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Monthly Archives: September 2025

Alice in the Gloaming Glass

Alice in the Gloaming Glass

🕯️ Alice in the Gloaming Glass 🕯️

Through corridors of fractured time,
Alice walked where bells don’t chime.
A moonless sky, a pale-lamped street,
With echoing whispers at her feet.

The Rabbit’s watch had cracked in two,
Its ticking heart now black and blue.
The Hatter’s smile, a ragged seam,
Stretched wide within a broken dream.

The roses bled with ink so dark,
Their thorns aglow with ember’s spark.
The Queen’s red crown was made of bone,
Her scepter carved from hearts of stone.

Alice wandered, calm but wan,
Her shadow twice as long as dawn.
It whispered truths she dared not say,
And tugged her gently far away.

No tea was poured, no riddles told,
Just laughter ringing thin and cold.
The Caterpillar turned to dust,
The Cheshire grinned, then turned to rust.

She reached a glass of iron hue,
That showed not one, but two Alices through.
One smiled sweet, her bow still neat—
The other bared her jagged teeth.

And as the glass began to break,
She knew at last she’d made mistake.
For Wonderland was not a place,
But slumber’s mask upon her face.

She woke in bed, yet not alone…
The grinning girl had followed home.

 

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Alice on Top of the World

Alice on Top of the World

🌟 Alice on Top of the World 🌟

Alice climbed the tower tall,
Above the streets, above it all.
No rabbit late, no ticking clock,
Just breezes dancing ‘round the block.

The rooftops bloomed with flowers bright,
A secret garden kissed by light.
She twirled her skirt, her bow held fast,
And waved at clouds that floated past.

“Hello!” she called to birds in flight,
Who answered back with sheer delight.
The sun on glass made castles gleam,
The city shimmered like a dream.

No Hatter fussed, no Duchess frowned,
No Queen to shout, “Off with her crown!”
Instead she ruled with gentle cheer,
The sky her throne, her realm so near.

Her subjects? Windows, bricks, and bees,
And secret whispers in the breeze.
Her courtiers? Flowers, tall and free,
Her crown? A wreath of greenery.

So Alice laughed, and Alice sang,
Her joy across the skyline rang.
For Wonderland was not below,
But up above, where gardens grow.

And every soul who paused to see,
Felt lighter, brighter, suddenly—
For happiness, when shared, can twirl…
Like Alice, on top of the world.

 

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Alice in Steampunk Dalekland

Chapter One: The Clockwork Rabbit

Alice was minding her own business, which is the most dangerous occupation for a girl of her size and curiosity, because one’s own business has a wicked habit of becoming everyone else’s. She had laid out her tools upon the garden path—one honest screwdriver (which insisted it was quite respectable), a pair of tweezers (which took offense at everything), and a clockwork bird with its beak stuck slightly open as if it had been caught forever in the act of saying “Oh!” The roses wobbled about on their stems in a breeze that smelled faintly of coal and toast, and the daisies gave great, polite sneezes.

“Bless you,” said Alice, for she was a well-brought-up child, even when addressing flowers.

“Steam,” sniffed a daisy, quite dignified. “We are allergic to steam.”

“There is no steam,” said Alice, peering about. “Only sunshine and Sunday. If there were steam, I should see it, and if I saw it, I should surely say it.”

At which a discreet hiss sounded from under the azalea bush, and something somewhere went tick-tock, whirr-clank, hiss-puff!—the exact sort of reply that contradicts a person very rudely without saying a word. The roses coughed. The daisies sneezed again. Alice, being one who could not resist a noise that sounded like an argument between a kettle and a typewriter, put down the screwdriver and knelt in the flowerbed.

“I say,” she called into the dark. “Are you a mouse, a mole, or a machine?”

“None and all,” said a voice like a penny-farthing talking in its sleep. “Stand clear of the exhaust.”

Alice had just time to wonder if an exhaust was something you could trip over when the soil trembled and the bush erupted. Out burst a white blur with brass rivets, whiskers wired like telegraph lines, and a waistcoat stitched with gears that clicked themselves in a most improper fashion. It was the White Rabbit—only more so, as if someone had wound him up to a higher setting.

“You’re late!” he squeaked, and a valve near his collar let off an indignant toot. “Horribly, dreadfully, scandalously late!”

“For what?” said Alice, who did not at all like being told about her lateness, especially by a creature whose ears appeared to be tuned to the Foreign Stations.

“For the Invasion Tea, of course!” He tapped his breast, where a pocket watch had given up being merely a pocket watch and bolted itself to his ribs with a handsome row of screws. “The minutes are marching without permission! The seconds have staged a revolt! The hour has barricaded itself behind a samovar! Oh, oh!” He patted himself down as if he might find a spare minute in his pockets. “No time! Even less than that! Negative time!”

