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If you are missing Christmas…

03 Apr
If you are missing Christmas…

The Christmas That Came on the 4:32

Sunbury-on-Thames, December 1964.

The frost arrived early that year, settling itself politely on the rooftops as though it had been invited weeks in advance. By mid-month, every hedge wore a thin white collar, and the river—slow and thoughtful at the best of times—seemed to move only out of habit.

Twelve-year-old Peter Hargreaves noticed things like that.

He noticed the way the milk bottles chimed faintly in the cold mornings.
He noticed the smell of coal fires drifting through Green Street.
And, most particularly, he noticed trains.

The 4:32 from Waterloo was his favourite.

It wasn’t the fastest, nor the most important, but it had a certain… pause about it. A hesitation. As if, just before arriving at Sunbury station, it considered whether it ought to go somewhere else entirely.

Peter mentioned this once to his father.

“Nonsense,” said Mr Hargreaves, without looking up from The Daily Express. “Trains don’t think. They run to schedule.”

But Peter wasn’t so sure.

The Parcel

On the 22nd of December, the 4:32 arrived under a sky the colour of old tin. Peter stood on the platform as usual, hands in pockets, breath puffing like a small steam engine of his own.

The train slowed.

Stopped.

Waited.

And then—this was the curious part—no one got off.

The doors opened, but the carriage nearest Peter remained empty. Completely empty. No passengers. No luggage. Nothing at all.

Except for a single parcel on the seat.

Peter glanced up and down the platform. The stationmaster was busy arguing with a man about a missing umbrella. No one else seemed to notice.

So Peter did what any sensible boy would do.

He stepped into the carriage.

The air inside was warmer, faintly smelling of leather and something else—pine, perhaps, or snow. The parcel sat squarely in the centre of the seat, wrapped in brown paper and tied with red string.

There was a label.

It read:

“To Whoever Notices First.”

Peter swallowed.

“Well,” he said quietly, “that would be me, then.”

The Opening

He took the parcel home under his coat.

His mother was in the kitchen, humming along to the wireless while peeling potatoes.

“You’re late,” she said.

“Train was… thinking,” Peter replied.

She nodded absently. “They do that this time of year.”

Peter blinked. “They do?”

“Mm,” she said. “Now wash your hands.”

That evening, after supper, Peter sat by the small electric fire in the sitting room. The Christmas tree—slightly crooked, decorated with glass baubles and tinsel that refused to behave—glowed softly beside him.

He placed the parcel on his lap.

For a long moment, he simply looked at it.

Then he untied the string.

Inside was a small wooden box.

Inside the box…

…was a bell.

Not a large bell, nor particularly shiny—just a simple, brass handbell, the sort one might find in a railway office long ago.

There was a note tucked beneath it.

Peter unfolded it.

It read:

“Ring this only when something has been forgotten.”

The Missing Thing

At first, Peter couldn’t think of anything that had been forgotten.

Everything seemed perfectly in place.

The tree was up.
The presents (or what he assumed were presents) sat beneath it.
His father had even managed to find proper Christmas crackers this year.

And yet…

There was a feeling.

A small, quiet gap in things. Like a word on the tip of your tongue that refuses to arrive.

The next morning, Peter walked through Sunbury with the bell in his pocket.

Something was off.

Mrs Dalrymple at the post office wrapped parcels carefully—but didn’t smile.
The baker sold mince pies—but didn’t hum.
Even the church bell rang—but somehow sounded… empty.

Peter stopped by the river.

“What’s missing?” he asked aloud.

The river, as usual, declined to answer.

So Peter took out the bell.

He hesitated.

“Only when something has been forgotten,” he murmured.

He thought of Christmases past—paper chains, laughter, his mother singing, his father pretending not to enjoy it but always laughing at the worst jokes.

And suddenly, he knew.

“It’s the feeling,” he said.

“The proper Christmas feeling.”

And with that, he rang the bell.

What Came Back

The sound was small.

Clear.

And impossibly distant, as though it had travelled a long way to be heard at all.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

The air shifted.

A breeze—not cold, but crisp—moved through the street. The frost on the hedges glittered brighter. Somewhere, someone began to laugh—properly laugh, not just politely.

Mrs Dalrymple looked up from her parcels and smiled for no reason at all.
The baker began humming again, loudly and badly.
Even the river seemed to move with a little more purpose.

Peter felt it most of all.

A warmth—not from the fire, not from his coat—but something deeper, older.

Something remembered.

The Return Journey

On Christmas Eve, Peter returned to the station.

The 4:32 arrived exactly on time.

This time, the carriage was not empty. It was full of people—chatting, laughing, carrying parcels and stories and all the small chaos of Christmas.

But on the same seat…

There was space.

Peter stepped inside and placed the bell back where he had found it.

“Thank you,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely sure to whom.

As he stepped off the train, the guard gave him a curious look.

“Did you leave something behind, lad?”

Peter smiled.

“No,” he said. “I think we got it back.”

The train doors closed.

The 4:32 pulled away.

And just before it vanished into the winter dusk, Peter could have sworn it paused—just slightly—as if satisfied.

Afterwards

That Christmas in Sunbury-on-Thames was remembered for many reasons.

For the cold.

For the snow that finally came in the early hours of Christmas morning.

But most of all, though no one quite said it plainly, it was remembered for feeling right again.

As for Peter…

He still watched the trains.

And every so often, when one lingered just a moment longer than it ought to…

He would nod, very slightly.

Because some things, he knew now, did not run on schedules at all.

 
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Posted by on April 3, 2026 in 1960s, Christmas story, Short story, sunbury on thames

 

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The kitchen didn’t just smell like spices; it smelled like treachery.

