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The Penguin Who Met a Polar Bear (Quite by Accident)

06 Mar

In the far, far south, where the sea freezes into bright white plains and the wind sings across the ice, there lived a penguin named Percival.

Percival was a very thoughtful penguin.

He liked to wonder about things.

Why snow squeaks underfoot.
Why fish never seem to shiver.
And why the world had two ends.

“Surely,” Percival once said to himself, “if there is a South Pole, there must be a North Pole too.”

And that thought stayed with him.

A Journey Begins

One breezy afternoon Percival stood on the edge of a large iceberg.

He looked out across the endless ocean.

“I suppose,” he said, “the only way to find out what is at the other end of the world… is to go there.”

Now penguins are excellent swimmers.

But Percival was not planning to swim the whole way.

Just then a large iceberg cracked loose from the shore.

It floated gently into the sea.

Percival blinked.

“Well,” he said, stepping aboard,
“That seems convenient.”

And so the iceberg carried him away.

A Very Long Drift

For many days Percival sailed across the ocean.

He passed whales.

He passed curious seals.

Once he passed a rather confused albatross who asked,

“Are you supposed to be here?”

“I’m exploring,” Percival replied proudly.

The albatross shook its head and flew away muttering something about geography.

The North at Last

At last the air grew colder again.

Ice returned.

Snow blew across the sea.

Percival stepped off his iceberg onto a wide frozen plain.

“Well,” he said, “this certainly looks familiar.”

Just then a large white creature appeared over a ridge.

The creature stopped.

Percival stopped.

They both stared.

The creature tilted its head.

“You,” said the creature slowly, “are not a seal.”

“No,” said Percival politely. “I’m a penguin.”

The creature blinked.

“A penguin?”

“Yes.”

“But penguins live at the South Pole.”

“That is correct,” said Percival.

The creature scratched its head.

“Well,” it said, “polar bears live at the North Pole.”

“Then,” said Percival cheerfully,
“I suppose we are both exactly where we belong.”

A Curious Friendship

The polar bear sat down.

“My name is Bernard,” he said.

“I’m Percival,” said the penguin.

They thought about the situation for a moment.

“Well,” Bernard said finally,
“since penguins and polar bears never meet…”

“This is rather special,” Percival finished.

So they spent the afternoon talking.

Bernard explained snowstorms and northern lights.

Percival explained ice shelves and penguin colonies.

And both agreed on one important thing:

The world is a very big place.

But sometimes, if you drift far enough—

The most unlikely friends can meet.

And somewhere, far to the south, a group of penguins were still wondering where Percival had gone.

But that is another story entirely.

 
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Posted by on March 6, 2026 in Fairy tale

 

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The Camel Who Misplaced His Hump

06 Mar
The Camel Who Misplaced His Hump

The Camel Who Misplaced His Hump

In a wide golden desert where the sand rolled like waves upon the sea, there lived a camel named Cedric.

Now Cedric was, in almost every way, an ordinary camel.

He had long legs.
He had long eyelashes.
He had a rather thoughtful expression.

But one morning Cedric woke up and discovered something most alarming.

His hump was gone.

Completely gone.

Cedric turned his head to the left.

No hump.

He twisted to the right.

Still no hump.

He even tried peering straight over his shoulder, which caused him to fall over sideways into the sand.

“This,” said Cedric solemnly, “is not ideal.”

A Most Peculiar Problem

Cedric wandered across the desert, asking everyone he met.

First he asked a lizard.

“Excuse me,” said Cedric politely, “have you seen a hump anywhere?”

The lizard blinked slowly.

“I’ve seen many things,” said the lizard.
“Sand. Rocks. The occasional biscuit dropped by travellers.”

“But not a hump?” asked Cedric hopefully.

“Not today,” said the lizard.

Cedric sighed.

Next he asked a desert owl who was dozing in the shade of a cactus.

“Have you seen my hump?” Cedric asked.

The owl opened one eye.