Do you want to find out what is negative time? Simply click on thje link, below, and enjoy.

https://thecrazymadwriter.com/alice-in-wonderland-stories/alice-in-steampunk-dalekland/

 

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The Steampunk of Ballykillduff

The Steampunk of Ballykillduff

In Ballykillduff, where the bog-cottons grow,
And tractors move slower than clouds ever go,
There rumbles a marvel of brasswork and puff:
The whistling contraption of Ballykillduff.

Its chimney-stack belches a lavender steam,
Its pistons clank onwards like parts of a dream,
The gears all turn sideways, the wheels spin askew,
And no one can say what it’s meant to do.

The smith in his apron declares with a cough,
“It brews tea at dawn, and it scares crows right off!
It mends broken fences, it churns up the peat,
And plays merry jigs with mechanical feet!”

The priest shook his head and the postman grew pale,
The barber got tangled in coppery rail,
The schoolchildren cheered as it huffed down the lane,
Whistling out sermons in high-tin refrain.

At night by the pub, when the fiddles strike up,
It gulps down the porter from pint glass or cup,
Then sings out in whistles, all clattering gruff—
The wild steampunk wonder of Ballykillduff!

And though it may rattle, and though it may groan,
And sometimes forgets the way home of its own,
The villagers say, with a fond sort of pride:
“It’s daft as a donkey—but ours to ride!”

 

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Sunbury on Thames a long time ago

Prologue: The Village by the River

When I close my eyes and think of childhood, it is Sunbury-on-Thames that comes first to mind. Not the Sunbury of today, with its busy roads and rows of new houses, but the Sunbury of the 1960s — smaller, gentler, and more like a village than a suburb. It was a place where the Thames curved lazily past meadows and willows, where church bells drifted across the rooftops on Sunday mornings, and where the whole world seemed contained within a few familiar streets.

Life was simpler then, though we didn’t know it at the time. Neighbours leaned over fences to exchange gossip. Children dashed in and out of each other’s houses as though every home were their own. The corner shop, with its rows of glass jars, seemed to contain more treasure than any palace. Summers stretched out in golden haze, the river glittering at the heart of it all. Winters were marked by frosted windows, steaming coats, and the smell of coal fires in the evening air.

To be a child in Sunbury was to live in a small but endlessly expanding universe. The High Street was our city, the Green our stadium, the towpath our frontier. Each day offered new discoveries — a den to be built, a tree to be climbed, a rumour to be tested. We believed in ghosts at the Mansion, in the magic of lucky bags, in the possibility that our makeshift rafts might one day carry us as far as London.

Most of all, we belonged. Belonged to the street, the school, the river, and to each other. We were held in place by the rhythms of bells, the voices of neighbours, and the certainty that however far we roamed, Sunbury would be waiting when we came back.

Looking back now, I see how small it all was — a handful of streets, a stretch of river, a scattering of people. But to us it was vast, a whole world unfolding at our feet. And in memory, it remains vast still: golden, glowing, a village by the river where childhood stretched as wide as the sky.

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Memories of Sunbury on Thames

 
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Posted by on September 16, 2025 in 1960s, 1965

 

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Steampunk in Ballykillduff

The Steampunk Daleks of Ballykillduff

Prologue: A Strange Copper Glow

On most Tuesdays in Ballykillduff, nothing more dramatic happens than the post landing in the wrong cottage and the weather deciding to be three kinds of rain at once. Mrs. O’Toole hangs out washing and scolds the sky. Old Seamus McGroggan studies his pipe as if it might tell him who ate the last custard cream. And young Mick—ambitious, daft, and acrobatic—tries to cycle backwards down the main street while balancing a loaf on his head. (It is, he insists, “training for the circus.”)

But on this particular Tuesday, at precisely half past eleven, a copper light spread over the village like someone had polished the clouds. The hens went quiet. The sheep froze mid-chew. Father O’Malley paused with the parish bell rope in his hand and whispered, “Saints preserve us.”

Then came the sounds:
HSSSSSS… CLANK-CLONK! WHOOOOMP-TCHAK! TOOT-TOOT!
Gears rattled. Pipes sighed. Something big exhaled steam with the weary dignity of a very old kettle.

Mrs. Byrne put down her shopping basket. “That’ll be the weather packing in for the year,” she said.

“Or the circus,” said Mick hopefully, wobbling.

A shadow rippled across the crossroads. And through the copper-coloured sky, down they came: brass-plated, rivet-studded, monocle-winked, stovepipe-hatted… Daleks.

“Ah,” said Seamus softly to his pipe, “we’re doomed so.”

