RSS

Monthly Archives: December 2025

The Gift That Didn’t Fit

15 Dec

Chapter One: The Immediate Chaos

The air in the Quince living room was thick with the suffocating scent of fresh pine and manufactured guilt. It was 11:37 PM on Christmas Eve, and sixteen-year-old Lily Quince was perched on the edge of the sofa, trying to ignore the dazzling, high-wattage shame radiating from the pile of wrapped goods under the tree.

“Honestly, Mom, why does a human being need a self-stirring cocoa mug?” Lily muttered, batting a stray, metallic ribbon off the sofa cushion and onto the carpet. “It’s exactly what’s wrong with Christmas. Too much stuff.”

Her little brother, Sam, only eight, nodded solemnly, his brow furrowed with devastating sincerity. He was crouched by the fireplace, sketching feverishly in a notebook. “That’s what I keep trying to tell Santa, Lily. We need effort, not expenditure.” He looked up, his eyes shining with pure, tragic longing. “I just hope he remembered the Woven Basket of Live Earthworms this year. I truly don’t know how I’ll run my pet farm without them.”

“You’ll be yearning for a ceramic garden gnome that plays the lute by morning.”

Lily froze, her hand hovering near the tin. “Did… did the shortbread just talk?”

“Was that about the worms?” Sam asked, looking hopeful.

Lily shook her head, feeling a cold dread replace her cynicism. Outside, the first flakes of snow began to fall, but the typical, cozy feeling of Christmas Eve was absent. Something felt fundamentally wrong with the world. Across the street, they heard the distinct sound of Mr. Henderson, the CEO, weeping inconsolably about his lack of a custom-made tuba.

The Silent Night is Loud

Lily slipped on her coat, unable to wait for morning. If the Shifter had affected the desires of the entire neighborhood, Christmas Day would be a disaster—or a surreal comedy show.

“I’m just getting some air,” she mumbled to Sam, who was now meticulously reviewing his notebook, listing the exact dimensions required for a thriving earthworm community.

The moment Lily stepped onto the porch, the magnitude of the problem hit her like a punch of frosted air. Usually, Christmas Eve was silent and respectful. Tonight, it was a discordant mess of frustration and absurd longing.

Mr. Henderson, usually an impeccably tailored man, was kneeling in his snow-dusted front yard, staring mournfully into an empty, expensive-looking violin case. “They didn’t listen!” he wailed to his terrified poodle. “They brought me a watch! I need the booming resonance! I need the tuba!”

Two doors down, Mrs. Petula, the neighborhood’s notorious gossip, was shrieking at her husband, clutching a gift-wrapped broomstick. “A stick, Gerald! You call this a gift? I explicitly asked for a custom-made chandelier constructed entirely of dried macaroni! My heart is broken!”

Lily pulled her hood tight. The Shifter hadn’t just changed what people wanted; it had filled the absence of that desired object with genuine, heart-wrenching disappointment. It was weaponized absurdity.

She rushed back inside, snatching the Chrono-Crumble Tin off the mantel. “Listen, you rusty, talking dessert container,” she whispered fiercely. “What did you do? And how do I turn you off?”

The grumpy butler voice sighed dramatically from inside the tin. “Oh, the drama! I simply adjusted expectations, young hero. And I am only deactivated by a truly Perfectly Thoughtful Gift. A transaction of the heart, not the wallet. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to observe the mailman lamenting his lack of a ceramic foot bath.”

Lily stared at the tin, then down at the gigantic pile of expensive, unwanted electronics destined for Sam. “A perfectly thoughtful gift,” she repeated. “Something that proves I know him.”

Suddenly, a memory sparked: the feeling of peeling away a piece of glow-in-the-dark putty—a tiny, molded star—from her mirror two Christmases ago. And a ridiculous, low-value object immediately sprang to mind: the Worry-A-Day Jar. A simple jar filled with 365 days of Sam’s cheesy jokes and encouraging observations. Lily had scoffed at it then. Now, it felt like the only non-absurd object left in the world.

“That’s it,” Lily whispered, ignoring the tin’s muffled giggling. “The jar. I have to find that jar.”

Chapter Two: The Search for the Sublime

Lily’s bedroom was a landscape of teenage archaeology, a place where sentimental objects went to be buried under layers of homework, fashion magazines, and forgotten technology. The room was the first place she looked for the Worry-A-Day Jar, and it instantly felt like searching for a needle in a haystack—a haystack that suddenly felt full of unwanted and cursed gifts.