“What colour was it?” she asked.

“Sandy,” said Cedric.

The owl looked around the desert.

“Well,” she said, “that certainly narrows it down.”

The Wise Tortoise

At last Cedric met Terrence the tortoise, who was the oldest creature in the desert.

Terrence listened carefully.

“A missing hump,” said Terrence slowly.
“Hmm.”

Cedric waited nervously.

“Tell me,” said Terrence, “what were you doing yesterday?”

“Well,” said Cedric, thinking hard,
“I walked to the oasis…
I ate three palm leaves…
I had a nap…”

“And?” asked Terrence.

“I rolled down a very large sand dune,” Cedric admitted.

“Ah,” said Terrence.

The Discovery

They walked together to the dune.

And there, halfway down the slope, was the most peculiar sight.

A perfectly round hump-shaped lump in the sand.

Cedric blinked.

“That looks familiar.”

Terrence nodded.

“You appear to have left it behind.”

Cedric leaned carefully against the lump.

There was a gentle pop.

And suddenly—

boing!

His hump bounced neatly back into place.

Cedric stood up straight.

“Oh!” he said happily. “That feels much better.”

A Valuable Lesson

Cedric thanked Terrence and began walking home.

From that day onward he was very careful when rolling down sand dunes.

Because losing one’s hat is embarrassing.

Losing one’s lunch is unfortunate.

But losing one’s hump, as Cedric discovered—

Is extremely inconvenient.

 
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Posted by on March 6, 2026 in Fairy tale

 

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The Grasshopper and the Fly

06 Mar
The Grasshopper and the Fly

The Grasshopper and the Fly

On a bright summer morning in a meadow that hummed gently with life, a grasshopper sat upon a tall blade of grass, playing the fiddle.

Now this was no ordinary grasshopper.
He played with such enthusiasm that the grass itself seemed to sway in time with the music.

Fiddle-dee-dee, fiddle-dee-dum,
went the bow as the grasshopper scraped out cheerful tunes for anyone who cared to listen.

A fly, who had been buzzing lazily through the warm air, happened to hear the music and landed on a nearby daisy.

“Good morning!” buzzed the fly.

“Good morning!” chirped the grasshopper, still fiddling away.

“Why are you making such a racket so early in the day?” asked the fly, tilting her head.

“It is not a racket,” said the grasshopper proudly. “It is music.”

“Well,” said the fly, “I prefer something a little quieter. But you do seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I enjoy it greatly,” said the grasshopper. “Music makes the day brighter.”

The fly buzzed thoughtfully.

“I suppose that is true,” she admitted. “But you might consider doing something useful instead.”

“Useful?” said the grasshopper, lowering his fiddle.

“Yes,” said the fly. “I spend my time investigating things. Exploring. Visiting places. Finding interesting smells. It is very productive.”

“Productive?” asked the grasshopper.

“Certainly,” said the fly. “For instance, I discovered a magnificent jam sandwich on a picnic table yesterday.”

“That does sound interesting,” said the grasshopper politely.

“It was,” said the fly proudly. “And there were crumbs everywhere.”

The grasshopper considered this.

“Well,” he said at last, “that may be productive for you. But I believe music is useful too.”

“How?” asked the fly.

“Because,” said the grasshopper, lifting his fiddle again, “it makes people smile.”

Just then, a breeze drifted through the meadow.

The grass rustled.

The daisies nodded.

And a group of ants paused in their marching to listen.

The grasshopper began playing again.

Fiddle-dee-dee, fiddle-dee-dum.

The fly listened for a moment.

Then she buzzed gently in the air.

“You know,” she said, “that tune is rather pleasant.”

“Thank you,” said the grasshopper.

The fly hovered thoughtfully.

“I believe I shall stay and listen for a little while.”

And so she did.

For the rest of the morning the grasshopper played his fiddle, and the fly buzzed softly in time with the music.

And the meadow, which had already been a cheerful place, became just a little bit happier.