The first of the strange machines landed with a THOONK that made the turf stacks shiver and the pub sign spin half a turn. Its dome lifted a fraction; a curl of steam puffed out like a sigh of satisfaction.
ATTEND!” wheezed a crisp, Victorian voice through a whistling grille. “THE AGE OF STEAM COMMENCES.

“Will it take cash,” Mrs. Byrne whispered, “or does it run on scones?”

The brass teapot-on-wheels swivelled its monocled eyestalk. “WE REQUIRE… TEA.

“Right,” said Mrs. O’Toole, squaring up. “That we can manage.”

And Ballykillduff held its breath.

Do you want to read more?

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Steampunk Daleks

 

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Alice, Christmas and the Jabber-Wobble

Alice, Christmas and the Jabber-Wobble

A brand-new story coming here soon!

 

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Santa Lost in Time

Santa Lost in Time

Prologue – The Clock at the North Pole

Far, far away, in that snowy corner of the world where no postman dares deliver, there stands Santa’s workshop—a cheerful jumble of chimneys, chiming bells, and windows glowing like lanterns in the long night. Inside, elves scurried here and there like industrious beetles with pointy shoes, hammering, sawing, wrapping, and occasionally stopping for cocoa with three marshmallows (never two, never four).

In the very heart of the workshop stood an object older than Santa himself: the North Pole Clock. It was a contraption of such size and complexity that nobody, not even Santa, could tell which cog belonged to which century. Its hands were long enough to sweep a reindeer’s tail, its pendulum heavy enough to flatten a fruitcake, and its face—golden, solemn, and ever-turning—kept track not just of hours but of seasons.

On one frosty morning, just after a particularly exhausting Christmas (the year of the exploding pogo sticks, if you recall), Santa leaned upon the clock and gave it a friendly wind, as one might do to a reluctant grandfather clock.

“Just a little nudge to keep things running smoothly,” he muttered, with the weary satisfaction of one who thinks he has done a clever thing.

But the clock shuddered. It hiccupped. It gave a very impolite cough. And then, with a whirl, a wheeze, and the mournful sound of a cuckoo bird sneezing, the great hands spun round and round until the numbers blurred.

Before Santa could say “plum pudding,” the workshop, the elves, and even the snow outside dissolved into a blur of colours, and Santa was tumbled head over boots into another time entirely.

To be continued

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Santa Lost in Time

 

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The Guardian of the Fertilizer Mine

The Guardian of the Fertilizer Mine

The Guardian of the Fertilizer Mine

In the depths of the Whispering Mountains, Fle, the very old elf, lived a life intertwined with the earth. His home was a sprawling fertilizer mine, a place rich with the essence of life itself. Here, he nurtured the most potent fertilizer known to the realms, a secret blend of organic matter that could bring even the most barren soil back to life. Fle guarded this treasure jealously, aware of its immense value and the greed it could inspire in others.

The Secret of the Fertilizer

Fle had discovered the unique properties of the fertilizer centuries ago, when he first ventured into the mine. It was a blend of decayed leaves, crushed minerals, and the remnants of ancient plants, all steeped in the magic of the earth. With it, he could grow lush gardens and heal the land, but he also knew that in the wrong hands, it could be weaponized to destroy rather than nurture.

Each day, Fle would tend to his precious stock, carefully mixing and aerating the fertilizer, ensuring it remained potent. He would sing to it, his voice echoing through the caverns, infusing the mixture with his ancient magic. The fertilizer thrived under his care, glowing faintly with a life of its own.

The Threat of Greed

Word of Fle’s extraordinary fertilizer began to spread beyond the mountains. Rumors reached the ears of greedy merchants and ambitious alchemists who sought to exploit its power for profit. They envisioned vast fields of crops, riches beyond measure, and the ability to control nature itself.

One evening, as Fle was tending to his garden, he sensed a disturbance. The air grew thick with tension, and the faint sound of footsteps echoed through the mine. He knew he had to protect his treasure.

The Intruders

That night, a group of shadowy figures crept into the mine, their eyes glinting with greed. They were armed with tools and bags, ready to harvest Fle’s precious fertilizer. As they approached, Fle emerged from the shadows, his presence commanding and fierce.

“Who dares to enter my domain?” he called, his voice resonating like thunder. The intruders froze, startled by the sudden appearance of the ancient elf.

“We mean no harm, old one,” one of them said, trying to sound convincing. “We only seek a small portion of your fertilizer. It could help many people.”

Fle narrowed his eyes, sensing the deception in their words. “You seek to take what is not yours. This fertilizer is a gift of the earth, not a commodity for your greed.”