She dug through her closet, shoving aside boxes of things she’d asked for but never really used. Under a pile of textbooks, she found a plastic, voice-activated diary she’d begged for last year. It beeped softly.

Diary: “My deepest desire is for a miniature, fully functioning, decorative garden hedge.”

Lily slammed the lid shut. The Shifter was still working its magic on things, too.

She pulled out her winter wear. There, tucked inside a ski boot, was the brightly colored, slightly misshapen Green and Purple Mitten that Sam had knitted two years ago—the one intended to replace the left mitten she always lost. She felt a pang of guilt, remembering how quickly she’d bought a professional black pair instead.

“A thoughtful gift,” Lily muttered, holding up the uneven wool. “This could have been it, except I tossed it aside.”

The Chrono-Crumble Tin, which she’d tucked under her arm like a mischievous football, offered a raspy chuckle. “Close, but no cigar. The magic requires perfect thoughtfulness, not near-perfect discardment. And besides,” the tin added with spite, “it’s nearly Christmas morning. You’re running out of time.”

A glance at her phone confirmed the tin’s warning: 1:15 AM.

Lily began tearing through her desk drawers, scattering papers, pens, and loose change. The desk was where the Jar belonged. Sam had presented it to her with such a proud, serious expression two years ago.

“It’s the Worry-A-Day Jar, Lily,” he had announced. “You open one slip when you’re worried. I filled it with things you need more than homework.”

Lily remembered politely putting it behind her laptop, deeming it too childish. She hadn’t even opened a week’s worth of slips. Now, the space was filled with charger cables and empty soda cans.

Frustration bubbling up, she accidentally kicked a box under her bed. It was a dusty container labeled “Old Toys.” She pulled it out, coughing in the dust cloud. The box contained all the childhood treasures she thought she had outgrown: old picture books, a handful of plastic dinosaurs, and—

Bingo.

Sitting nestled between a stuffed unicorn and a broken kaleidoscope was the Worry-A-Day Jar: a simple, painted mason jar, the lid wrapped with a glittery pipe cleaner, looking utterly out of place amidst the chaos of her teenage room.

Lily carefully lifted the jar. The hundreds of small, folded paper slips inside were the only thing that felt real and pure in the whole magical, ridiculous night.

“Okay, Shifter,” she whispered to the tin under her arm. “I have the tool. Tell me how to use it to reverse the spell.”

The Chrono-Crumble Tin cleared its metallic throat. “You must craft the desired gift—the earthworm basket—with an act of love so genuine that it proves you truly saw the recipient. The key is in the Jar, child. The key is in the words.”

Lily frowned. “The words? The terrible jokes and advice?”

“They are proof of his attention,” the Shifter corrected with a rare note of seriousness. “You need to read the slips, understand how he sees you, and reflect that sincerity back in your gift to him. Go now. The sun rises in four hours.”

Lily clutched the Jar and the Tin, the strange weight of the magical responsibility settling on her shoulders. She had to rush downstairs, read her brother’s heart, and then craft a perfectly thoughtful earthworm basket before the world woke up to the most disastrous, absurd Christmas morning in history.

Click HERE to read the rest of this story

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 15, 2025 in fantasy story, funny story, humor, humour

 

Tags: , , , ,

The Diary of a Disgruntled Gargoyle

15 Dec

The Grumpy Grotesque’s Grand Getaway

Entry 1: Day 1,472,305 of Unappreciated Perch-dom

Another dawn. Another flock of pigeons mistaking my head for a public convenience. Honestly, if I wanted this much unsolicited avian attention, I’d have been carved as a bird feeder. Name’s Gary. I’m a gargoyle. A gargoyle, mind you, not a grotesque. There’s a difference. Gargoyles have a function – we spout water. Grotesques are merely decorative. I, however, have not spouted water in approximately 300 years, largely due to a blocked pipe that no one, not even the highly-paid “historical monument conservation team,” has bothered to fix. So, technically, I’m a grotesque with an identity crisis. And a perpetually damp chin.

