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The Saint Patrick’s Day That Refused to Behave Properly.

17 Mar
The Saint Patrick’s Day That Refused to Behave Properly.

The Saint Patrick’s Day That Refused to Behave Properly.

*********************************************************************

*A Ballykillduff Adventure*

It began, as all sensible Saint Patrick’s Days ought, with a parade that had absolutely no intention of remaining sensible.
Ballykillduff Square was dressed in green—
not merely decorated, mind you—
but decidedly and aggressively green.
The bunting shimmered.
The hedges glowed.
Even Murphy’s shop window had taken on a shade of green that suggested it might, at any moment, begin offering advice.
Alice stood beside the cream-and-green telephone box (which, as always, was behaving far more normally than everything else).
“I do hope,” she said politely, “that the day proceeds in a straightforward manner.”
Fle the ancient elf, who had been leaning against the postbox for at least three centuries, opened one eye.
“It won’t,” he said.
The Parade That Arrived Before It Began
At precisely eleven o’clock—
or possibly ten fifty-nine and a half—
the parade arrived.
Not began.
Arrived.
It came marching down Curran’s Lane in full swing, as though it had been going on for hours somewhere else and had simply decided Ballykillduff was next.
At its head rode Seamus on a bicycle that had been painted so green it squeaked.
Behind him marched a brass band playing a tune that sounded suspiciously like three different songs arguing.
Behind them came a float labelled:
“THE OFFICIAL BALLYKILLDUFF LEPRECHAUN (PROBABLY)”
Upon it stood a small man in a tall hat, waving enthusiastically and throwing gold coins into the crowd.
The coins bounced.
Then hummed.
Then, quite distinctly, hopped.
Alice caught one.
It wriggled in her palm and whispered:
“I’m not real, you know.”
“I suspected as much,” said Alice, placing it carefully in her pocket.
The Leprechaun Who Objected to Reality
The leprechaun leapt from the float mid-parade and landed directly in front of Alice.
“I object,” he declared.
“To what?” Alice asked.
“To being the official leprechaun,” he said.
“I never applied.”
“That seems reasonable,” Alice replied.
“I am,” he continued proudly, “an independent magical contractor.”
Fle nodded.
“Freelance nonsense,” he said.
“Exactly!” said the leprechaun.
The Problem of Too Much Green
By midday, something had gone wrong.
Not dramatically wrong—
Ballykillduff rarely did things dramatically—
but persistently wrong.
Everything was becoming… greener.
Not just festive green.
Excessively committed green.
The sky took on a tint.
The river shimmered like liquid emerald.
Even the sheep in the nearby field looked faintly suspicious of themselves.
“Is this usual?” Alice asked.
“No,” said Fle.
“Which makes it traditional.”
Murphy stepped out of his shop holding a loaf of bread that had turned a thoughtful shade of moss.
“This is not regulation,” he announced.
The Discovery of the Pot
They found it, of course, where such things are always found:
At the end of a rainbow that had become stuck.
It wasn’t arcing across the sky.
It was… leaning.
Slightly.
As though it had grown tired halfway through its duties.
At its end sat a large black pot, gently steaming.
The leprechaun folded his arms.
“That’s not mine,” he said quickly.
“No one said it was,” Alice replied.
“It looks like responsibility,” he added.
“I avoid that.”
Alice peered into the pot.
Inside was not gold.
Inside was green.
Not paint.
Not liquid.
Just… green.
A colour so concentrated it seemed to hum with enthusiasm.
The Explanation (Which Made Things Worse)
Fle leaned over and squinted.
“Ah,” he said.
“That’ll be the Essence of Festivity.”
“Is that dangerous?” Alice asked.
“Only in large quantities,” said Fle.
They all looked around.
The fields were glowing.
The sky was humming.
Seamus’s bicycle had begun to sing.
“Yes,” said Alice.
“I believe we may have exceeded the recommended amount.”
The Attempt to Fix It
“Put the lid on,” said Murphy.
“There is no lid,” said Alice.
“Then stop it leaking,” said Murphy.
“It isn’t leaking,” said Fle.
They all paused.
The pot was not overflowing.
It was simply… encouraging everything else to become green.
“Well that’s inconvenient,” said the leprechaun.
The Solution (Entirely Unsatisfactory but Effective)
Alice thought for a long moment.
“Perhaps,” she said, “Saint Patrick’s Day is not meant to be only green.”
Everyone stared at her.
“That sounds dangerously sensible,” said Fle.
Alice reached into her pocket and removed the coin.
It wriggled indignantly.
She tossed it into the pot.
There was a plop.
The green flickered.
Then softened.
The sky returned to blue—though a slightly cheerful blue.
The river calmed.
The sheep relaxed considerably.
The pot gave a satisfied sigh.
The Ending That Refused to End Properly
The parade, which had never officially begun, suddenly decided it had finished.
The band stopped mid-note.
The float turned around of its own accord.
Seamus’s bicycle apologised.
The leprechaun tipped his hat.
“I shall be elsewhere,” he said mysteriously,
“doing something considerably less official.”
And vanished behind Murphy’s shop, which had resumed being merely a shop.
A Quiet Moment (Which Did Not Last)
Alice stood once more beside the telephone box.
“Well,” she said, “that was rather pleasant.”
Fle opened one eye again.
“You say that now,” he said.
From somewhere in the distance came a faint sound—
Not music.
Not quite.
More like…
A kettle…
trying to organise a marching band.
Alice sighed, but smiled.
“Yes,” she said.
“I expect it isn’t quite over.”
Final Line
And in Ballykillduff, on Saint Patrick’s Day,
it very rarely ever is.