02 Apr
The kitchen didn’t just smell like spices; it smelled like treachery.
The kitchen didn’t just smell like spices; it smelled like treachery.
Arthur Thorne, a baker with a temper shorter than a sourdough starter, stared at the tray of Hot Cross Buns before him. He had spent twelve hours meticulously hydrating the dough, sourcing currants from a specific hillside in Greece, and piping the flour-paste crosses with the precision of a neurosurgeon.
Then came the “Reviewer.”
The Incident
The local food critic, a man whose palate was as dry as his personality, had just taken a bite and muttered the forbidden word: “Ordinary.”
Arthur didn’t just get mad. He went volcanic.
The Dough: He slammed his fist into the next batch so hard the flour formed a mushroom cloud.
The Spices: He didn’t sprinkle the cinnamon; he pelted the bowl with it like he was trying to blind a giant.
The Crosses: He piped them on with such aggressive force that they looked like tiny, white scars across the golden skin of the bread.
The Transformation
Arthur shoved the tray into the oven, glaring through the glass. “Ordinary? I’ll give you ordinary,” he hissed. He cranked the heat, ignoring the gentle rise and demanding a crust of pure defiance.
When the timer dinged, it sounded like a battle cry. The buns didn’t just look hot; they looked furious, the glaze was bubbling like molten lava, and the steam rising from them carried a scent so sharp it could peel paint.
The Confrontation
He marched back into the dining room, the tray vibrating in his hands. He slammed a bun down in front of the critic.
“Eat it,” Arthur growled.
The critic hesitated. The bun was radiating a palpable, vengeful heat. He took a bite. The currants were like little bursts of sweet shrapnel. The nutmeg hit like a physical blow. The “cross” was a jagged mark of culinary war.
The critic’s eyes watered. He gasped for air, his face turning the color of a ripe cherry.
“It’s… it’s…”
“It’s what?” Arthur leaned in, his apron covered in the soot of his own rage.
“It’s… intense,” the critic squeaked.
—
Arthur finally exhaled. He didn’t care about the star rating anymore. He had successfully baked his own fury into a tea-time snack. He walked back to the kitchen, grabbed a rolling pin, and started on the next batch—this time, for the scones. And God help the person who called his scones “crumbly.”

To capture the raw, unbridled fury of Arthur Thorne, these aren’t your grandmother’s Sunday morning treats. We’re swapping the gentle warmth of cinnamon for a heat that demands respect.

This recipe uses a “tangzhong” method for the dough—not for softness, but because Arthur knows that a hydrated dough traps the vengeance better.

The “Spicy & Spiteful” Hot Cross Buns

Yields: 12 buns of pure defiance

Prep time: 2 hours of aggressive kneading

I. The Infusion of Rage

In a small saucepan, combine:

  • 250ml Whole milk

  • 2 Whole star anise (to be removed later)

  • 1 tsp Red chili flakes (crushed finely)

  • 5 Black peppercorns

Method: Heat until simmering, then remove from heat. Let it steep for 10 minutes so the milk absorbs the “attitude.” Strain and let cool to lukewarm.

II. The Dry Defiance

In a large bowl (or a stand mixer if you’re feeling lazy, though Arthur wouldn’t approve), whisk:

  • 500g Strong bread flour

  • 75g Caster sugar

  • 10g Fine sea salt

  • 7g Instant yeast

  • 2 tsp Ground ginger (for a sharp bite)

  • 1 tsp Cayenne pepper (the “spite” factor)

III. The Assembly

  1. The Hydration: Pour the infused milk and 1 large beaten egg into the dry mix. Knead until the dough is smooth, elastic, and looks like it could hold a grudge.

  2. The Inclusions: Aggressively fold in 150g of dark currants and 50g of chopped crystallized ginger. The ginger provides a sudden, sharp sting that keeps the critic on their toes.

  3. The Proof: Cover with a damp cloth and leave in a warm place for 1 hour. It should double in size, fueled by its own internal pressure.

IV. The Scarring (Crosses)

Mix 75g plain flour with enough water to make a thick paste. Add a drop of hot sauce to the paste—not for flavor, but for the principle of the thing. Pipe thick, jagged crosses over the risen buns.

V. The Incineration

Bake at 190°C for 15–20 minutes. You want them deep gold, almost bronze—a color that says, “I’ve seen things.”

VI. The Final Insult (Glaze)

While hot, brush with a mixture of:

  • 2 tbsp Apricot jam

  • 1 tsp Sriracha or chili oil

Baker’s Note: Serve these to anyone who uses the word “moist” or “ordinary” in your presence. The initial sweetness of the apricot glaze will lure them in, but the cayenne and black pepper finish will ensure they never forget your name.

 
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Posted by on April 2, 2026 in hot cross buns, humor, humour

 

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The Day the Hot Cross Buns Refused to Behave.

02 Apr
The Day the Hot Cross Buns Refused to Behave.

The Day the Hot Cross Buns Refused to Behave.