My view? Dublin Castle. Grand, yes. Historically significant, undeniably. But after a million years of watching tourists take selfies with duck faces, and politicians entering with promises they’ll never keep, it all blends into one grey, drizzly monotony. My stone heart yearns for adventure. My calcified buttocks ache for a change of scenery.

Entry 2: The Escape Plan – Operation: Wing It (Figuratively)

I’ve been observing the humans. They move. They go places. They use these contraptions called “buses” and “cars.” Fascinating. My initial thought was to simply sprout wings and fly, but alas, structural integrity issues. A gargoyle on the loose might cause a bit of a kerfuffle. No, subtlety is key. I’ll need a disguise.

My eyes, which admittedly haven’t blinked since the Normans were still fashionable, landed on a particularly lumpy, discarded bin bag at the castle gates. Eureka! A perfect, if slightly malodorous, cloak of invisibility. And perhaps a few strategically placed leaves for that “au naturel” look. My destination? The Cliffs of Moher. I overheard a tourist raving about the “majesty” and “untamed beauty.” Sounds far less stressful than guarding a castle from imaginary dragons and very real seagulls.

Entry 3: The Great Descent (More of a controlled tumble, really)

Getting down was… an experience. I waited for the darkest hour, and with a mighty heave, unmoored myself. Gravity, my old friend, took over. I bounced off a decorative flagpole (oops, sorry, King William!), slid down a drainpipe like a stone toboggan (surprisingly exhilarating!), and landed with a muffled thud in a rose bush. A nearby fox gave me a look that clearly said, “Are you serious right now?” I gave him my best gargoyle glare, which mostly just made him yawn.

Disguise on. Bin bag secured. I looked less like a mythical beast and more like a very confused pile of rubbish. Perfect.

Entry 4: The Bus Stop Blues

Finding the bus stop was easy; understanding the timetable was not. “Route 41 to Swords via the airport bypass”? What even is a Swords? I decided to trust my instincts, which, after centuries of static observation, were mostly telling me to stay put and complain. Eventually, a double-decker bus rumbled along. I squeezed myself aboard, attempting to look inconspicuous. The bus driver, a kindly man named Pat, glanced at me. “Bit early for Halloween, isn’t it, mate?” he chuckled, clearly mistaking me for a particularly unconvincing costume. I merely grunted, which he seemed to accept as a valid fare.

My fellow passengers were an interesting bunch. A woman knitting a jumper for a chihuahua, a teenager engrossed in a device that glowed, and an elderly gentleman who kept trying to offer me a biscuit. I politely declined, worried about crumbs getting lodged in my intricate stonework.

Entry 5: The Scenic Route (and the Seagull Incident)

The journey was glorious! Rolling green hills, quaint villages, and not a single pigeon in sight. I even saw a field full of sheep, none of whom looked particularly interested in mistaking me for a rock. My stone heart swelled. This was living!

Then, the seagull incident. We pulled over at a roadside diner, and I, eager for some fresh air (or as fresh as a gargoyle gets), hopped out. A particularly brazen seagull, clearly a veteran of chip-stealing, swooped down and attempted to make off with the bin bag that was my disguise. A tug-of-war ensued. Me, a centuries-old guardian of Dublin Castle, locked in a battle of wits and sheer stone mass against a feathered chip-fiend. I won, of course, but not before my bin bag was slightly tattered, revealing a hint of grey, moss-kissed stone underneath. The seagull squawked indignantly and flew off, probably to complain to its union.

Entry 6: Moher at Last!

And then, there they were. The Cliffs of Moher.

The Grumpy Grotesque’s Grand Getaway (Conclusion)

Entry 7: Moher at Last! (Continued)

And then, there they were. The Cliffs of Moher. Sheer, glorious, unadulterated rock. The air was sharp with salt, and the wind—oh, the wind was a roaring, magnificent beast that tugged at my remaining bin-bag remnants.

I found the perfect spot, perched precariously near the edge (a familiar feeling, really, just without a castle beneath me). I looked out over the vast Atlantic. The waves crashed against the base of the cliffs with a spectacular, deafening roar. It was raw, it was wild, and it was entirely unlike the polite, drizzly chaos of Dublin.

I closed my non-blinking stone eyes and took a deep, imaginary breath. This was the peace I craved.

My contemplation was abruptly shattered by a tiny, flustered puffin attempting to land on my head.

