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"Poor Alice in Nothingland"
The route was on standby and the road was white. There was nothing but a long and distinct path that wound it's way to nowhere. It seemed to Alice that there was a stop sign at the end of it, but for her name's sake she could not reach it. Like the "la la la la" melody floating in the background it seemed so far. Her eyes rose into a chapter not so near but not quite far into her life. In an incomprehensible scramble, her conscience turned the page.
Chapter 1:
Food
Of all the foods Alice had had, before arriving in Nothingland, strawberry cream cake was the best. In Alice's world she called Wonderland, she'd dream of monsters and devils. Or so she called them, for others would say the "undead". Wonderland was a place for dark fairies such as Alice, were one of such nature could roam, free without glares or stairs. Her imagination was empty, and Alice could not do with the creative art called cooking, for she barely ate. Also, she was not in Wonderland, she was in some distant place called England.
How does one make strawberry cake when one cannot cook? I will make the worst strawberry cake ever; I cannot tell salt from sugar. I do not like food. Vampiress suits me best as my only need would be blood, and I could live in the shadows of Wonderland forever. All to hell those who cook!
Alice was a girl of 18 with a conscience of 3, her eyes dug deep into her skin. Un-Princess of pallor, there's such as thing as dark and such was Alice's skin. If you've seen long black hair, tangled as in decadent nightmares, you'd understand what sits upon her head. Below her waist, above her knees she let it loose and free. Her mother would dress her in blue, in blue, in blue. Light, always, and nothing more, her dresses were never long nor short. If her mother said wear than she shall wear. Always respect the mother. In Alice's dreams she was the Victorian queen with velvet, hats and boots.
But, this was not a dream, and Alice picked up the sugar, lime and eggs. Freshly picked from her not-own hands on official Louisiana soil. A farm of growth, a house of luxury, this is where Alice lived. Three maids for a room (or perhaps that's exaggerated, but something of the likes anyway) two cooks for each, the mother of the daughter, the daughter of the mother. And, a fairly strange gentleman who answers the door. A fully equipped house indeed, one person for one and each function. How wonderfully wonderful. But perhaps not for Alice. That is why Alice wanted to make a cake, particularly a strawberry cream cake. She was going to break the rules of a good lady, and make something of her own. An adventurous task; a risk.
Now how anything was made, Alice did not know. Her apron was on, her silk gloves off. She had beaten the eggs, strawberries, sugar and limes and added it all in a buttered pan, topped off with heaps of flour. In the oven, out the oven. The cake had not risen nor fallen.
Strawberry cream cake.
The taste matched the looks. Alice never ate strawberry cream cake again.