In Ballykillduff, there are certain things one may rely upon.
The post box is green.
The wind comes in sideways.
And on Good Friday, Mrs Flannery’s hot cross buns behave themselves.
Except, of course, for the year they didn’t.
It began, as all respectable disasters do, with a smell.
Not an ordinary smell—no, Ballykillduff had long ago grown accustomed to smells that suggested something mildly supernatural was occurring behind the butcher’s or under the bridge. This was a confident smell. A proud smell. A smell that marched down Main Street like it owned the place.
“Buns,” said Mr Byrne, the baker, stepping outside his shop and sniffing the air with professional concern. “Hot cross buns. And not mine.”
This was troubling. Mr Byrne’s buns were the official buns of Ballykillduff, having won the Annual Bun-Related Excellence Award three years running (and once by default when no one else remembered to bake any).
Mrs Flannery emerged from her shop just as the smell intensified.
“Do you smell that?” she asked.
“I do,” said Mr Byrne. “And I don’t like the tone of it.”
They followed the scent to the village square, where a small crowd had gathered around the fountain—the one that occasionally remembered things it hadn’t seen yet.
At first, no one spoke.
Then Jimmy McGroggan (who distrusted anything that rose, floated, or behaved optimistically) pointed upward.
“There,” he said. “Look.”
Hovering just above the fountain were buns.
Hot cross buns.
Not one or two, mind you—but dozens. They bobbed gently in the air like well-behaved balloons, each one perfectly golden, each one marked with a neat white cross, and each one—most suspiciously—steaming.
“Well,” said Mrs Flannery after a long pause. “That’s new.”
At precisely nine o’clock, the buns began to descend.
Now, in most villages, this would have caused panic. Screaming. Possibly the ringing of a bell.
In Ballykillduff, however, people simply stepped back slightly and allowed events to continue, as they generally did.
The buns landed neatly on the paving stones in a tidy arrangement that suggested either great intelligence or an alarming degree of organisation.
Then one of them bounced.
Just once.
A soft, polite bounce.
“Did you see that?” whispered someone.
Another bun rolled forward slightly, as if clearing its throat.
Then—quite without warning—the entire collection began to move.
They did not scatter.
That would have been understandable.
Instead, they arranged themselves into a queue.
A perfectly straight queue.
Facing Mr Byrne’s bakery.
Mr Byrne stared at them.
“I refuse,” he said firmly, “to be queued at by baked goods.”
The buns waited.
There was no pushing, no jostling, no attempt to skip ahead. If anything, they were more polite than the average Ballykillduff resident on a busy morning.
After a moment, the front bun gave a small hop forward and tapped—very gently—against the bakery door.
Tap.
Silence.
Tap tap.
Mr Byrne folded his arms.
“I’m not serving them,” he said.
“You might have to,” said Mrs Flannery. “They seem committed.”
The situation escalated when the buns began producing exact change.
No one saw where the coins came from.
They simply… appeared. Small, neat piles of coins sat beside each bun, as if they had always been there and everyone had just been too distracted to notice.
Jimmy McGroggan crouched down and examined one.
“Well,” he muttered, “at least they’re paying customers.”
Reluctantly, Mr Byrne opened the door.
The buns shuffled forward.
One by one, they entered the shop.
What followed has since been described (in the official village minutes) as “a most peculiar but orderly transaction.”
Each bun approached the counter.
Paused.
Then nudged its coins forward.
Mr Byrne, after a long internal debate about the collapse of reality, handed each bun… another bun.
“No refunds,” he added automatically.
The buns accepted this.
They turned.
And left.
By mid-morning, Ballykillduff had a new problem.
There were now twice as many buns.
Because each bun had purchased a bun.
And those buns, it appeared, were just as capable of independent thought as the original batch.
“They’re multiplying,” said Mrs Flannery.
“They’re investing,” corrected Jimmy.
By noon, the buns had formed committees.
There was a Bun for Queue Management.
A Bun for Fair Distribution.
And, somewhat ominously, a Bun for Future Planning.
The village grew uneasy.
It is one thing for buns to bounce.
It is quite another for them to organise.
The crisis reached its peak at half past two, when the buns held a meeting in the square.
Mr Byrne, Mrs Flannery, Jimmy McGroggan, and several concerned residents gathered at a safe and respectful distance.
The Bun for Future Planning rolled to the front.
It cleared its… crust.
Then, with great dignity, it tipped itself slightly forward.
And stopped.
Nothing happened.
“Is that it?” asked someone.
“I think so,” said Mr Byrne.
They waited.
The buns remained perfectly still.
Then, slowly—very slowly—the steam began to fade.
The warmth softened.
The bounce diminished.
And, one by one, the buns simply… became buns.
Ordinary buns.
Still. Quiet. Entirely uninterested in commerce or governance.
By evening, Ballykillduff had returned to normal.
Mostly.
Mr Byrne gathered the remaining buns and placed them carefully on a tray.
“Well,” he said, “they seem harmless now.”
“Are you going to sell them?” asked Mrs Flannery.
Mr Byrne paused.
He considered the events of the day.
The queues.
The coins.
The committees.
The brief but undeniable sense that he had been professionally outperformed by his own product.
“No,” he said firmly. “These are not for sale.”
“What will you do with them?”
Mr Byrne looked out at the village square, where everything was once again behaving in a reasonably predictable manner.
“I think,” he said slowly, “we shall eat them… quietly… and not discuss this ever again.”
And that is precisely what Ballykillduff did.
Except, of course, for one small detail.
The next morning, when Mr Byrne opened the bakery door, he found—neatly arranged on the counter—
A single coin.
And beside it…
One perfectly warm, very fresh hot cross bun.
Waiting its turn.
*************************************************************
Epilogue — The Bun That Waited
The following morning in Ballykillduff arrived with its usual sense of mild uncertainty.
The post box was green (as expected).
The wind was sideways (as required).
And Mr Byrne opened his bakery door with the careful expression of a man who had been professionally challenged by baked goods and was not eager for a rematch.
There, upon the counter, sat the bun.
Neat. Warm. Patient.
And beside it—
A single coin.
Mr Byrne stared at it for a long time.
“Well,” he said at last, “we are not doing this again.”
“Doing what?” came a voice behind him.
He turned.
Standing in the doorway, brushing a stray lock of long blonde hair from her face, was a girl in a blue pinafore dress, looking at the bun with great interest.
“I’m fairly certain,” she said, stepping inside, “that this is the sort of thing one ought to investigate.”
Mr Byrne narrowed his eyes.
“You’re not from here.”
“No,” said Alice pleasantly. “But I do seem to arrive in places just as they begin to behave oddly. Or perhaps I arrive because they already have.”
She leaned closer to the bun.
It did not move.
But it did seem, in a way that was difficult to prove, to be waiting.
“For what?” asked Mr Byrne.
Alice considered this.
“For its turn,” she said.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
Mrs Flannery appeared moments later, followed by Jimmy McGroggan, who had come prepared for disappointment and, if necessary, mild outrage.
“What’s the situation?” Jimmy asked.
Mr Byrne pointed.
“The situation,” he said, “is that we have a bun. A coin. And a sense of unfinished business.”
Jimmy squinted.
“It looks quiet enough.”
Alice smiled.
“Oh, things often do—right up until they aren’t.”
There was a pause.
The kind of pause Ballykillduff understood well.
A pause in which something might happen… or might decide not to… or might wait just long enough to be inconvenient.
Then, very gently—
The bun gave a small bounce.
Just once.
Jimmy stepped back.
“I knew it,” he said. “Optimism.”
The coin slid forward by the smallest imaginable distance.
Clink.
Mr Byrne closed his eyes.
“No committees,” he muttered. “No queues. No financial independence.”
Alice, however, looked delighted.
“Oh, I don’t think it wants all that again,” she said. “I think it only wants to see what happens next.”
“And what does happen next?” asked Mrs Flannery.
Alice straightened.
She looked at the bun.
Then at the coin.
Then at Mr Byrne.
“Well,” she said, very gently, “it’s paid.”
Mr Byrne hesitated.
He glanced at the shelves.
At the ovens.
At the quiet, perfectly ordinary buns that had returned to their proper, non-ambitious state.
Then he sighed.
“All right,” he said. “But just the once.”
He reached behind the counter and picked up a fresh hot cross bun.
He placed it carefully in front of the waiting one.
“There,” he said. “Transaction complete.”
The bun did not move immediately.
It seemed to consider the moment.
Then—
It nudged the new bun slightly.
As if acknowledging it.
As if passing something on.
And then—
It settled.
Perfectly still.
Entirely ordinary.
Alice watched this with great satisfaction.
“You see?” she said.
“No,” said Jimmy. “I don’t.”
“It didn’t want to multiply,” Alice explained. “It didn’t want to organise. It didn’t even want to queue.”
“What did it want, then?” asked Mrs Flannery.
Alice smiled.
“To finish.”
There was a quietness in the bakery then.
A soft, settled sort of quiet.
The kind that comes after something has made up its mind to stop being peculiar.
Mr Byrne looked at the two buns.
Then, cautiously, he picked one up.
It behaved.
He took a bite.
It was excellent.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “that’s that, then.”
Alice stepped back toward the door.
“Will you be staying?” asked Mrs Flannery.
Alice shook her head.
“No, I think not. Things seem to be concluding here.”
She paused.
Then added, with a thoughtful look toward the counter—
“Though one never knows when something might decide it hasn’t quite finished after all.”
Jimmy groaned.
“Don’t say that.”
And with that, Alice stepped out into Ballykillduff.
The wind caught her hair.
The village carried on.
And inside the bakery, everything remained exactly as it ought to be.
Except—
If you looked very closely—
You might notice, tucked just behind the till—
A second coin.
Waiting.
Not impatiently.
Just… patiently enough.
 