“Excuse me, mate! Are you new?” chirped the puffin, hopping down my shoulder. “This is Seamus’s viewing spot! He’s very territorial about his lichen patch.”

I sighed, a sound like grinding geological plates. “I am Gary, and I am merely seeking a moment of respite from the endless monotony of Dublin Castle.”

The puffin, unimpressed, pecked at my mossy ear. “Dublin Castle? Oh, a city boy! You won’t last five minutes. The sheer solitude will drive you mad, and the local folklore is very strict about unauthorized stone figures.”

Entry 8: Philosophical Conclusion and an Unforeseen Career Change

I spent the next hour in a profound, existential debate with the puffin named Seamus about the nature of eternal stillness versus migratory urgency. It was surprisingly enriching, though Seamus kept demanding I stop “hogging the good light.”

The wind, however, had a surprising effect. It whistled through the crevices in my old stone frame, creating an unexpectedly melodic sound. Tourists walking past stopped. They pointed. They took photos.

“Listen to that!” cried one tourist. “It sounds like a mournful Celtic wind chime! What a brilliant piece of natural art!”

Another leaned in close. “Look! They’ve carved a gargoyle here! It’s so authentic, it looks like it’s been guarding the sea for centuries!”

Suddenly, I wasn’t a disgruntled escapee; I was a majestic, windswept attraction. I was a Cliffs of Moher Grotesque, revered for my melancholic whistling.

I realized then that my problem wasn’t the job; it was the scenery. I was a mountain gargoyle trapped in a city gargoyle’s life.

Epilogue:

Gary never returned to Dublin Castle. He sent a curt, one-line message via a migrating pigeon: “Mending that drainpipe is your problem now.”

He now resides permanently on the Cliffs of Moher. He is locally famous, known as ‘The Whistling Sentinel of the West.’ He has a new job: official atmospheric sound effect for the Cliffs of Moher. He gets regular compliments, the occasional free picnic sandwich left by tourists, and his only co-worker is Seamus the Puffin, who still demands I move, but mostly just uses me as a very sturdy, slightly grumpy landmark.

And Gary? He’s finally happy. He’s found his purpose: standing still, looking magnificent, and complaining about the weather to the Atlantic Ocean, which, unlike the Castle, actually listens.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 15, 2025 in gargoyle, Ireland

 

Tags: , , , ,

When the President of Ireland met the Ballykillduff Daleks

15 Dec
When the President of Ireland met the Ballykillduff Daleks

When the President of Ireland met the Ballykillduff Daleks

The presidential motorcade, usually a beacon of solemnity, was currently attempting a precarious three-point turn in a field that smelled distinctly of prize-winning Kerry cows. Inside, President McMurrow, a man whose silver hair and kindly eyes belied a mischievous wit, chuckled. “Remind me again, Fiona,” he addressed his chief of staff, “why we bypassed the usual diplomatic channels for a direct engagement with… the Ballykillduff Daleks?”

Fiona, a woman who had seen it all – from rogue shamrock presentations to international incidents involving a missing Taoiseach and a particularly enthusiastic hurling team – sighed. “Because, Mr. President, their ‘Exterminate All Humans’ manifesto was getting an alarming amount of traction on TikTok, and Fine Gael were starting to panic about the youth vote.”

Just then, a shrill, metallic voice screeched from beyond the hawthorn hedge. “EXTERNAL-LIN-GUISH! EX-TER-NAL-LIN-GUISH THE GRAZING MENACE!”

“Ah,” President McMurrow adjusted his tie, a subtle nod to the seriousness of the occasion. “Sounds like our welcoming committee.”

They emerged to a truly surreal sight. Five Daleks, unmistakably Daleks, but with a distinct Ballykillduff charm. One had a tricolour painted rather crudely on its side. Another wore a tiny, ill-fitting leprechaun hat. The leader, a particularly rusty specimen, had what looked suspiciously like a hurley stick strapped to its casing.

“GREET-INGS, FLESH-BAG!” screeched the hurley-wielding Dalek. “WE ARE THE DA-LEKS OF BALLY-KILL-DUFF! PRE-PARE TO BE… ENTER-TAINED!”

President McMurrow raised an eyebrow. “Entertained, you say? Not exterminated?”