Which proves something rather important:

Even a fly who prefers jam sandwiches can enjoy a good tune on a sunny day.

 
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Posted by on March 6, 2026 in Fairy tale

 

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4th March 2026 — The Day the Wind Practised Speaking.

04 Mar
4th March 2026 — The Day the Wind Practised Speaking.

4th March 2026 — The Day the Wind Practised Speaking.

*********************
The morning in Ballykillduff began in a most unremarkable fashion.
Clouds sat politely above the village like sheep that had climbed the wrong hill.
The air smelled faintly of rain.
Mrs Murphy opened her shop door at exactly nine o’clock and immediately noticed something peculiar.
The wind was trying words.
Not full words, mind you — that would have been far too advanced for a Wednesday morning — but syllables.
At first it only whispered things like:
“Ba…”
“Lli…”
“Kil…”
By half past nine it had progressed to:
“Bal…ly…kill…”
And by ten o’clock the wind was confidently circling the village square announcing:
“Bally…kill…duff!”
Old Seamus at the bench beside the fountain looked up and nodded.
“Good,” he said. “It’s practising.”
The First Witness
Alice, who had arrived earlier than usual that morning, stood beside the cream-and-green telephone box (which, as everyone knows, is where unusual things tend to gather).
She listened carefully.
“Is the wind learning Irish?” she asked.
Seamus shrugged.
“It tries every spring.”
Developments by Midday
By lunchtime the wind had grown ambitious.
It began testing longer phrases:
“Dia… duit…”
A dog barked politely in response.
Then the wind attempted something very complicated indeed:
“Dia duit, Ballykillduff!”
Half the bunting outside the Giddy Goat pub applauded.
The Village Reacts
Reactions were mixed.
• Mrs Murphy said the wind had excellent pronunciation.
• Father O’Rourke said it might be a sign of cultural revival.
• Jimmy McGroggan tried to build a Wind-Translation Machine, but it translated everything as “sausages.”
Alice simply listened.
Late Afternoon
Toward evening the wind slowed slightly, as if tired from its lessons.
It drifted across the square one last time and said, rather proudly:
“Dia duit… Ballykillduff.”
Then it went quiet again.
The Only Question Remaining
Alice looked up at the clouds.
“Do you think it will remember tomorrow?” she asked.
Seamus considered this carefully.
“Oh yes,” he said.
“The wind always remembers.”
He paused.
“It’s the village that sometimes forgets.”
 
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Posted by on March 4, 2026 in ballykillduff, carlow, carlow story

 

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The Fête That Was Never Announced

04 Mar
The Fête That Was Never Announced

 

Under the White Bunting

No one tied the bunting there.
It simply leaned from post to post
As though the wind had practised.

No chalkboard named the hour.
No bell rehearsed the call.
And yet by noon
The quarry field remembered us.

Tables stood
With lace that smelt of careful years,
Cakes waited
Under domes of patient glass,
Jam jars caught the light
Like small, obedient suns.

The tombola drum
Turned with its wooden sigh —
Hope in a circle.

Children ran before the rules,
Dogs disobeyed with confidence,
Tea was poured
As if it always had been.

And overhead
The bunting held its breath.

Not black.
Not bright.

Only listening.

A coin rolled.
A chair wavered.
A praise paused
On the edge of pride.

These were the fireworks.

Not flame —
But inclination.

Not thunder —
But reflex.

In the smallest space
Between falling and reaching
A village chose itself again.

By dusk
The bunting had settled
Into white.

The mirror said nothing.
The field resumed its grass.
The wind untied what it had tied.

Tomorrow
There would be no trace
Except doors opening
A fraction sooner.

And somewhere,
Folded into the quiet of the land,
The Fête would wait —

Unadvertised,
Unforgotten,
Watching
For the colour of the sky.

Epilogue: The One Who Watched

They did not notice her at first.

She stood where the stone wall dips,
Where daisies lean
And lantern light does not quite reach.