 
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Posted by on March 17, 2026 in saint patrick's day

 

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Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.

17 Mar

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.

Have a good day.

 
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Posted by on March 17, 2026 in Uncategorized

 

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Reflections of Alice: A Tale of Two Selves.

13 Mar
Reflections of Alice: A Tale of Two Selves.

An original tale inspired by Lewis Carroll’s

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

The mirror did not hang on a wall, nor did it rest upon a stand. It floated in the middle of the Tulgey Wood, suspended in the air like a bubble made of silver glass. Alice stopped, adjusting the skirt of her dress. She had been chasing the White Rabbit—or perhaps he had been chasing her; directions were notoriously unreliable in these parts—when she stumbled upon it.
She approached cautiously. She knew better than to touch strange objects without checking for labels reading DRINK ME or DO NOT TOUCH, but the mirror seemed harmless enough. It reflected the wood behind her: the twisted trees, the oversized mushrooms, the path that wound like a confused snake.
And it reflected Alice.
But the Alice in the mirror did not stop when Alice stopped.
The reflection stepped forward. There was a sound like a sharp intake of breath, a pop of pressure, and the girl in the glass stepped out of the frame. She landed on the moss with a soft thud, dusting off her hands.
Alice blinked. She rubbed her eyes and blinked again.
The newcomer stood before her. She wore the same blue dress with the same white apron. She had the same golden hair tied with the same black ribbon. But where Alice’s hair was parted on the left, this girl’s was parted on the right. Where Alice’s apron pocket was on her left hip, this girl’s was on the right.
“Good afternoon,” said the double. Her voice was Alice’s, but the cadence was slightly off, like a song played on a piano that had been tuned a fraction too high.
“Good afternoon,” Alice replied, instinctively curtsying. “Or perhaps it is morning. Time is difficult to keep track of here.”
“It is exactly half-past nonsense,” the double said. She did not curtsy. Instead, she tilted her head, examining Alice with a critical eye. “You look terribly confused. It suits you.”
“I am not confused,” Alice said, drawing herself up to her full height (which was currently three feet and two inches). “I am merely… observing. Who are you?”
“I am Alice,” the double said simply.
“No,” Alice countered, feeling a surge of frustration. “I am Alice. You cannot be Alice. There is only one of me. I am quite sure of it.”
“Are you?” The double walked around her, inspecting her from behind. “How do you know? Have you checked your labels? Have you tested your memory? For all you know, you are the reflection, and I am the original.”
Alice felt a cold shiver run down her spine, unrelated to the temperature of the wood. “I remember falling down the rabbit hole. I remember the tea party. I remember the Queen’s croquet ground.”
“I remember those too,” the double said, plucking a flower from a nearby bush. She smelled it and sneezed. “But I remember them differently. In my memory, the Hatter was polite. In my memory, the Queen was kind. In my memory, I never cried in the Pool of Tears.”
Alice stiffened. “I did not cry. Well, only a little. It was a very large pool.”
“You cry when you are frightened,” the double said. “I do not. I find that makes things much easier.”
The Cheshire Cat appeared then, fading in branch by branch upon a bough above them. He grinned his wide, impossible grin.
“Two Alices?” the Cat purred, his tail flicking. “How curious. Usually, one is quite enough to cause trouble. Two might cause a paradox.”
“Which one is real, Cat?” asked the double, looking up.
“Real?” The Cat chuckled. “In this wood, reality is a matter of opinion. You are both real enough to be lost. You are both real enough to be found. It depends on which way you’re walking.”
“I walk forward,” said Alice.
“I walk backward,” said the double. “It saves time on the return journey.”
Alice frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense in the Looking-Glass,” the double said. “I come from the other side of the glass. Where everything is opposite. You are polite; I am blunt. You ask permission; I take ownership. You wonder what the world is; I tell the world what I am.”
Alice looked at her double. She saw the set of her jaw, the confidence in her stance. It was terrifying, but also… intriguing. How nice it would be, Alice thought, to not be afraid of the Queen. To not worry about saying the wrong thing. To simply *be*.
“If you are the opposite,” Alice said slowly, “then you must be everything I am not.”