“EX-TER-MIN-ATE IS SO… LAST SEA-SON,” replied another Dalek, its eye-stalk swivelling to glare at a sheep that had dared to bleat nearby. “WE HAVE DE-CID-ED TO EM-BRACE LO-CAL CUL-TURE!”

It turned out their TikTok fame had come from their surprisingly viral Riverdance routine. “WE HAVE MOD-I-FIED OUR PLUN-GERS FOR PER-CUSS-IVE DANC-ING!” explained the Dalek with the leprechaun hat. “WOULD YOU LIKE A DEM-ON-STRA-TION, MR. PRES-I-DENT?”

Before McMurrow could answer, a local farmer, Seamus O’Malley, ambled over, scratching his head. “Are these the fellas who keep rearrangin’ my hay bales into the shape of the Millennium Falcon?”

The Daleks froze. “NEG-A-TIVE! THAT IS A SLAN-DER-OUS AC-CU-SA-TION!”

“Oh, come off it,” Seamus scoffed. “My prize-winning ram, Brendan, saw you! Said you were humming the Star Wars theme tune!”

President McMurrow, struggling to suppress a laugh, intervened. “Gentlemen, perhaps we could discuss your, ah, ‘cultural integration’ over a cup of tea? I believe Fiona has brought some Tayto.”

The word ‘Tayto’ seemed to short-circuit the Daleks. “POT-AT-O BASED SNACK PROD-UCT? EX-PLAIN! EX-PLAIN!”

Hours later, the presidential motorcade departed, leaving behind a scene of utter bewilderment and joy. The Ballykillduff Daleks were now sporting tiny GAA jerseys, had learned to play a passable bodhrán rhythm with their plungers, and were eagerly discussing the merits of cheese and onion crisps versus salt and vinegar.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 15, 2025 in daleks, Ireland, president

 

Tags: , , , ,

Charles in Wonderland

14 Dec
Charles in Wonderland

One crisp autumn morning in 2025, King Charles III was tending to his organic gardens at Highgrove House, muttering to his beloved plants about the virtues of sustainable composting. “You see, my dears,” he said to a row of heirloom tomatoes, “one must nurture the soil as one nurtures the realm.” But as he bent down to inspect a particularly plump specimen, the ground trembled. A mischievous baby hippopotamus—escaped from the Windsor Safari Exhibit and inexplicably drawn to the royal compost heap—barreled through the hedges like a living cannonball.

Before Charles could exclaim “Good heavens!”, the hippo, whom he later dubbed Sir Splashalot, scooped him up with its snout and charged toward a peculiar rabbit hole that had appeared out of nowhere amid the flowerbeds. “Unhand me, you aquatic rascal!” the King shouted, but it was too late. With a mighty leap, Sir Splashalot plunged into the hole, carrying His Majesty tumbling down, down, down into a swirling vortex of colors and chaos. The crown tilted crookedly on his head, his ceremonial sceptre flailing like a conductor’s baton in a hurricane.

They emerged not in a burrow, but splash-landing in a vast, upside-down river where the water flowed uphill and fish swam through the air like birds. This was no ordinary Wonderland—it was a topsy-turvy realm called Blunderland, where logic took tea breaks and absurdity reigned supreme. Charles, drenched and disheveled, clung to Sir Splashalot’s back as the hippo paddled merrily through the rapids. “Where on earth—or rather, where off earth—are we?” he gasped.

Their first encounter was with a flock of floating teapots that bobbed along the riverbank, each spouting riddles in steamy whispers. “Why is a monarch like a leaky kettle?” one hissed. Before Charles could ponder, a new character emerged: the Jittery Jester, a lanky figure in polka-dotted pajamas with bells that jingled out of tune. The Jester was no fool; he was Blunderland’s self-appointed tour guide, cursed to rhyme everything he said. “Welcome, oh soggy sovereign, to this land of flip and flop! To escape the river’s wrath, you must hop atop a mop!”

With a twist of fate, the Jester handed Charles a glowing mop that doubled as a raft. But as the King mounted it, Sir Splashalot sneezed a mighty bubble, propelling them into a forest of candy cane trees where the leaves tasted like peppermint but turned your tongue invisible. Here, they met the Grumbling Gardener, a rotund gnome with a beard of living vines that whispered secrets. “Plants don’t talk back in your world, eh?” the Gardener grumbled, pruning a bush that shaped itself into royal portraits. “Mine do—and they’re plotting a revolution against the squirrels!”

