In shadows deep, where
Curiosity’s flame ignites,
Alice, a vision in black lace,
Wanders through enchanted nights.
With a skeletal rabbit by her side,
And the Cheshire Cat’s grin above,
She dances through the twisted woods,
A dark queen of Wonderland’s love.
Top hat adorned, with an inky feather,
A single eye, a haunting stare,
She sips from cups of bitter tea,
And breathes the melancholic air.
Crimson roses, black as night,
Bloom where her solemn footsteps fall,
A symphony of silent sighs,
Echoes through the magical hall.
For in this land of eerie dreams,
Where madness holds a gentle sway,
Gothic Alice finds her peace,
And forever chooses to stay.
Alice stood quite still in the sun-dappled clearing, the light filtering through the canopy in warm, impressionistic blobs of gold and lemon. She was surrounded by a riot of oversized, pastel flowers—irises the size of her head, and roses that seemed to blush with a painter’s deepest pink. The air felt thick and sweet, like crystallized honey.
“Oh dear,” she murmured, adjusting the bow in her auburn hair. “Everything looks rather splashed here.”
From above, a lazy, white form materialized, hanging suspended between two sun-kissed trees. It was the Cheshire Cat, looking more like a puff of painted smoke than a proper feline, his famous grin a translucent arc.
“Splashed, my dear?” the Cat purred, his voice like silk sliding off a palette knife. “But the world is much more interesting when it’s spilled, wouldn’t you say?”
Alice smoothed down her blue dress. “I suppose. But everything seems to be hurrying, even when it stands still. Look at those blossoms—they look like they’re dancing!”
As if on cue, a sudden blur of white flashed past the rose bushes on the right. It was the White Rabbit, his pink eyes wide with that familiar panic, though he carried no waistcoat, no watch, only a sense of frantic urgency.
“Late, late, late!” chirped the Rabbit’s distant voice, sounding rather like a squeezed tube of paint. “The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party is beginning! And I haven’t time to dry!”
Alice sighed, a small smile touching her lips. She recognized this place—this beautiful, illogical field. It was her moment of calm before the chaos, the brief, quiet breath before tumbling back into the whirlwind of Wonderland. The light felt like a warm invitation, and the flowers nodded their permission.
“Well,” Alice decided, stepping forward into the swirling pink and green. “If I’m to be late for a very important date, I might as well enjoy the view first.”
Verse 1
High on the spine of the ancient wood,
Where the moss has seized what the clock understood.
A sapphire shadow, a shifting gray,
Watches the hours that refuse to sway.
Moonlight bleeds silver on gears of brass,
Reflected deep in the fractured glass.
He is the silence that follows the strike,
A perfect machine in the endless night.
The fog is his breath, the rust is his sign,
A whisper of maroon on the blue-gray line.
He measures the moment, the tension he keeps,
While the forest below is tangled in sleeps.
Oh, the Clockwork Glare!
Two eyes of burning, molten gold.
He doesn’t count the seconds, he counts the souls.
A Steampunk Spectre on a sky of blue,
With metal wings where the dream slips through.
He holds the key, he turns the lock,
The silent sentinel of the ticking clock!
The tiny butterflies, silver and frail,
Dance in the vapor beneath his veil.
A compass eye on his forehead set,
He knows the coordinates of what you regret.
The deep blue velvet of the cosmic swirl,
Just a backdrop for the cat of the world.
He’s not a protector, nor purely a threat,
He’s the moment you haven’t lived yet.
(
The copper pipes wrap around his crown,
Pulling the moonlight to stream right down.
He gathers the whispers and files the screams,
The menacing architect of your darkest dreams.
Oh, the Clockwork Glare!
Two eyes of burning, molten gold.
He doesn’t count the seconds, he counts the souls.
A Steampunk Spectre on a sky of blue,
With metal wings where the dream slips through.
He holds the key, he turns the lock,
The silent sentinel of the ticking clock!
He sees the color you cannot name,
The blue that’s fueled by the fire of shame.
The gold in his vision, fragmented and deep,
A mirror to secrets the forest must keep.
The clockwork glare…
The ticking, ticking…
The ancient clock tower, its gears long seized by moss and ivy, stood as a stoic witness to centuries of the forest’s slumber and waking. Perched precariously on its time-worn hands, a raccoon with an unusually tall top hat meticulously polished a small, brass monocle. He was Bartholomew, the Keeper of Sundials and Whispers, and he rarely missed a moment in the life of the one who floated through the perpetual twilight.