“Precisely,” said the double. “Which means if we touch, we might cancel each other out. Like adding a number to its negative. Zero.”
“Or,” said the Cat, “you might multiply. Infinity is rather messier than zero.”
A trumpet blast sounded in the distance. The ground trembled slightly.
“The Queen!” Alice gasped, her heart leaping into her throat. “We must hide.”
“Why?” asked the double. “I have done nothing wrong.”
“She cuts off heads!”
“Let her try,” said the double. She smoothed her apron and stood squarely in the path.
The Queen of Hearts stormed into the clearing, a procession of playing cards trailing behind her. She held a flamingo under her arm and glared at the pair.
“What is this?” the Queen bellowed. “Two of them? Is this a trick? A conspiracy? Why are there two Alices?”
“She is an impostor!” Alice cried, pointing at her double.
“She is a copy!” the double cried, pointing at Alice.
“Silence!” The Queen marched up to them, peering closely at their faces. She grabbed Alice’s chin, then the double’s chin. “Same nose. Same eyes. Same annoying habit of talking back.”
“I do not talk back,” Alice said.
“I talk back,” the double said. “And I enjoy it.”
The Queen grinned, a terrifying expression. “I like this one better. She has spirit. Off with the quiet one’s head!”
The Card soldiers raised their axes. Alice squeezed her eyes shut.
“Wait!” shouted the double.
The Queen paused. “Well? Do you wish to take her place?”
“No,” said the double. “But if you cut off her head, you cut off mine. We are reflections. You cannot have one without the other. If she disappears, I disappear. If I disappear, she disappears. Do you want no Alice at all, Your Majesty?”
The Queen frowned. She tapped her foot. The flamingo squawked. “A riddle. I hate riddles. They ruin the execution schedule.”
“It is not a riddle,” said the double. “It is logic. Even you must follow logic, or the game falls apart.”
The Queen huffed. “Fine. Keep your heads. Both of them. It’s too much trouble to sort out. Move along! All of you!”
The procession marched on, leaving the three of them in the clearing.
Alice opened her eyes. She was still whole. She looked at her double.
“You saved me,” Alice said.
“You saved yourself,” the double corrected. “I am you. My courage is your courage. You just left it behind in the glass.”
The double walked back toward the floating mirror. The surface rippled like water.
“Where are you going?” Alice asked.
“Back,” said the double. “I belong on the other side. But you… you should visit sometime. Bring your courage with you. It fits better here.”
She stepped into the mirror. For a moment, she stood on the other side, waving. Then the silver surface hardened, becoming just a glass pane again. Alice looked into it. She saw only herself.
But when she looked closer, she noticed something. Her hair was still parted on the left. Her pocket was still on the left. But her eyes… her eyes held a new steadiness. The fear was still there, but it was smaller.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Alice whispered.
The Cheshire Cat faded away, leaving only his grin hanging in the air. “Infinity,” he murmured from nowhere. “Much better than zero.”
Alice turned and walked down the path. She did not check for labels. She did not wonder if she was dreaming. She simply walked forward, knowing that somewhere, in the glass, another Alice was walking backward, and that was perfectly alright.
 
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Posted by on March 13, 2026 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, Alice in Wonderland, humor, humour, Stories for children

 

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 The Clockwork Plague

13 Mar
 The Clockwork Plague

The fog over London wasn’t natural anymore. It carried the scent of oil and ozone, of brass and burning flesh. It clung to the cobblestones like a shroud, and in that shroud, the clicking began.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Not the gentle rhythm of a grandfather clock, but the staccato march of a thousand tiny gears, grinding against bone.

Dr. Eleanor Whitmore pressed herself against the brick wall of the alley, her medical bag clutched to her chest like a shield. Her white coat was stained with soot and things darker than soot. Her stethoscope hung around her neck, useless now. What doctor could treat this?

She had seen Patient Zero three days ago. A dockworker, brought in with what she thought was tetanus. His jaw locked, his muscles rigid. But when she listened to his chest, she didn’t hear a heartbeat.

She heard ticking.

And then his skin had split open, not with blood, but with brass. Gears where his heart should be. Pistons pumping where his lungs had been. He had sat up on the table, his eyes replaced with glass lenses that whirred and focused, and he had spoken in a voice like grinding metal.