Charles, ever the environmentalist, tried to mediate. “Perhaps a spot of diplomacy? Organic treaties?” But the vines entangled him, glowing with mischievous energy, and suddenly he shrank to the size of a thimble. Sir Splashalot, now gigantic in comparison, looked down with wide eyes. “This won’t do,” Charles declared, his voice a squeak. The Grumbling Gardener laughed. “Eat the glowing berry, Your Tiny Majesty, but beware—it might make you merry… or hairy!”

Swallowing the berry in desperation, Charles ballooned to the height of a giraffe, his crown now a comically small hat on his enormous head. Twisting through the forest, they stumbled upon a mad banquet hosted by the Queen of Quiches, a flamboyant ruler with a crown of crusty pastry and a court of animated desserts. “Off with their crusts!” she bellowed at intruders, but upon seeing Charles, she curtsied dramatically. “A fellow royal! Join our feast of folly—today’s menu: upside-down cake that makes you walk on ceilings!”

At the table, Charles met more new characters: the Whispering Wombat, a furry philosopher who debated existential questions in haikus (“Hippo runs wild / King seeks homeward path / Chaos laughs last”), and the Ticklish Troll, who guarded a bridge made of tickle feathers. The feast turned chaotic when the quiches rebelled, squirting custard at everyone. In the melee, Charles discovered a hidden twist: the Queen was actually his long-lost corgi, Fluffington, transformed by Blunderland magic! “Woof—I mean, Your Majesty?” the dog-queen yipped. “I’ve been ruling pies since that portal mishap last equinox!”

But no time for reunions—a sudden storm brewed, summoned by the Mischievous Water Sprites, tiny impish beings with wings of waterfalls and grins like whirlpools. They danced around the banquet, splashing illusions that turned the food into wriggling eels. “Play our game or stay forever!” they chorused. The game? A riddle relay where answers twisted reality. Charles, shouting in alarm, guessed wrong on the first: “What has a crown but no kingdom?” (He said “A tooth,” but it was “A bottle of ale.”) Reality warped, and suddenly Sir Splashalot could fly, lifting them all into the stormy jungle chaos above.

Soaring through thunderclouds that rained jellybeans, they crash-landed in the Lair of the Labyrinth Lizard, a serpentine beast with scales of shifting mazes. “To pass my test,” the Lizard hissed, “navigate my belly—it’s a puzzle of portals!” Inside the lizard’s maze-like innards, Charles faced twists galore: rooms that looped time, making him relive his coronation backward; mirrors that swapped personalities (briefly turning him into a hippo and Sir Splashalot into a king); and a chamber of forgotten dreams where he debated climate policy with ghostly versions of world leaders.

Emerging victorious but dizzy, Charles uncovered a shocking twist: Blunderland wasn’t a separate world—it was a dreamscape created by his own overworked mind, fueled by too much late-night reading of Lewis Carroll and worrying about parliamentary sessions. But wait—another turn! The Jittery Jester revealed he was actually a time-traveling advisor from 2050, sent back to “loosen up” the monarchy with absurdity. “Your reign needs whimsy, sire! Or it’ll crumble like dry scones.”

As the group fled a horde of chasing clockwork crocodiles (summoned by the Lizard’s sore loser tantrum), they reached the Exit Vortex—a swirling portal guarded by the final new character: the Benevolent Banana, a wise fruit sage who peeled away illusions. “To return,” it intoned, “admit one mad truth.” Charles, crown still crooked, shouted, “Riding a hippo is the best way to travel!”

With a pop and a whirl, they tumbled back to Highgrove. Charles awoke in his garden, Sir Splashalot (now just a normal escaped hippo) munching tomatoes beside him. Was it all a dream? Perhaps—but his sceptre was sticky with jellybeans, and a single water sprite winked from a puddle before vanishing.

From that day on, King Charles ruled with a touch more madness: royal decrees included “Hippo Holidays” and tea parties with talking plants. And if you listen closely in the gardens, you might hear the faint jingle of a Jester’s bells, reminding all that even kings need a dash of Blunderland in their lives.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 14, 2025 in king charles, Wonderland

 

Tags: ,

The Aeroflot Star

12 Dec
The Aeroflot Star

Flight of the Aeroflot Star
***************************

Above the tarmac, where the city sprawls,
A silver arrow answers distant calls.
Not linen smooth, but canvas rough and deep,
Where frantic strokes the promised speed do keep.