Her hair caught the fire’s gold
Before the fire caught her face.

She did not enter the sack race.
She did not judge the sponge.
She did not turn the tombola drum.

She watched.

When the coin rolled,
Her hand did not move.

When the chair wavered,
Her breath did —
But she did not.

She has learned, you see,
That villages must steady themselves.

The bunting above her
Had begun the afternoon undecided.

She saw the first thread pale.
She saw the second follow.

She saw Mrs Doyle’s praise
Tilt the colour toward light.

And when the mirror stood
At the field’s edge,
She did not look for herself.

She looked for the field.

Grass.
White bunting.
No ledger.

That was enough.

Later — long after the fire fell to embers —
A child would say,

“Was Alice there?”

And someone would answer,

“Of course she was.”

Because there are some gatherings
She does not begin,
Does not mend,
Does not command —

She only keeps.

And when the wind untied the bunting
And folded it back into the sky,

It brushed her shoulder
Like thanks.

 

You can read the full story via this LINK. Enjoy.

 
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Posted by on March 4, 2026 in Alice in Ballykillduff, Alice in Wonderland, ballykillduff

 

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The Day the Frost Blinked

25 Feb
The Day the Frost Blinked

February 25th, 2026 — The Day the Frost Blinked

The frost arrived late.

It did not settle in the night as frost properly should, but wandered into Ballykillduff sometime after breakfast, looking faintly apologetic and extremely decorative.

Alice noticed it first on the gate.

At precisely eleven minutes past ten, the iron latch glittered.

At twelve minutes past ten, it stopped.

At thirteen minutes past ten, it glittered again.

“It’s blinking,” Alice said calmly, which is the sort of thing one must say calmly if one wishes to be believed.

The frost had begun appearing and disappearing in polite intervals — hedge, path, rooftop, sheep — as though winter were reconsidering its position.

Alice stepped into the square. Each time the frost shimmered into existence, the air grew crisp and silver; each time it vanished, the village returned to its damp February self.

“Make up your mind,” she advised the sky.

The sky, which had been undecided all month, hesitated once more — and then, with a soft sigh, allowed the frost to remain.

Not thick.

Not harsh.

Just enough to turn the puddles into mirrors.

Alice looked down and saw not her reflection, but a faint suggestion of spring standing just behind her shoulder.

“Ah,” she said.

The frost did not blink again.

And somewhere beneath the quiet silver crust of February 25th, something green made up its mind to begin.

February 25th, 2026 — The Hat That Refused to Thaw

The frost had only just decided to behave itself in Ballykillduff when the sky coughed politely and produced a hat.

Not a rabbit.
Not a teacup.
Just a hat.

It fell with dignity, landed upright in the square, and waited.

Alice, who had already negotiated with blinking frost that morning, approached it cautiously.

The hat cleared its throat.

A moment later, the Mad Hatter unfolded himself out of it as though he had merely been stored there for convenience.

“Good morning!” he cried. “I’ve come for the Thawing!”

“We are not thawing,” Alice said firmly. “We are gently transitioning.”

“Ah,” said the Hatter, peering at the frost. “A hesitant season. Very dangerous. They tend to wobble.”

He removed a small silver teaspoon from his sleeve and began tapping the frost on the cobbles.

Ping.

A patch melted.

Ping.

A daisy appeared.

Ping.

A sheep sneezed and turned very briefly pink.

Alice caught his wrist before he could strike again.

“We’ve only just persuaded February to sit still,” she said. “If you start stirring it, we shall have daffodils arguing with snowflakes.”

The Hatter considered this gravely.

“Yes,” he agreed. “They never agree on colours.”

He placed the spoon back into his sleeve, stamped his hat once (which caused three crocuses to pop up apologetically), and looked at Alice with unusual sincerity.

“Very well. No mischief. Only observation.”

They stood together in the soft silver light, watching the frost hold its breath and spring wait its turn.