Her name was Lyra. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Names, like time, held little sway in her realm. She was the consciousness of the Gloaming Woods, the shimmering breath that stirred the leaves of the ancient oaks, the faint hum within the glowing mushrooms. Tonight, as many nights, Lyra drifted along the meandering path that led deeper into her domain, her emerald gown trailing like mist over the mossy ground. In her outstretched hand, a small orb of swirling, cerulean light pulsed softly, a concentration of the forest’s dreaming energy.
Bartholomew clicked his tongue, a tiny, almost inaudible sound. “She’s weaving again,” he muttered, adjusting his monocle. “A new dream, perhaps? Or mending an old thread?”
Lyra wasn’t weaving in the traditional sense. She was mending the subtle tears in the forest’s tapestry – a forgotten lullaby of a long-extinct bird, the memory of a sunbeam that once kissed a particular fern, the echo of laughter from children who had strayed too close to the boundary centuries ago. Each thread was a spark of light, gathered and re-infused into the very fabric of the woods.
Tonight, a particularly insistent flicker caught her attention. It was the memory of a small, hidden spring, whose waters had once pulsed with a forgotten magic. Over time, the spring had grown timid, its light fading, its song muted. Lyra closed her violet eyes, allowing the swirling orb in her hand to draw in the faint echoes. She saw the glint of sunlight on clear water, heard the gentle gurgle, felt the cool spray on ancient stones. She poured the light from her hand into the earth, a silent incantation, a whisper of life.
Around her, the hummingbirds, tiny jewels of the air, danced in appreciation, their iridescent wings a blur. They were her closest confidantes, carrying her subtle energies and observations to the farthest reaches of the woods. Bartholomew nodded sagely from his perch. “The spring will sing again by dawn,” he predicted, making a tiny mark in his worn ledger.
Lyra continued her ethereal journey, her gaze sweeping over the glowing flora, the silent sentinels of trees. She wasn’t just a guardian; she was the living memory of the forest, the keeper of its heart. Every bloom, every shadow, every rustle of leaves held a piece of her essence, and she, in turn, held theirs. In the Gloaming Woods, time wasn’t measured in hours, but in the slow, eternal beat of Lyra’s quiet magic.
Just east of the Tullow Show Grounds, where the land rises sharply towards the older, quieter fields, stood a low hill known locally as Tír na gCnámh—the Hill of Bones. It wasn’t bones from battle, but from the ancient rock of the earth itself, protruding like the elbows of a giant. Every year, during the last week of August, when the ground was trampled by prize cattle and the air rang with the cacophony of the fairground rides, the knoll would grow restless.
The locals said the knoll was home to Ailbhe, a solitary, centuries-old member of the Aos Sí (the Irish Fair Folk) who resented the noise, the electric lights, and the yearly parking chaos that encroached upon her ancient domain.
Our story belongs to young Cillian, a lad of seventeen who earned good money helping the farmers set up their marquees. It was late on the final night of the Show. Rain had hammered the tents all day, and now a thick, unnatural mist—the kind the old men called the “Show Fog”—had rolled in, suffocating the last of the fairground lights.
Cillian had volunteered to take the day’s cash box, secured in a heavy leather satchel, back to the committee office in the town centre. To avoid the swampy roads, he had to take the shortcut: straight over Tír na gCnámh.
“Mind your steps, boy,” warned the security guard, glancing nervously at the hill. “And don’t you talk to any shadows up there. They’re listening tonight.”
Cillian, being seventeen, scoffed but kept his mouth shut. He started the climb, the weight of the satchel pulling at his shoulder. As soon as he crossed the low stone wall marking the knoll’s boundary, the sound of the Show Grounds vanished. Not faded—vanished. The frantic pop music, the generator hum, the distant shouts—all replaced by an immense, breathing silence.
The fog on the knoll was different, too. It didn’t just obscure the view; it played tricks with the light. The mist ahead seemed to part, revealing brief, tantalizing glimpses of things that should not be: a line of stone markers that weren’t there a second ago, and a flickering, cold flame that burned without fuel.
“It’s just the fog, Cillian,” he muttered, clutching the satchel tighter.
He had walked about fifty yards when the ground beneath his feet began to shift. It wasn’t a landslide; it was a rhythmic, almost deliberate heave, as though the whole knoll were drawing a deep breath. He lost his footing, dropping to his knees.