The Concordski, a vision white and sleek,
Ascends a sky the Master’s hands did speak.
In impasto clouds, the blue and ochre blend,
As frantic swirls around the vessel bend.

A roar that rips the oil-thick, heavy air,
A dream of travel, born of Soviet care.
The sweeping brush-strokes on the wings are caught,
A contrail bright with fire that the burners brought.

Below, the watchers, dark and small they stand,
Gazing upon the wonder of the land.
But higher still, where light and texture gleam,
Flies CCCP-77110 in a painted dream.

A swirling vortex of the painter’s mind,
A rush of speed for all of humankind.
A supersonic brush upon the breeze,
Across a sky of textured, painted seas.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 12, 2025 in concorde, concordski

 

Tags: ,

Round the World Race

12 Dec
Round the World Race

In the height of supersonic rivalry, the Grand Circumnavigation Race was announced. It pitted the two greatest achievements in aviation against each other: the elegant British-French Concorde, sleek and refined, and the powerful Soviet Tupolev Tu-144, broad-winged and unyielding.

Everyone in the West was certain Concorde would win. Newspapers proclaimed her the superior machine, more efficient in cruise, with advanced engines and graceful design. Pilots and experts toasted her superiority. “The Tu-144 is crude and overpowered,” they said. “It may boast raw speed, but it will break before the finish.”

The race circled the globe: from London to New York, across the Pacific to Tokyo, over Siberia to Moscow, south to Cape Town, across the Atlantic to Rio, and back to London. These supersonic giants needed no ordinary stops, pushing the limits of fuel and endurance at twice the speed of sound.

The starting signal echoed over Heathrow. Concorde surged ahead first, her droop nose rising confidently, afterburners glowing blue.

Moments later, the Tu-144 roared into the sky from a nearby airfield, her canard wings steady, engines thundering with raw power.

Over the Atlantic, Concorde pulled far in front. Her crew relaxed as she chased the sun westward. But then came fierce storms, with icing and turbulence that tested every system. Concorde’s refined airframe struggled; one engine faltered, forcing a careful slowdown and precious time lost while the crew managed the issue.

The Tu-144 pressed on relentlessly. Built tougher for harsh conditions, she shrugged off the ice and maintained speed, gaining ground as she crossed the Pacific ahead.

In Tokyo, Western observers grew anxious. Concorde closed the gap with flawless performance, and for a stretch over the north, the two flew close together. Pilots exchanged respectful waves across the divide.

Rivalry intensified with navigation challenges over vast deserts, where heat mirages and instrument glitches led Concorde off course for hours, chasing false readings.

The Tu-144 stayed true, her robust systems and determined pilots guiding her straight through, extending the lead.

Over Africa, severe headwinds and high-altitude strains pushed both to their limits. Concorde climbed elegantly but lost efficiency in the thin air. The Tu-144 powered upward with brute force, breaking through and holding her advantage.

As the English Channel appeared, Concorde mounted a final charge, closing fast in the dawn light. Crowds below watched breathless. But the Tu-144 had endured every trial, emerging stronger. With one last surge, she crossed the finish line first, landing in London amid stunned silence that erupted into applause.

The West had been so confident. Yet heart, toughness, and raw capability triumphed over refinement and expectation. From that day, aviators told the tale: sometimes the bold underdog, forged in challenge, flies farthest when the journey demands the most.

And on clear nights, witnesses swear they still see two silver shapes racing the skies, eternal rivals turned legends.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 12, 2025 in concorde, Tu-144

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

Old Elf and the Dragon

11 Dec
Old Elf and the Dragon

Fle and the Obsidian Sky-Weaver

The air tasted like crushed silver and distant thunder. Below them, the valley of the Winding River was painted in the soft, bruised colours of twilight, where mushroom-capped towers and luminous flora dotted the emerald cliffs.

Fle, the Old Elf, sat tall upon Kaelen, the Sky-Weaver, his emerald robes catching the last amber rays of the setting sun. Fle’s face was a map of ages, his eyes holding the patient light of a thousand moons, but his grip on the dragon’s jeweled harness was firm. He was guiding Kaelen through the Veil of the Shifting Dusk, the narrow passage between the mortal realm and the High Dreaming.