After several whole minutes of remarkable good behaviour, the Hatter leaned closer.

“Between ourselves,” he whispered, “March is terribly impatient.”

Then he folded neatly back into his hat.

The hat tipped itself.

And vanished.

The frost did not blink.

But somewhere beneath the cobbles, something giggled.

 
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Posted by on February 25, 2026 in Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure, february

 

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Alice and the White House of Backwards Decisions

13 Feb
Alice and the White House of Backwards Decisions
Here is chapter one of a brand new story featuring Alice…
Alice and the White House of Backwards Decisions
**************************************************************

Chapter One

The Letter That Was Already Waiting
On a morning in Ballykillduff that could not quite decide whether it wished to be winter or spring, Alice discovered a letter waiting for her.
This was not unusual in itself — letters occasionally appeared in Ballykillduff without anyone remembering the postman delivering them — but this letter possessed three particularly suspicious qualities.
First, it was addressed in handwriting Alice recognized as her own.
Second, it was already open.
Third, it was warm.
Alice found it resting upon the small table beside the window of the cottage where she had been staying ever since Ballykillduff had politely refused to let her leave permanently.
Outside, the hedges were still wet from the previous night’s rain. Somewhere in the village square, a dog barked with the confidence of a creature that had never once doubted its understanding of the world.
Alice picked up the letter.
It felt as though it had been held only moments before.
“Curious,” she said, which in Alice’s experience usually meant something extremely peculiar was about to happen.
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper. The paper was perfectly blank.
Alice examined it carefully, turning it upside down and sideways in case the words were shy.
Nothing.
“Perhaps it is an invisible message,” she suggested.
The paper grew slightly warmer.
Then, very slowly, words appeared, as though remembering how to exist.
They read:
Miss Alice, Occasional Visitor to Impossible Places,
You are cordially invited to attend a matter of considerable confusion.
Washington, Immediately.
Below this was a line for a signature.
The signature wrote itself.
The White House
Alice nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes,” she said. “That sounds exactly the sort of invitation one should accept without understanding.”
She folded the letter.
The moment the paper creased, it refused to remain a letter at all. Instead, it rearranged itself with cheerful determination into a paper aeroplane.
Alice watched this transformation with calm interest.
“I suspected as much,” she said.
The aeroplane lifted gently from her hands and hovered in the air like a hummingbird made of stationery.
It waited.
Alice did what any sensible traveller between worlds would do — she opened the cottage door and followed it.
The paper aeroplane drifted down Ballykillduff’s main lane, passing the cream-and-green telephone box that never rang unless someone was already speaking, and gliding across the quiet village square where puddles reflected a sky that looked slightly unfinished.
No one in Ballykillduff found this remarkable.
Mrs O’Daly, sweeping her step, merely said:
“Morning, Alice.”
“Morning,” Alice replied, walking past a floating invitation as though this were ordinary.
At the edge of the village, the aeroplane stopped beside a gate that had not been there yesterday.
It was a small white gate set into a hedge that Alice was quite certain had always been continuous.
A brass plaque hung from the latch.
It read:
TRANSATLANTIC SHORTCUT
“Well,” Alice said, “that saves time.”
She opened the gate.
On the other side was not a field, nor a road, nor even another hedge.
There was a long, polished corridor.
The paper aeroplane sailed inside.
Alice followed.
The gate closed behind her with the polite click of something that did not intend to reopen immediately.
The corridor smelled faintly of paper, polished wood, and decisions that had not yet been made.
Portraits lined the walls.
They were not portraits Alice recognized, but they behaved in the familiar manner of Wonderland portraits — pretending not to move when observed.
The carpet stretched ahead in a straight line that suggested great seriousness, though it occasionally wrinkled itself when Alice wasn’t looking directly at it.
The aeroplane continued forward until it reached a tall white door.
On the door was a brass plate.
THE WHITE HOUSE
Alice paused.
“I wonder,” she said, “whether this is the real one, or the sensible version.”
The paper aeroplane flattened itself back into a letter and slid beneath the door.
After a moment, the door opened inward of its own accord.
Alice stepped through.
The room beyond was circular.
Very circular.
So circular, in fact, that Alice briefly suspected the room might be quietly spinning.
A large desk stood in the center. Behind it sat a perfectly polite gentleman with an expression suggesting he had been waiting since yesterday afternoon.
He smiled.
“Welcome,” he said.
“We have been expecting you before you arrived.”
Alice curtsied politely.
“I hope I am not early.”
“You are exactly confusing,” the gentleman replied.
Alice felt immediately at home.
Behind the gentleman, the walls of the circular room seemed to stretch further than the outside of the building should reasonably allow.
There were doors everywhere.
Dozens of them.
Perhaps hundreds.
Some were tiny. Some were enormous. One appeared to be made of folded newspapers. Another looked like a playing card pretending to be architecture.
One door opened briefly, and Alice thought she heard teacups arguing.
It closed again.
Alice smiled.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“This is definitely Wonderland.”
The gentleman behind the desk shook his head gently.
“No,” he said.
“This is Washington.”
The floor shifted slightly, as though reconsidering.
Alice suspected they were both correct.
And with that, the building began to rearrange itself.
To be continued.
 