Suddenly, a sound arose that made his blood run cold: the sweet, unearthly melody of a tin whistle, played so perfectly it seemed to carve the air. It was coming from a clump of gorse bushes just ahead.
Then, the voice spoke. It was clear and cool, like water running over granite.
“You walk on our ceiling, little mortal. You bring the stink of diesel and the bleating of the hungry machines to the door of my home. And you carry a weight of ill-gotten gains.”
Cillian stammered, “N-not ill-gotten! It’s for the prize fund! The best barley, the fastest sheep…”
A figure coalesced from the fog near the gorse bush. It was Ailbhe, the spirit of the knoll. She wasn’t terrifying, but unbearably sad and beautiful. She wore a dress woven from mist and moss, and her hair was the colour of wet turf.
“The barley is good, yes,” Ailbhe sighed, the sound echoing like the movement of old leaves. “But the rush! The noise! It tears the sleep from the earth.” She gestured towards the Show Grounds, and a dark shadow, cold and vast, momentarily blotted out the flickering neon sign of the funfair below.
“I won’t disturb you again, I promise!” Cillian begged, scrambling to his feet.
Ailbhe paused, her deep eyes studying him. “You are the one who leaves the single silver shilling by the gatepost before the setup begins. You think I do not notice the small sacrifice, the tribute to the old courtesy?”
Cillian’s heart pounded. He always left one silver coin from his first day’s pay at the base of the knoll before the Show started—a superstitious habit taught to him by his grandmother.
“Because of that,” Ailbhe whispered, “I will let you pass. But the hill demands payment for the disturbance.”
With a swift, silent movement, she reached out. Cillian braced, expecting her to grab the satchel. Instead, her cool, dry fingers brushed his earlobe.
“Payment accepted,” she murmured, and stepped back into the gorse bush. The whistle melody soared once more, wrapping the knoll in music.
Cillian didn’t wait. He ran down the hill, crashing through the final hedge and onto the muddy perimeter road.
Only when he reached the main road did he notice the satchel was still heavy, the cash intact. He stumbled into the town office and threw the bag onto the desk.
“What happened to your ear?” the committee man asked, handing Cillian his fee.
Cillian touched his earlobe. There, hanging from a thin, almost invisible chain, was a single, tiny, perfectly formed dewdrop of amber, glittering like polished honey.
He never told anyone what he saw on the knoll, but he knew Ailbhe had taken her payment: a lock of hair, preserved in amber, ensuring that a piece of him would always belong to the Hill of Bones. And every August, Cillian always remembered to leave two silver shillings by the gatepost. He preferred to keep his appointments with the Fair Folk.
Alice had always considered “topsy-turvy” a quaint, almost charming state of affairs. Until, that is, the very air began to hum with an unfamiliar, metallic thrum that made the giant mushroom caps quiver like startled jellyfish. One moment, she was admiring a particularly vibrant cluster of sapphire roses; the next, a bronze behemoth with a singular, unblinking eye had materialized amongst the petals.
“EX-TER-MIN-ATE!” boomed a voice that sounded like a thousand angry kettles boiling simultaneously.
Alice, who had faced jabberwockies, irate queens, and logic-defying tea parties without so much as a proper shriek, found herself doing a rather ungraceful hop-skip-jump backwards. “Oh dear!” she gasped, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of terror and utter bewilderment. “Are you quite alright, sir? You sound rather cross, and honestly, shouting ‘exterminate’ at the scenery is dreadfully rude to the fungi.”
The Dalek, for that is what it was, swiveled its dome-shaped head, its ocular stalk focusing intently on Alice. “OBSERVATION: ORGANIC LIFE FORM IS SPEAKING ILLOGICALLY. THREAT ASSESSMENT: HIGH. INITIATING ELIMINATION PROTOCOL.”
“Elimination protocol?” Alice clutched her apron. “But I’ve only just arrived! And I haven’t even had a chance to ask if you’d like a spot of tea. Though, I must confess, your rather peculiar shape doesn’t look particularly suited for holding a teacup. Perhaps a saucer? Or a very large thimble?”
The Dalek emitted a series of rapid, clicking noises that sounded suspiciously like frustrated whirring. “TEA IS IRRELEVANT! SURRENDER FOR EX-TER-MIN-ATION!”