The Confrontation

The intruders, realizing they could not sway Fle with words, drew their tools, ready to fight for what they desired. But Fle was not just a guardian; he was a master of the earth’s magic. With a wave of his hand, the ground beneath the intruders began to tremble.

Vines erupted from the soil, wrapping around their legs and pulling them down. The intruders struggled, but the more they fought, the tighter the vines gripped them. Fle stood tall, his eyes glowing with ancient power.

“You will not take what belongs to the earth,” he declared. “Leave now, and never return, or face the consequences of your greed.”

A Lesson Learned

Realizing they were no match for the old elf and his magic, the intruders relented. They dropped their tools and begged for mercy. Fle, seeing the fear in their eyes, decided to show them the error of their ways.

“Let this be a lesson,” he said, releasing the vines but keeping a watchful eye on them. “The earth provides for those who respect it. If you seek to take, you will find only destruction. But if you learn to nurture, you will be rewarded.”

The intruders, humbled and ashamed, fled the mine, vowing never to return. Fle watched them go, knowing that he had protected not just his treasure, but the balance of nature itself.

A New Understanding

From that day forward, Fle continued to guard his fertilizer, but he also became a teacher. He welcomed those who sought knowledge and understanding, sharing the secrets of the earth with those who showed respect. The mine became a place of learning, where the old elf nurtured not just the soil, but the hearts of those who came to him.

Fle’s legend grew, not just as a guardian of the fertilizer mine, but as a wise mentor who understood the delicate balance between taking and giving. And in the depths of the Whispering Mountains, the magic of the earth thrived, nurtured by the love and care of an old elf who had learned the true meaning of guardianship.

 
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Posted by on September 12, 2025 in elf, fantasy, fantasy story

 

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Fle, an ancient old elf

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fle, an elf so ancient he remembered when the stars were new, had dedicated his incredibly long life to a singular, earthly purpose: fertilizer. For over 1,700 years, his world had been the quiet, luminescent depths of his subterranean mine. His greatest achievement was the “Black Gold”, a powerful, slow-release compost brewed from a secret recipe of volcanic ash, enchanted mushroom spores, and the finest river silt. It was his masterpiece, stored in dozens of perfectly stacked bags.

One morning, the serene hum of his mine was replaced by a jarring, hollow silence. A large, clumsy wheelbarrow track led from the mine’s entrance, and the tell-tale scent of stolen goods hung in the air. A quick count confirmed the damage: twenty-three bags of his precious Black Gold were gone. Fle’s fury was a cold, quiet thing, a force that had been dormant for centuries.

Cursing in a dialect older than the mountains themselves, Fle dusted off his tracking cloak and followed the trail. The thief, a human, was leaving a trail of astonishing carelessness—a dropped coin, a ripped piece of burlap, and the occasional, rogue sprig of basil from the surface world. Fle expected a short pursuit, but the thief was surprisingly cunning, ducking through thickets and wading through streams to break the trail. This wasn’t a simple robbery; it was a determined escape.

The chase stretched across leagues, a game of cat-and-mouse between ancient wisdom and youthful desperation. Fle, unused to the chaos of the overworld, was bewildered by its noise and frantic pace. He navigated bustling market towns and sprawling farms, his frustration mounting. Finally, by the light of a pale moon, he cornered the thief in a field of withered, black stalks.

The thief, a young woman named Elara, was collapsed beside a makeshift cart. Her face was smudged with dirt and streaked with tears. Fle saw not defiance in her eyes, but a profound, bone-deep sorrow. “It was the only thing I could do,” she whispered, her voice raw. “The blight… it took everything. I just needed enough to save what’s left.”

Fle’s anger faltered. He saw the truth in her eyes. Her village was starving, and she, a thief driven by love, had taken the only thing that could save them. He looked at the twenty-three bags of Black Gold, now scattered around the barren field. The fertilizer’s magic was already weakening, its slow-release potency starting to leak into the polluted soil.

With a heavy sigh, Fle made a decision that astonished even himself. “The fertilizer is worthless to you now,” he said, his voice softer than she expected. “You handled it incorrectly. But… I can show you how to use it. And you can work to pay your debt.” He pointed at a few stalks that had resisted the blight. “I will teach you to tend the earth, but in return, you will help me tend my mine. From this day forward, you will be my apprentice.”

Elara’s tears flowed freely, not from sadness, but from overwhelming relief. Her gaze met the old elf’s, and for the first time, she saw not a terrifying creature of legend, but an unexpected, and incredibly grumpy, ally. Fle, for his part, looked at the ruined field and felt a twinge of something new: a purpose beyond his mine, a responsibility to a world he had long since left behind.

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The Origins of Black Gold

 
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Posted by on September 11, 2025 in Uncategorized

 

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