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Posted by on February 13, 2026 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, Alice in Wonderland, USA

 

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When evenings fell on Ballykillduff Irish Folk Song

13 Feb

When Evenings Fell on Ballykillduff, Irish Folk Song

 
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Posted by on February 13, 2026 in irish folk song

 

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The Unnamed Streamliner A4

09 Feb
The Unnamed Streamliner A4

No one at Doncaster Works could later remember exactly when the locomotive was finished.

The paperwork suggested March 1939, though the works foreman always insisted it had been earlier. The painters said they remembered applying the final coat of garter blue on a cold morning when the varnish refused to dry properly. The fitters remembered the valve gear going together more smoothly than expected. The apprentices remembered nothing at all — which, in its way, proved the locomotive had never entered ordinary service.

What everyone agreed upon was this:

The engine had been completed.
And then, for reasons no one ever properly recorded, it had simply stayed where it was.

Without a number.
Without a name.
Without a duty.

Full story coming here soon.

 
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Posted by on February 9, 2026 in a4

 

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Alice, the Cockroach, and the Library Under the Floorboards

09 Feb
Alice, the Cockroach, and the Library Under the Floorboards
Alice discovered the library entirely by accident, which is how most important libraries prefer to be discovered.
She was sitting at the kitchen table in Ballykillduff, listening to Mrs Doyle explain why the kettle had recently become philosophical, when a biscuit crumb slipped from Alice’s fingers and vanished through a narrow crack between the floorboards.
Alice leaned down to peer into the gap.
“Hello?” she said, because in Ballykillduff it was always wise to assume something might answer.
Something did.
“Please return all crumbs within fourteen days,” said a very small voice.
Alice blinked.
“Who said that?”
“I did,” replied the voice politely. “Assistant Librarian, Third Class.”
A tiny cockroach climbed through the crack in the floor and stood beside Alice’s shoe. He carried a speck of dust under one arm as if it were a book.
“You dropped this,” he said, pushing the crumb toward her.
“I think you may keep it,” Alice said.
The cockroach bowed.
“Much appreciated. Donations are the backbone of the archive.”
The cockroach introduced himself as Archivist Clatterthorpe.
“Would you care to see the collection?” he asked.
Alice, who had fallen down wells, through mirrors, and once into a teapot of unusual depth, saw no reason to refuse.
“Very much,” she said.
He led her to the crack in the floorboard.
“Please reduce yourself to library-appropriate proportions.”
Alice did not know how to do this, but the floorboard kindly adjusted its distance from her until she was exactly the right size.
Together, they descended.
Read the entire story HERE.
 
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Posted by on February 9, 2026 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, Uncategorized

 

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