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Posted by on April 2, 2026 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, humor, humour, Stories for children

 

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Do Not Enter.

01 Apr

Do Not Enter.

The Rabbit Hole didn’t usually feature a “Do Not Enter” sign, but today it was draped in neon orange bunting.
Alice, never one to let a sign ruin a good tumble, hopped right over it. As she drifted down, she noticed the usual jam jars and bookshelves had been replaced by floating rubber chickens and mirrors that showed her wearing a very tall, purple top hat.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” she remarked, reaching out to touch a chicken. It let out a loud honk that propelled her downward at twice the speed.
The Un-April Tea Party
When Alice finally landed—not on a heap of sticks and leaves, but on a giant custard pie—she found the March Hare and the Mad Hatter sitting at a table shaped like a question mark.
“No room! No room!” the Hatter shouted, while gesturing wildly to three dozen empty chairs.
“There’s plenty of room,” Alice said, wiping a dollop of lemon curd from her pinafore. She sat down and reached for a teapot.
The March Hare leaned in, his whiskers twitching. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. It’s April First, you know. The day when the logic of Wonderland actually tries to make sense.”
Alice paused. “Make sense? But that sounds lovely.”
“It’s a nightmare!” the Hatter wailed. He picked up his pocket watch. “Look! It’s actually telling the time! It says it’s eight minutes past two. How am I supposed to live under such rigid conditions?”
The Queen’s “Mercy”
A bugle sounded, and the Queen of Hearts marched onto the lawn. Her guards, the playing cards, were all walking backward.
“Off with their heads!” the Queen bellowed.
Alice braced herself, but the Queen suddenly doubled over in a fit of giggles. She pulled a silk string, and instead of an executioner’s axe, a giant bouquet of trick-flowers popped out of the ground, spraying the crowd with sparkling grape juice.
“April Fools!” the Queen shrieked, slapping her knee. “I’m not beheading anyone today. Instead, I’m sentencing you all to… a very sensible nap!“
The cards groaned. A sensible nap was the most boring thing a Wonderland resident could imagine.
The Cheshire Grin
Alice felt a familiar tickle of whiskers against her ear. The Cheshire Cat appeared, or rather, his stripes appeared first, followed by a pair of sunglasses.
“Why the long face, Alice?” the Cat purred. “Don’t you like the holiday?”
“It’s all very confusing,” Alice sighed. “If the Queen is being nice, and the Hatter is being punctual, then who is being silly?”
The Cat’s grin grew until it took up half the sky. “You are, of course. You came to a world of nonsense looking for a bit of order, and you found it on the one day we don’t want it.”
He handed her a small, wrapped gift. “Open it.”
Alice carefully untied the ribbon. Inside was a small mirror. When she looked into it, her reflection didn’t look like her at all—it was a white rabbit, looking at its watch and muttering about being late.
“April Fools,” the reflection whispered.
Alice blinked, and suddenly the tea party, the Queen, and the Cat vanished. She was back on the grassy bank, her sister shaking her shoulder.
“Wake up, Alice! You’ve been dreaming.”
Alice sat up, rubbing her eyes. She reached into her pocket and felt something cold and hard. She pulled it out: a tiny, silver whistle shaped like a rubber chicken.
She looked at her sister and smiled. “I think the joke’s on me.”
 
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Posted by on April 1, 2026 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, Alice in Wonderland

 

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The Day the Postbox Refused Certain Letters

31 Mar
The Day the Postbox Refused Certain Letters

The Day the Postbox Refused Certain Letters

In Ballykillduff, the postbox had always been green, dependable, and mildly overlooked.

It stood beside the village square, not far from the fountain that sometimes remembered things before they happened, and within polite nodding distance of Mrs Flannery’s shop, where news was sold in equal measure with bread.

No one had ever thought much about the postbox.

Until the morning it began to think about them.

It started, as such things often do, with a small and easily dismissed inconvenience.

Mrs Flannery approached with a letter held between two fingers, as though it might yet change its mind.

“I’ve written to my sister,” she said aloud, because she often did that. “Perfectly reasonable. Perfectly timely.”

She slid the letter into the slot.

The postbox accepted it.

Then paused.

Then, with a quiet and distinctly deliberate motion…

returned it.

The envelope slipped back out, as neat as you please, and landed against her shoe.

Mrs Flannery frowned.

“Well now,” she said. “That’s… unnecessary.”

She tried again.

The postbox tried again.

The result was identical.

By mid-morning, the matter had gathered an audience.

Mr Hanrahan, who dealt in railway timings and therefore trusted systems, posted a form.

The postbox accepted it instantly.

“Functional,” he declared, with satisfaction.

A child posted a drawing of a duck wearing a hat.

The postbox hummed, a soft, approving sound, and swallowed it whole.

“Encouraging,” said Mrs Flannery, who was still holding her letter.

It was Mr Byrne the baker who noticed the sign.

“Ah now,” he said, squinting. “That wasn’t there yesterday.”

There, affixed just beneath the slot, in careful, looping handwriting, was a notice.

NO LETTERS OF REGRET
NO APOLOGIES WRITTEN TOO LATE
NO MESSAGES YOU SHOULD HAVE SAID YEARS AGO

The square fell into a thoughtful sort of silence.

“Well that’s ridiculous,” said Mrs Flannery.

And yet… she did not try to post the letter again.

By afternoon, the situation had worsened in a most peculiar way.

