppose I should go ahead and place a disclaimer, for I'm most certain that the face of Jesus, or any ligament of him for that matter, does not taste anything remotely similar to sausage and eggs. That would be rather bizarre.)
But I digress.
These pensive moods as all are susceptible to tend to pose as quite the thorn in one's side for many simply in regards to the inhibitor they can be. Quite the anticatalyst, if we were speaking in scientific terms. For you see, when one sees everything that which surrounds it in an entirely new way, a way that sends the viewer into a lapse of awareness of their environment, leaving merely them and the item of which their thoughts linger, all one wishes to do is sit and dwell and ponder the whole day through, a desire that is truly out of the question for there are jobs to be done, bills to be paid, and people to be met. (Another disclaimer is due here simply for the matter that not all people have jobs to do, bills to pay, or people to meet, and for those few, I state not only this disclaimer but my sympathies as well.)
However, there are those, of which I myself am included, who find great amusement out of these most extraordinary days. It is upon these days that the true scholar that which we harbor within ourselves bursts forth and covers the world in a glow of importance and meaning and value. We dwell, yes; we ponder, yes. But we live and see and grow more in one day than is possible in a thousands years (figuratively speaking, of course.)
Many of my best days were spent just on the outskirts of my birthplace. There was the most beautiful hill covered in the loveliest spring flowers that I've seen to date. I'd spend warm spring afternoons idling on the side of the great hill, which had been named Clover Hill some decades before. Hours I'd lay motionless simply contemplating and reflecting until the sky grew dark and the clouds parted to show the biggest moon you've ever seen accompanied with the brightest of blinking stars. Both of which would draw me from my reverie only to send me back again onto another path entirely. Such fond memories I possess from the days of my youth. Why, I remember this one time...
(Several hours later, as noted by the purely sympathetic author who had NOT foreseen this coming at all. Well, okay. Maybe a little.)
...and they said that I didn't know how to have fun. Well, ha! I say. I bet that goat is still trying to grow its hair back. Rather tragic about the hen, however. Simply a victim of my miscalculations.
Ah, me and my memory, I feel as if I'm forgetting something, some trivial matter that which perhaps may not be so trivial for it could affect the entire known universe as we speak. The matter of which I speak was divulged unto me so that I may pass it on to you. A rather important trivial matter it was. (And yes, I am well aware that by labeling a matter as both 'trivial' and 'important' is an oxymoron. I merely state it this way as this is the way that it was told to me. An important trivial matter, it had been called when told to me. Therefore, an important trivial matter it shall be called when told to you.) Ah, let's see, let's see. What ever could it have possibly been that I had been told to tell you? It was something important, I warrant. Something so very important, indeed.
Hmm.
You know, bad memories run in the family. Yes, terrible memories we have in my family. I recollect this one instance with my Uncle Joseph. Poor gent. He had the worst memory out of all of us. There was this one time, well day rather, and a terribly eventful day it was for my poor uncle. You see, one day my Uncle Joseph, who lived only a moment's walk down the lane, well he, ah. Ah, he... I can't seem to remember what it is that he did. Nor can I remember what it is that happened as a result.
Oh it was such a good story, too. I remember telling it at the conference. Everybody simply loved it.
Ah well, I can't seem to remember it for the life of me. Perhaps if I tell a story, it'll come back.
Now, this story that which I shall tell to you is not one that I know personally, merely for I held no role within the sequence of events. It involves people that you certainly may know and several that you do not, simply because they have yet to be introduced in a public setting. However, if any persons so claim the right of being acquainted with those particular characters, if you will, let it be known that they are, and I quote, "dirty, stinking liars." (Naturally, a disclaimer is needed simply for though they shall be lying by claiming acquaintance with the characters and therefore that qualifies them as 'liars', they may not however be either 'dirty' or 'stinking' as they perhaps may very well be clean, minty-fresh liars that which do indeed shower regularly.)
Now then, this particular story was scribed some time ago by an individual that which took part in the events. However, as reading from a paper is unappealing to me, I shall take the account and form it into my own telling. And for the last and final disclaimer, for the chronicle that which follows, let it be duly noted that I am merely the narrator and therefore hold no power of the events that follow. Any complaints and/or inquisitions shall be directed to the participants of the account of which I shall divulge unto you.
Do enjoy the narrative, as it is one of my very favorites.
A/N: Personally, I love the narrator. Whenever I read this, I always hear the typical fairytale reader guy. You know, like the ones that have the deep voice that has a slightly British undertone and tells the simplest of fairytales way too flowery. Yeah, that's what I hear. And if THAT's not a good enough description, Gandalf's (LOTR) voice would work as well.