I'll Kill You If You Call Me Alice
folder
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
2,295
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
2,295
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Character's Based off Louis Carrol Works.
I'll Kill You If You Call Me Alice
My name is Alice. Now, before you start imagining me as a cute blond girl, let me warn you.
I am male.
Also, don't call me Alice. You can refer to me as Al, or Ice. Just... not Alice. I'll kill you if you call me Alice.
Yes, that's right. Laugh at my misfortune. It's a family name.
My grandmother is Alice, as in Alice through the looking glass, Alice in wonderland Alice. She would tell me stories as a child, about how the mad-hatter wasn't as mad as he seemed, and how the tea at the party had smelled faintly like jasmine.
She is my one and only friend, and I can trust her with anything, though I'm not so sure I can say the same for her.
Everyone tells me I look like my grandmother. Though my mother was pretty, she was different. Long, wavy masses of brown hair and big, brown doe eyes.
Nothing like me. I'm white as a sheet, and my hair is as light and fine as cornsilk. My eyes are ice-blue and slanted, much like a cat's.
The day I saw the picture of my grandmother as a girl was when it all started to fall gently into place. I saw exactly what everyone had said was an uncanny resemblance. The eyes, the hair, even the set of the mouth (an almost sarcastic smile). She was as light and airy as I am not, though. She feels delighted at everything, and everyone loves her for her 'wild imagination and childlike innocence'. She has a friend in everyone.
But she took me in, an anti-social, moody guy named Alice. And now this is my home.
Home is rather big, with large fields of wild flowers and trees. The house itself is an old victorian, with large windows and a parlor that hosts a baby grand piano. No one ever learned to play that piano, unfortunately. But grandmother taught me to play violin, and sometimes we play together in the evening. I always love the sounds of the sweet, sad music drifting over the wet rosebushes, the storms that happen more often than not a vague memory in the mind of a child.
My earliest memory of my grandmother is us sitting under a tree, making daisy chains to hang around the house. She's in love with anything that is abnormal, or strange in the least, be it a bit of wood or a blown glass bead.
But this is not about my grandmother. It's about me, going from being ashamed of my name, myself, to thanking any deity I can think of for the wonderful fortune I have, and everything that happened in between.
I am male.
Also, don't call me Alice. You can refer to me as Al, or Ice. Just... not Alice. I'll kill you if you call me Alice.
Yes, that's right. Laugh at my misfortune. It's a family name.
My grandmother is Alice, as in Alice through the looking glass, Alice in wonderland Alice. She would tell me stories as a child, about how the mad-hatter wasn't as mad as he seemed, and how the tea at the party had smelled faintly like jasmine.
She is my one and only friend, and I can trust her with anything, though I'm not so sure I can say the same for her.
Everyone tells me I look like my grandmother. Though my mother was pretty, she was different. Long, wavy masses of brown hair and big, brown doe eyes.
Nothing like me. I'm white as a sheet, and my hair is as light and fine as cornsilk. My eyes are ice-blue and slanted, much like a cat's.
The day I saw the picture of my grandmother as a girl was when it all started to fall gently into place. I saw exactly what everyone had said was an uncanny resemblance. The eyes, the hair, even the set of the mouth (an almost sarcastic smile). She was as light and airy as I am not, though. She feels delighted at everything, and everyone loves her for her 'wild imagination and childlike innocence'. She has a friend in everyone.
But she took me in, an anti-social, moody guy named Alice. And now this is my home.
Home is rather big, with large fields of wild flowers and trees. The house itself is an old victorian, with large windows and a parlor that hosts a baby grand piano. No one ever learned to play that piano, unfortunately. But grandmother taught me to play violin, and sometimes we play together in the evening. I always love the sounds of the sweet, sad music drifting over the wet rosebushes, the storms that happen more often than not a vague memory in the mind of a child.
My earliest memory of my grandmother is us sitting under a tree, making daisy chains to hang around the house. She's in love with anything that is abnormal, or strange in the least, be it a bit of wood or a blown glass bead.
But this is not about my grandmother. It's about me, going from being ashamed of my name, myself, to thanking any deity I can think of for the wonderful fortune I have, and everything that happened in between.