Letters that had been refused did not simply go home.

They lingered.

They gathered.

They rested against the base of the postbox, or perched along the fountain’s edge, or leaned thoughtfully against the green-painted bench.

And when the evening came…

they began to murmur.

Not loudly.

Not enough to cause alarm.

But enough that if one stood still—very still—and listened…

one might hear:

“I should have said it then…”
“It wasn’t meant like that…”
“I thought there would be more time…”

The square, which had always been a place of passing, became a place of pause.

Alice arrived just as the light began to soften.

She had been walking without particular direction, which in Ballykillduff often meant she arrived exactly where she was meant to be.

She regarded the postbox.

The sign.

The small congregation of unsent words.

And then, quite sensibly, she listened.

“Oh,” she said, after a moment.

“That’s rather clear.”

“What is?” asked Mr Hanrahan.

“It isn’t broken,” said Alice. “It’s being particular.”

“That’s worse,” said Mrs Flannery.

Alice walked slowly around the postbox, as though it might reveal something from the correct angle.

“It’s not refusing letters,” she said.
“It’s refusing timing.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Mr Byrne.

“These,” said Alice, gesturing gently to the scattered envelopes, “are all things meant for yesterday. Or last year. Or a moment that has already gone on without them.”

“Well that’s what letters are for,” said Mrs Flannery.

“Sometimes,” said Alice. “But not when they are trying to travel backwards.”

That night, the murmuring grew clearer.

Not louder.

But more certain.

The letters did not accuse.

They did not demand.

They simply… repeated themselves, as though waiting to be heard by the correct moment.

Which, unfortunately, had already passed.

The following morning, Ballykillduff was quieter than usual.

Not empty.

Not unhappy.

Just… aware.

Mrs Flannery opened her shop and said, to no one in particular:

“I should have told her I missed her.”

Then, after a pause, she added:

“I still do.”

Mr Byrne, weighing out flour, said:

“I was wrong about the oven.”

And then, after another pause:

“I know that now.”

Mr Hanrahan stood by the station and said:

“That wasn’t necessary. What I said.”

And though no one answered, the air itself seemed to acknowledge the effort.

Alice returned to the square carrying a single envelope.

It was plain.

Unaddressed, at first glance.

But as she turned it in her hands, the words revealed themselves—not written so much as decided.

To Whoever I Was Meant To Be

She considered the postbox.

The sign.

The quiet gathering of letters that no longer whispered quite so urgently.

“Well,” she said, “this doesn’t seem to belong to yesterday.”

She stepped forward and placed the envelope into the slot.

The postbox did not hesitate.

It accepted the letter.

Completely.

Without pause.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Which, in Ballykillduff, was often the beginning of something.

Over the next few days, the changes were small.

So small they might have gone unnoticed, had the village not been paying attention.

People spoke more.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

But at the right time.

A hand on a shoulder.

A word said before it became too late to say it easily.

A laugh shared instead of saved.

An apology given before it required a letter.

The pile of unsent letters grew thinner.

Not because they were posted.

But because they were no longer needed.

One morning, the sign changed.

No one saw it happen.

No one heard it being written.

But there it was, in the same careful hand:

SAY IT WHILE IT STILL MATTERS

The postbox returned to its usual stillness.

Green.

Dependable.

Mildly overlooked.

But from time to time, if one posted a letter that seemed… slightly delayed…

it might pause.

Just briefly.

As though considering.

And if you stood very quietly beside it—

not always, but sometimes—

you might hear a soft, thoughtful hum.

Not disapproving.

Not quite approving.

Just… attentive.

As though the postbox, having once learned the difference,

had no intention of forgetting it again.

 
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Posted by on March 31, 2026 in Alice in Wonderland

 

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Tea is a serious business

31 Mar
Tea is a serious business
“Tea, my dear sir, is a serious business!” Tarrant Hightopp, the Mad Hatter, bellowed, his voice echoing over the brass and steam. He was a whirl of tweed and copper gears, balanced on a massive clock face that marked the heart of the great Steampunk London. His goggles were pushed up into his perpetually patched top hat, but his eyes, a glinting, unpredictable green, were narrowed with focused madness.
Facing him, claws out and his waistcoat already shredded, was the March Hare, also known as Thackery Earwicket. He was a creature of kinetic energy, his fur matted with coal dust, holding a broken porcelain cup like a jagged weapon.
Their disagreement, as it so often was, was existential. Thackery had just suggested that a proper five-second steeping time for the Earl Grey-9000 was sufficient. To Tarrant, who had spent the last hour meticulously fine-tuning his custom-built, dual-spout ‘Goliath’ teapot, this was nothing short of blasphemy.
“You speak of SACRILEGE!” Tarrant roared, swinging the Goliath. The massive, brass teapot, a wonder of miniature clockwork, hummed with internal energy, its pressure gauges twitching. “This is not merely tea, Thackery! This is ‘Chrono-Brew’! Every drop must be synchronized with the precise oscillation of the central chronometer!”
“Gah! More of your clockwork claptrap!” Thackery spat, his long ears twitching in fury. He feinted left, then lunged right, the jagged edge of his teacup narrowly missing the Hatter’s coat. “I say five seconds! If you can’t feel the brew, you don’t deserve the brew!”
“Feel it? I designed it to operate at exactly five-hundred and twelve milliseconds past the optimal temperature coefficient for maximum flavor-to-gear ratio!” Tarrant parried Thackery’s strike with the snout of the Goliath, sending a small spray of water into the air.
Below them, the city pulsed. Massive airships, looking like barnacled metal whales, slipped through the smoky sky. Steam-driven factories, a forest of chimneys, chugged out black plumes. Towering clock towers, including a familiar, but far more complex, Big Ben, loomed in the haze. The entire landscape was a symphony of brass, copper, and iron.
Thackery threw a broken, steaming saucer, which Tarrant dodged with a flourish that was half ballet, half clumsy panic. “It’s about the spirit, Tarrant! The untamed, wild essence of the leaf!”
“Untamed! Hah!” The Hatter used his boots, outfitted with specialized gear-traction pads, to secure his footing on the clockwork floor. He pulled a small lever on the side of the teapot. “Your ‘untamed’ approach produces a chaotic swill! Witness the power of true, calculated, controlled flavor!”
The Goliath’s gears whirred with new intensity. A tiny puff of steam, precise and controlled, burst from the main spout, creating a small, smoky cloud that briefly obscured the battle.
The March Hare didn’t wait. He crashed through the steam, a blur of fur and rage. “CALCULATED? It tastes like industrial lubricant!”
Their fight wasn’t a duel of death, but of conviction. A thousand tiny pieces of metal, a million gears, and an endless stream of hot water were their weapons and their shield. In the heart of a city built on order and power, two masters of the absurd were locked in a perfect, chaotic dance, proving that even in a world of gears and steel, the most important battle was always over the perfect cup of tea. Their shouts were swallowed by the deep, rhythmic groan of the city’s machinery, but their madness was the only thing truly alive.
 