“Surrender?” Alice scoffed. “And miss out on discovering what’s beyond those particularly tall, stripey mushrooms? Not on your life, you peculiar brass kettle on wheels!” With a burst of courage fueled by sheer absurdity, she turned and darted through the towering roses and lilies, her blue dress a fleeting blur against the soft pink and blue hues of the fantastical garden.
The Dalek, surprisingly nimble for its bulk, began to pursue, its menacing shouts echoing through the quiet glade. “YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE! EX-TER-MIN-ATE! EX-TER-MIN-ATE THE INSOLENT ORGANIC!”
Alice, giggling despite herself, glanced back. “Honestly, if you’re going to chase me, at least try to keep up a sensible conversation! Do you know the way to the Mad Hatter’s tea party? I suspect he’d find your insistence on ‘extermination’ rather droll, provided you didn’t actually exterminate the biscuits.”
And so, under the enormous, dappled caps of the enchanted mushrooms, with the spiraling vortex of the sky watching overhead, Alice led the indignant Dalek on a merry, illogical chase, proving once and for all that in Wonderland, even the most terrifying threats could become just another part of the mad, wonderful scenery.
A sudden, jarring shift in color drew Alice’s attention away from the White Rabbit’s existential crisis.
A short distance away, through a thicket of gnarled, swirling branches, the landscape erupted. It was a riot of color that fought against itself: streaks of raw vermillion clashing with aggressive viridian greens, all under a canopy of electric violet. It was loud, visually overwhelming, and undeniably wet.
The White Rabbit, clutching his hastily drawn watch, shuddered, his unfinished lines seeming to vibrate with distaste. “Don’t go that way, child! That’s the Saturation Zone! The Hatter has completely abandoned all sense of proportion or harmony. He’s destroying the value! It’s all so terribly… loud.”
But Alice, already overwhelmed by the thick texture and anxious energy of her arrival, found herself drawn to the visual noise. At least there, the danger wasn’t fading into the canvas; it was being intensely, brilliantly there.
“I think,” Alice decided, stepping over a thick, coiled stroke of blue that served as a root, “I need to speak to someone who understands color. Perhaps they understand how this world is painted.”
She plunged through the dark, expressive undergrowth.
Alice emerged into a clearing where the air didn’t just smell of paint; it smelled of turpentine and fermented tea.
The famous long table was there, but it wasn’t set for tea; it was set for a lesson in chromatic chaos. Instead of fine china, there were pots and buckets overflowing with thick, undiluted pigments. The table itself was not wood, but a slab of brilliant, sticky Cadmium Yellow.
The Mad Hatter, his face painted with feverish, opposing stripes of cyan and magenta, was shouting at a trembling Dormouse who was struggling to balance a tiny teacup. The cup was filled with a liquid that glowed with the unnatural intensity of a pure Phthalo Blue.
“No, no, you infuriating rodent!” the Hatter shrieked, splashing a handful of Alizarin Crimson onto the table, creating a violent, wet mess. “You are sipping Primary Blue next to a background of Primary Yellow! You need a mediator! You need an Orange, or perhaps a delicate Tertiary Violet! Do you have any idea the visual friction you are causing?”
The Dormouse whimpered, his face a perfect, frightened circle of dull beige. “B-but this is the only color that won’t dry, sir!”
The Hatter ignored him and spotted Alice. He slammed his hand down on the yellow table, sending splatters of red and blue pigment flying.
“Ah! A new subject! And look at that lovely, pedestrian blue-and-white contrast!” He circled her, his eyes manic. “You, girl, are a walking exercise in simplicity! Tell me, what is the complement of that dreadful little apron?”
“White?” Alice ventured.
The Hatter threw back his head and laughed, a shrill, manic sound. “White is the absence of color, you dullard! The complement is pure black! You want contrast! You want the tension! The friction that keeps the canvas alive! Sit down, sit down! We are about to perform a great experiment in Value and Hue!”
He gestured wildly to an empty chair next to the March Hare. The Hare, unlike his usual frantic self, was sitting perfectly still, coated in a thick, dull layer of umber brown, patiently waiting to dry out.
“Don’t worry about him,” the Hatter muttered, pouring a cup of neon Naples Yellow tea and thrusting it at Alice. “He decided the sheer complexity of color theory was too much, and now he’s waiting to become a restful, non-committal background element. Now, drink! And tell me if you feel the visual heat of that yellow against your blue dress!”
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 