Alice and the Clockwork Garden.
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The city where Alice lived was a place of endless hums and flickers. Towers of glass stretched into the clouds, their reflections looping infinitely in the mirrored streets below. People moved like clock hands, precise, predictable, and always on time. But Alice was different. She collected broken things: cracked lenses, tangled wires, forgotten keys. She said they whispered to her when no one else was listening.
One evening, while exploring the outskirts of the city, she stumbled upon an abandoned greenhouse. Its glass panes were fogged with dust, and vines had crept through the cracks like green veins reclaiming a body. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of rust and wilted petals. In the far corner, half-hidden behind a curtain of ivy, she found a small brass door no taller than her knee. It ticked faintly, as though it had a heartbeat.
When she turned the handle, the world folded, not down, but sideways. The air rippled like water, and she fell through layers of sound and color until she landed softly on a bed of moss that smelled faintly of machine oil.
She stood up and found herself in a garden made entirely of gears and glass. Flowers opened and closed with the precision of pocket watches, their petals clicking in rhythm. The sky above was a swirling clock face, its hands spinning in opposite directions. Bees made of copper buzzed between the flowers, leaving trails of golden dust that shimmered like static.
A signpost nearby spun wildly, its arrows pointing to places that made no sense: “Yesterday,” “The Hour Between,” “Nowhere in Particular,” and “The Place You Forgot.” Alice hesitated, then chose the last one.
The path wound through hedges that whispered secrets in mechanical tones. Every few steps, the ground shifted beneath her feet, rearranging itself like a puzzle. She passed a pond that reflected not her face but a dozen versions of herself, older, younger, smiling, crying, all blinking at different speeds.
A cat made of smoke and mirrors appeared on a branch above her. Its grin flickered like a glitch in a screen.
“Lost again, are you?” it purred.
“I’m not sure I was ever found,” Alice replied.
“Good answer,” said the cat, and its body dissolved into a cloud of static, leaving only the grin behind. The grin blinked once, then vanished too.
“Lost again, are you?” it purred.
“I’m not sure I was ever found,” Alice replied.
“Good answer,” said the cat, and its body dissolved into a cloud of static, leaving only the grin behind. The grin blinked once, then vanished too.
Further along, she came upon a tea party set in the middle of a clockwork clearing. The table was long and crooked, covered in teapots that poured themselves and cups that whispered secrets to one another. The host was a clockmaker with a hat full of ticking hands and a monocle that spun like a compass.
“Time’s broken again,” he sighed. “Keeps running backward when no one’s looking.”
Alice peered into one of the teacups and saw her reflection aging and un-aging in rapid succession.
“Maybe time isn’t broken,” she said. “Maybe it’s just tired.”
The clockmaker blinked. “Then perhaps it needs a nap.” He handed her a small silver key. “Take this to the Heart of the Garden. It winds everything that dreams.”
“Time’s broken again,” he sighed. “Keeps running backward when no one’s looking.”
Alice peered into one of the teacups and saw her reflection aging and un-aging in rapid succession.
“Maybe time isn’t broken,” she said. “Maybe it’s just tired.”
The clockmaker blinked. “Then perhaps it needs a nap.” He handed her a small silver key. “Take this to the Heart of the Garden. It winds everything that dreams.”
The path to the Heart was not straight. It twisted through forests of glass trees that sang when the wind passed through them. She met a girl made entirely of paper who folded herself into a bird and flew away. She crossed a bridge that whispered her thoughts aloud, embarrassing her with every step. At one point, she found herself walking upside down, the sky beneath her feet and the ground above her head.
When she finally reached the Heart of the Garden, she found a massive clock-tree, its trunk pulsing like a living creature. Its branches were heavy with pendulums, and its roots glowed faintly beneath the soil. In its center was a keyhole, glowing softly. She turned the silver key, and the world exhaled.
For a moment, everything stopped. The gears froze, the bees hung motionless in the air, and even the sky’s hands paused mid-turn. Then, slowly, the world began again, but differently. The ticking softened. The flowers opened wider. The air felt warmer, almost alive.
But something else stirred. From the shadows beneath the clock-tree, a figure emerged, a tall woman with hair made of unraveling ribbons and eyes like shattered glass.
“You’ve wound the Heart,” she said, her voice echoing like a thousand clocks striking midnight. “Do you know what that means?”
Alice shook her head.
“It means the dream wakes up,” the woman whispered. “And dreams don’t like being awake.”
“You’ve wound the Heart,” she said, her voice echoing like a thousand clocks striking midnight. “Do you know what that means?”
Alice shook her head.
“It means the dream wakes up,” the woman whispered. “And dreams don’t like being awake.”
The ground trembled. The flowers began to wilt, their gears grinding to a halt. The sky cracked open, revealing a vast emptiness beyond. The woman smiled, her face fracturing like a mirror.
“Run, little clock,” she said.
“Run, little clock,” she said.
Alice ran. The paths twisted and folded, leading her in circles. The cat reappeared, now flickering between shapes, a bird, a shadow, a reflection.
“Which way is out?” she gasped.
“Out?” the cat laughed. “There’s no out. Only through.”
“Which way is out?” she gasped.
“Out?” the cat laughed. “There’s no out. Only through.”
She stumbled back into the greenhouse, gasping for breath. The brass door was gone, replaced by a single flower made of glass, ticking gently in the moonlight. She touched it, and the ticking stopped. The city outside seemed to pause, as if holding its breath.
When she looked at her reflection in the glass, her eyes glimmered faintly, like tiny clock faces, turning in opposite directions. Somewhere deep inside, she could still hear the faint hum of the garden, waiting for her to wind it again.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 