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Posted by on March 31, 2026 in Alice in Wonderland

 

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A Slug Called Reilly

25 Mar
A Slug Called Reilly

The Day Reilly the Slug Learned Nothing (and Then Something, but Not for Long)
A Ballykillduff Story

In the village of Ballykillduff—where the post box is green, the wind occasionally argues with itself, and even the paving stones have been known to sigh—there once lived a slug called Reilly.

He lived, if such a word can be used generously, beneath a damp and rather opinionated stone at the edge of the village square. The stone had been there longer than most of the villagers and was known to mutter, particularly about moisture levels and passing beetles.

Reilly, however, had very little interest in stones, beetles, or indeed anyone at all—except when they were useful.

He was, by all accounts, incredibly slimy.

Not merely in the physical sense (though that was undeniable), but in the manner of his dealings. He borrowed dew and never returned it. He left trails where trails were expressly unwelcome. He once told a very small mushroom that it would grow into a grand oak tree, which was both untrue and unnecessarily upsetting.

“Morning, Reilly,” said Mrs Flannery one day, sweeping the step of her shop.

Reilly slid past without reply, leaving behind a glistening remark that required two buckets and a firm word to remove.

“Uncivil,” said the broom, which had seen better slugs.

Reilly preferred the night.

At night, he thought himself clever.

At night, he thought no one saw him.

At night, he could glide where he pleased, whispering unkind things to unsuspecting leaves and rearranging small piles of gravel purely for inconvenience.

“I am a creature of great intelligence,” Reilly once announced to a puddle, which, to its credit, did not respond.

It was on one such night—quiet, dark, and slightly too proud of itself—that Reilly made a mistake.

He was gliding along the edge of Currans Lane, composing what he believed to be a particularly cutting remark about a passing dandelion, when—

slip.

slide.

plop.

Reilly vanished.

He had fallen into a hole.

Now, holes in Ballykillduff are rarely just holes.

This one, for instance, was deeper than it should have been, darker than it needed to be, and faintly echoing in a way that suggested it had opinions about those who fell into it.

Reilly landed with a soft, undignified sound.

It was very dark.

It was very quiet.

And, most troubling of all—

there was no one to be unkind to.

At first, Reilly was annoyed.

“This is inconvenient,” he said to the darkness.

The darkness, being thorough, did not respond.

After a while, annoyance gave way to something less familiar.

Thinking.

Reilly began, for perhaps the first time in his life, to think about himself.

He thought about the mushroom.

He thought about the beetles.

He thought about the puddle, which had always been rather patient with him.

He thought about Mrs Flannery’s step.

He thought about the trail.

“Oh,” said Reilly, quietly.

It is a small word, “oh,” but in Ballykillduff it has been known to change entire weather patterns.

“I have not been… very good,” he admitted.

The hole, which had been waiting for this moment, seemed to grow just a little less dark.

“I shall change,” Reilly declared.
“I shall be kind. I shall be thoughtful. I shall be… less Reilly.”

Time passed.

(No one in Ballykillduff was quite sure how much, as the clocks occasionally took personal days.)

Then, quite suddenly—

thunk.

A stick fell into the hole.

It landed beside Reilly, leaning at just the right angle, as though it had been sent with purpose—or at least with good timing.

Reilly looked at it.

The stick looked at Reilly.

“Well,” said Reilly, “this seems promising.”

With some effort, and a great deal of sliding, Reilly climbed.

Up he went.

Up past the thinking.

Up past the promises.

Up into the light.

Reilly emerged from the hole.

The world was as it had always been.

The stone was still muttering.

The post box was still green.

Mrs Flannery was still sweeping.

And Reilly—

Reilly paused.

He remembered his promise.

He remembered his thoughts.

He remembered his oh.

For a moment—just a moment—he considered keeping it.

Then he didn’t.

“Well,” he said, “one mustn’t be unreasonable.”

And off he went, leaving a trail that suggested nothing at all had been learned.

Days passed.

Reilly returned to his habits.

The mushroom was confused again.

The beetles avoided him.

The puddle grew slightly less patient.

And Reilly, as ever, did not notice.

Until one day—

a very hot day.

A day so bright that even the shadows considered taking cover.

Reilly, having spent the morning being particularly disagreeable to a passing daisy, returned to his home beneath the stone.

Only—

he forgot to cover it properly.

He left the entrance open.

He did not think.

The sun did.

It shone.

And shone.

And shone.

Down into Reilly’s damp little world.

The stone muttered something about “consequences.”

Reilly began to feel… uncomfortable.

Then dry.

Then very dry indeed.

“Oh,” said Reilly again.

But this time, it was a different sort of oh.

By the time the shade returned, Reilly was no longer quite himself.

He had, in a manner of speaking, been reduced to a lesson.

And in Ballykillduff, lessons do not go to waste.

The children of the village, passing by the stone, would sometimes pause.

“Was that Reilly?” one might ask.

“It was,” said the stone, which had decided to be helpful for once.

“What happened to him?”

The stone would consider this.

Then say:

“He remembered something important.
But not for long enough.”

And so, if you ever find yourself in Ballykillduff—

where the post box is green, the wind occasionally argues, and even the smallest creatures are given their moment—

you may hear the quiet moral whispered by stones, puddles, and particularly thoughtful sticks:

Be kind when it is easy.
Be kind when it is not.
And if you promise to change—
do try to remember it longer than a hole.

 
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Posted by on March 25, 2026 in Fairy tale, fantasy story

 

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Alice and the Quiet Thing Beneath Wonderland

24 Mar
Alice and the Quiet Thing Beneath Wonderland

Alice and the Quiet Thing Beneath Wonderland

Alice did not remember falling.

That was the first wrongness.

There was no rush of wind, no tumbling of teacups, no curious shelves of marmalade and maps. No polite gravity conducting her downward like a well-mannered host.

Instead, she was simply there.

Standing.

Waiting.

Wonderland had received her without ceremony.