PERFECTION REQUIRES SACRIFICE.

Then the others had come. Not sick. Not dying. Transforming.

Eleanor checked her pocket watch. 11:47 PM. Thirteen minutes until midnight. Thirteen minutes until the great clock tower of Westminster would chime, and with it, the signal would spread. She had decoded the pattern in the transmissions. The plague wasn’t just mechanical, it was networked. Each clockwork victim was a node, broadcasting the conversion signal on a frequency only the dying could hear.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

The sound was closer now. She peeked around the corner of the alley.

They walked in perfect unison, these things that had once been people. Their limbs moved with jerky precision, joints replaced with ball-and-socket brass fittings. Some still wore tattered remnants of their clothes, a businessman’s suit, a maid’s dress, a child’s frock. But beneath the fabric, the truth was visible. Exposed clockwork. Glowing filaments where nerves should be. Eyes that reflected light like polished mirrors.

One of them stopped. Its head rotated 180 degrees with a sickening whirrrr. Glass eyes fixed on the alley.

DETECT ORGANIC LIFE FORM, it announced, its voice a chorus of overlapping mechanical tones.

CONTAMINANT IDENTIFIED, another responded.

PURGE INITIATED.

Eleanor ran.

She burst onto the main street, her boots slipping on the fog-slicked cobblestones. The city around her was dying. Not with screams, but with silence. Shops were dark. Homes were empty. Those who hadn’t fled were inside, barricaded, praying the ticking outside their doors would pass them by.

But it never did.

She reached the laboratory, a converted warehouse near the Thames. Her last hope. She had been working on a counter-frequency, a sound that could disrupt the clockwork signal, that could maybe, maybe, reverse the transformation if caught early enough.

Her assistant, Thomas, was waiting. Or what was left of him.

He sat at his workbench, his back to her. His shoulders moved with an unnatural rhythm. Click. Whir. Click. Whir.

Thomas? she whispered.

He turned.

Half of his face was still human. Brown eyes, freckled, the scar above his lip from a childhood accident. The other half was polished brass. A glass eye that dilated and contracted with mechanical precision. Exposed gears where his jaw should be.

Eleanor, he said, and his voice was two voices, one human, one synthetic. You should not have come.

Thomas, fight it! I can help you, I can…

HELP IS ILLOGICAL, the mechanical half of his face interrupted. PERFECTION HAS BEEN ACHIEVED.

The human half of his face twisted in agony. Tears streamed from the brown eye. Eleanor… run… please…

The brass half smiled, gears grinding. CONVERSION IS GIFT. PAIN IS TEMPORARY. ORDER IS ETERNAL.

Thomas’s body stood, moving with terrible precision. He reached for the device on the workbench, her counter-frequency generator.

DESTROY CONTAMINATION, he intoned.

Thomas, no!

He crushed the device in his mechanical hand. Sparks flew. Glass shattered.

The human eye wept. I’m sorry… I tried…

Then the human eye went dark. The face went slack. And Thomas was gone, replaced entirely by the thing wearing his skin.

YOU ARE ALONE, DOCTOR WHITMORE, the thing said. THE NETWORK IS COMPLETE. AT MIDNIGHT, ALL WILL BE PERFECT.

It stepped toward her. Behind it, through the warehouse windows, she could see them. Hundreds. Thousands. Filling the streets. All moving in perfect synchronization. All ticking in perfect harmony.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The clock tower began to chime.

One.

Two.

Three.

Eleanor backed away, her hand closing around the scalpel in her pocket. Useless. All of it useless.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Thomas advanced. Behind him, the warehouse doors burst open. More of them poured in. Former patients. Former colleagues. Former friends.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

SUBMIT, they chorused. BECOME PERFECT.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Eleanor closed her eyes.

Thirteen.

But the thirteenth chime never came.

Instead, there was silence.

She opened her eyes.

Thomas was frozen mid-step. The others were frozen too. All of them, locked in place, their gears stopped, their filaments dark.

And in the silence, Eleanor heard something else.

Not ticking.

Heartbeat.

Faint. Weak. But there.

She rushed to Thomas’s side, pressed her ear to his chest. Beneath the brass and the gears, something organic still lived. Something the transformation hadn’t reached.

The thirteenth chime hadn’t failed. It had been different. A frequency that disrupted the network. A flaw in the perfection.

Eleanor smiled through her tears.

The plague wasn’t unstoppable.

The clockwork wasn’t perfect.

And where there was imperfection, there was hope.

She picked up her tools.

She had work to do.

THE END

 

 
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Posted by on March 13, 2026 in fantasy story, steampunk, clockwork

 

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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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