At first glance, it seemed unchanged.

The trees still leaned at uncertain angles, as though listening to secrets beneath the soil. The air still shimmered faintly, like a thought not quite finished. A path still wound forward in the manner of paths that had not yet decided where they led.

But nothing greeted her.

No White Rabbit.
No chatter.
No argument.

Even the silence felt… deliberate.

Alice took a step forward.

The ground did not echo.

“Hallo?” she called.

Her voice did not return.

Not even incorrectly.

She walked.

And as she walked, she noticed something most unsettling of all:

Everything was almost right.

The flowers were in bloom—but none turned to look at her.
A teacup sat upon a table—but the tea within it did not ripple.
A signpost pointed in three directions—but the words had been carefully erased, as though they had once said something important and someone had decided they should not say it anymore.

Alice reached out and touched the sign.

It was warm.

“You should not read things that have been forgotten.”

The voice came from nowhere.

And everywhere.

Alice turned.

At first, she thought it was the Cheshire Cat—but no.

This thing did not grin.

It had no face.

Only a suggestion of one, like a memory rubbed thin.

“I didn’t read anything,” Alice said.

“That is why you are still here,” said the thing.

Alice took a step back.

“Where is everyone?”

The thing did not answer immediately.

Instead, the air seemed to shift, as though it were deciding how much truth could be allowed.

“They are where they were always going,” it said at last.

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only answer left.”

Alice turned and began to walk faster.

The path resisted.

Not visibly—nothing so obvious—but it lengthened in small, unnoticeable ways. The distance between her and the next tree stretched like a thought being delayed.

She broke into a run.

And then she saw it.

The tea party.

The table was laid.

The cups were filled.

The chairs were occupied.

But the Mad Hatter, the March Hare, and the Dormouse sat perfectly still, as though waiting for a cue that had never come.

Alice approached slowly.

“Hatter?” she said.

He did not respond.

She reached out and touched his sleeve.

It crumbled.

Not into dust—but into something softer. Lighter.

Like ash that had once been laughter.

“No,” Alice whispered.

She stepped back.

The March Hare’s teacup slipped from his fingers, though he had not moved.

It hit the table.

And made no sound.

“They spoke too much,” said the voice again.

Alice turned sharply.

The faceless thing stood closer now.

“They filled the air with contradictions. Questions. Noise. It was… inefficient.”

“Inefficient?” Alice said, her voice trembling. “That’s what Wonderland is.”

“It was,” said the thing.

Alice shook her head.

“No. No, this is wrong. This is all wrong.”

“Yes,” said the thing, almost gently. “That is why it had to be corrected.”

Alice ran.

She ran through the silent woods, past flowers that would not speak, past streams that refused to flow, past clocks that had stopped at times that meant nothing at all.

And at last, she reached the Queen’s court.

The Queen of Hearts sat upon her throne.

Perfectly composed.

Perfectly still.

Her crown did not tremble. Her voice did not rage. Her eyes did not burn.

Alice approached slowly.

“Your Majesty?” she said.

The Queen did not answer.

Alice stepped closer.

And closer.

And then she saw—

The Queen was not breathing.

“She was the last,” said the thing.

Alice did not turn this time.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because she could not be predicted,” it said. “And what cannot be predicted cannot be permitted.”

Alice clenched her hands.

“This place is meant to be unpredictable,” she said. “It’s meant to be strange, and wild, and… and alive.”

The thing was silent for a moment.

Then it said:

“And yet, you came back.”

Alice froze.

“I… of course I did.”

“Why?”

Alice hesitated.

Because it mattered.
Because it was hers.
Because somewhere in all the nonsense, there had been meaning.

“I don’t know,” she said.

The thing moved closer.

And now, for the first time, Alice felt it looking at her.

Truly looking.

“You do not belong here anymore,” it said.

The words settled into the air like a verdict.

Alice opened her mouth to protest—but nothing came.

Because somewhere, quietly, terribly—

She knew it was true.

“You grew,” said the thing.
“You learned.”
“You began to expect things to make sense.”

Alice shook her head weakly.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“No one ever does.”

The silence deepened.

Alice looked around at the stillness. The absence. The careful, suffocating order of it all.

“What happens now?” she asked.

The thing did not hesitate.

“Now,” it said, “you will leave.”

“And Wonderland?”

For the first time, something like hesitation entered the thing’s voice.

“It will remain,” it said.

“Like this?”

“Yes.”

Alice closed her eyes.

And in that moment, she remembered—

The nonsense.

The arguments.
The songs.
The impossible, ridiculous, glorious chaos of it all.

She remembered a place where nothing made sense—and therefore everything mattered.

When she opened her eyes again, they were no longer afraid.

“You’re wrong,” she said.

The thing stilled.

Alice stepped forward.

“You think nonsense is noise,” she said. “But it isn’t. It’s… space. It’s room for things to be.”

The air trembled.

“You removed everything that couldn’t be predicted,” she continued. “But that’s where life lives.”

The thing shifted.

Uncertain.

For the first time.

Alice took another step.

“And you forgot something very important.”

“What is that?”

Alice smiled.

Not brightly.

Not cheerfully.

But with something fierce and fragile and terribly human.

“That nonsense doesn’t disappear,” she said.

“It waits.”

And somewhere—

Very far away—

A teacup rattled.

The Queen’s fingers twitched.

The wind, which had forgotten how to move, made a small and uncertain attempt.

The thing recoiled.

“What have you done?”

Alice said nothing.

Because she had done nothing at all.

She had simply remembered.

And Wonderland—

very slowly—

began to remember itself.

 
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Posted by on March 24, 2026 in Alice, Alice in Wonderland

 

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Alice and the Catastrophe of Sensible Behaviour

24 Mar
Alice and the Catastrophe of Sensible Behaviour

Alice and the Catastrophe of Sensible Behaviour

Alice had only just sat down beneath a perfectly unreasonable tree (which insisted it was a hatstand on alternate Tuesdays) when something most alarming occurred.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

For nearly three seconds.

Alice leapt to her feet at once.

“This will never do,” she said. “If things begin making sense, Wonderland may collapse into a pamphlet.”

At this, the tree-hatstand shuddered and dropped three teaspoons, a cucumber, and a mildly offended pigeon.

“Too late,” said the pigeon. “I’ve been logical all morning.”

Alice gasped. “How dreadful! We must find the source of it before everything becomes tidy.”

She had not gone ten steps before encountering the White Rabbit, who was standing very still and consulting a watch that ticked in complete agreement with itself.

“No contradictions,” he murmured happily. “No paradoxes. Everything precisely where it ought to be!”

Alice seized him by the ears (politely).

“This is an emergency,” she said. “Your watch is behaving.”

The Rabbit blinked. “Well yes, that is generally the point of—”

“Exactly!” cried Alice. “Utter disaster!”

They hurried along a path that refused to twist (which Alice found extremely suspicious) until they reached the Mad Hatter, who was sitting at a table drinking tea in a perfectly ordinary manner.

He lifted his cup.

He sipped.

He put it down again.

Alice staggered backward.

“Hatter,” she whispered, “have you lost your mind?”

“No,” said the Hatter calmly. “I tidied it.”

“You tidied it?”

“Yes. Alphabetised my thoughts. Removed all unnecessary nonsense. Very freeing.”

At this, a teacup fainted.

Alice turned to the March Hare, who was sitting beside him reading a book titled Reasonable Behaviour and Its Consequences.

“Do something absurd at once!” Alice demanded.

The Hare adjusted his spectacles. “I would prefer not to.”

Alice clutched her head. “We are doomed.”

Just then, the sky folded itself into thirds (as skies do when they are worried) and the Cheshire Cat appeared, though only his eyebrows had arrived on time.

“Well,” said the eyebrows, “this looks serious.”

“The nonsense is disappearing!” Alice cried. “Everything is becoming sensible!”

The rest of the Cat slowly assembled itself, piece by deliberate piece.

“How unfortunate,” he said. “Without nonsense, I shall have to make points.”

Everyone shuddered.

They made their way to the Queen of Hearts, who was sitting upon her throne conducting a very calm and well-reasoned discussion about garden maintenance.

“No executions today,” she was saying. “Let us consider everyone’s perspective.”

Alice burst into tears.

“Your Majesty!” she cried. “You must do something unreasonable at once!”

The Queen frowned. “Why?”

“Because if you don’t, Wonderland will become… normal!”

A silence fell.

Even the cards stopped shuffling themselves.

Normal.

The word echoed about like a well-behaved echo.

At last, a small voice spoke.

It was the Dormouse, who had been asleep for so long that he had forgotten how to wake up properly.

“Perhaps,” he said, “we have simply run out of nonsense.”

“Impossible!” cried Alice.

“Not at all,” said the Cheshire Cat. “Nonsense must be replenished. It does not grow on trees—”

The tree-hatstand coughed politely.

“—well, not reliably.”

Alice thought very hard.

Then, quite suddenly, she stood upon the Queen’s throne, balanced a teapot upon her head, declared herself to be “The Duchess of Unfinished Sandwiches,” and began reciting the multiplication table backwards in rhymes involving bananas.

The effect was immediate.

The sky unfolded itself with a snap.

The Hatter dropped his teacup and began arguing with it.

The Rabbit’s watch started running sideways.

The Queen leapt to her feet.

“OFF WITH—no, wait—ON WITH—no—OH JUST DO SOMETHING CONFUSING!”

The cards burst into delighted chaos.

The March Hare threw his book into a passing metaphor.

And the pigeon applauded so enthusiastically it became a small orchestra.

The Cheshire Cat grinned.

“Ah,” he said. “Balance restored.”

Alice climbed down, slightly out of breath.

“That was close,” she said.

“Yes,” said the Cat. “Another minute of sense and we might all have become useful.”

Alice shuddered.

“I should hate that.”

And so, with nonsense safely reinstated, Wonderland returned to its usual state of cheerful confusion.

Which, as Alice later remarked, was exactly as it ought not to be—and therefore, perfectly correct.

 
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Posted by on March 24, 2026 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, Alice in Wonderland

 

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The rabbit hole didn’t lead to a tea party this time

23 Mar
The rabbit hole didn’t lead to a tea party this time
The rabbit hole didn’t lead to a tea party this time.
As Alice tumbled through the dark, she didn’t pass rocking chairs or bookshelves. Instead, she brushed past hanging bundles of dried hemlock and jars of preserved nightmares. When she finally landed, the grass wasn’t green; it was a bruised purple, and the air smelled of ozone and singed sugar.
The Shadow Over Wonderland
Wonderland had changed. The Queen of Hearts was gone, replaced by something much more calculated. High atop the mushroom forest sat a castle made of jagged obsidian. There lived The Witch of the Withered Rose.
She didn’t want heads; she wanted stories. She fed on the whimsy of others until they were nothing but hollow shells. The Mad Hatter sat in a corner, staring at a blank teacup, his madness replaced by a terrifying, quiet sanity.
The Encounter
Alice wandered into the clearing of the Great Oak, where the Witch stood waiting. She wasn’t green or warty; she was tall, draped in silk the color of an oil slick, with eyes that looked like solar eclipses.
“You’re late, Alice,” the Witch purred, stirring a cauldron that simmered with silver smoke. “I’ve already bottled the Cheshire Cat’s grin. It makes a lovely nightlight.”
“I don’t think I like your decorating taste,” Alice said, her voice trembling only slightly. “And I’d like my friends back, if it’s all the same to you.”
The Witch laughed, a sound like glass breaking. “In this world, Alice, ‘curiouser and curiouser’ is a death sentence. Give me your imagination, and I’ll let you go back to your boring parlor in London.”
The Twist of Logic
Alice looked at the cauldron. She remembered that in Wonderland, things were only as powerful as you believed them to be.
“You’re not a witch,” Alice said boldly, stepping forward. “You’re just a bad habit. You’re the feeling of growing up and forgetting how to play.”
The Witch shrieked, her obsidian form flickering. “I am the end of dreams!”
“No,” Alice countered, “You’re just a very tall, very grumpy woman in a dress that needs a good wash. And since this is my dream, I think it’s time for a change in the weather.”
Alice didn’t use a sword or magic. She simply imagined the sun. Not just a normal sun, but a sun made of lemon drops and laughter.
The Result:
 * The obsidian castle melted into a giant puddle of blackberry jam.
 * The Witch shrank until she was no bigger than a thimble, scurrying away into the roots of a tree.
 * The Cheshire Cat’s grin popped out of its jar and reattached itself to the air with a satisfied pop.
Alice sat up in the meadow back home, the smell of damp grass filling her lungs. She looked down and noticed a single, withered black rose petal tucked into her apron. She smiled and tossed it into the wind.
 
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Posted by on March 23, 2026 in Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure

 

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