Kaelen, whose scales were an armour of deep, shimmering teal and night-sky black, did not flap his colossal wings with brute force. He moved with a mystical grace, riding the invisible currents that flowed from the Rainbow of Eld arching high above them—a phenomenon that only appears when a creature of pure elemental magic and a being of profound age travel together.

“The Gem of Constant Dawn,” Kaelen’s thought resonated, deep and guttural, in Fle’s mind, “lies just beyond that cloud-bank, where the river meets the mist. But the Silence has claimed it.”

“The Silence,” Fle murmured, pulling his hood closer, “is fear, Kaelen. It is the dread that paralyzes creativity. And it has used the Gem to still the music of the World-Heart.”

Their mission was perilous: The Gem of Constant Dawn, which normally sang the world into existence every morning, had been stolen and wrapped in the Web of the Soul-Moths, creatures of pure, paralyzing inertia. If the Gem was not freed by midnight, the sun would rise only as a suggestion, and the world would remain perpetually quiet, perpetually grey.

As they flew past the floating, crystalline peaks, Fle reached into a hidden pouch woven into his sash and withdrew three small items:

  1. A feather from a thought-bird, which allowed him to hear the whispers of possibility.
  2. A shard of frozen laughter, which could break the densest concentration of sorrow.
  3. A single, petrified tear of a nymph, which held the warmth of summer.

They broke through the last cloud layer. There, floating motionless above the swirling mist, was the Gem—a sphere of blinding, imprisoned light, tightly encased in thick, silvery cobwebs. And hovering around it were the Soul-Moths, silent, dark insects whose flapping wings emitted a negative sound that drained the air of hope.

Kaelen stopped, hanging suspended in the air. “I cannot approach, Old Friend,” he admitted. “My fire is too loud, my being too grand. The Silence would snuff me out like a candle.”

“Then we shall be quiet,” Fle replied, his voice barely a breath.

He slipped off Kaelen’s back and, rather than falling, began to descend slowly on a column of shimmering, green energy—the focused memory of every happy song he had ever heard.

As he neared the Gem, the cold of the Silence hit him. His memories felt heavy, his purpose uncertain. He could feel the Soul-Moths trying to wrap his own thoughts in their numbing web.

Fle raised his hand and opened his palm. He did not cast a spell; he simply released the shard of frozen laughter.

The laughter shard—the captured echo of a thousand innocent giggles—didn’t explode. It simply melted, forming a thin, high chime. The sound was so unexpected, so pure and non-serious, that the Soul-Moths paused, momentarily confused.

In that fraction of a moment, Fle used his second item: he took the thought-bird feather and gently tickled the Web of the Soul-Moths. The Moths, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of chaotic and funny possibilities, flew away in disarray, unable to process the illogical joy.

The Gem of Constant Dawn was now free, but still cold and muted. Fle pressed the petrified tear of the nymph against the crystalline sphere. Instantly, the warmth of all past summers infused the Gem. It flared, shining with a light that pushed back the twilight and sent a vibrant, resonant thrum through the entire valley.

Above, Kaelen roared—a sound that was now one of pure, unrestrained elemental joy. The Rainbow of Eld above them deepened in colour, and the Winding River below seemed to sing as the music of the World-Heart returned.

Fle rose back to Kaelen’s side, weary but successful. “The Silence is broken, my friend. Let us fly home. It’s been a long age.”

Kaelen dipped his great head in agreement. With a powerful beat of his massive wings, he turned toward the dawn, carrying Fle, the keeper of memory and laughter, out of the high, mystical air and back toward the newly singing world.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 11, 2025 in Stories for children, children's stories, elf, fle, Magic, magical, mystical

 

Tags: , , , , ,

The Pointing Elf

11 Dec
The Pointing Elf

Fle was not your average elf. For one, he was ancient, with a beard that could rival a white waterfall and ears so long they sometimes tripped him if he wasn’t careful. For another, he didn’t live in a sparkling, forest-canopy palace or a cozy mushroom home. No, Fle resided in the rather pungent, yet undeniably magical, depths of the “Finest Fertilizer Mine.”

Now, this wasn’t just any fertilizer. This was magical fertilizer, dug from the very bowels of the earth where forgotten spells congealed and ancient dragon sneezes settled. It made grumpy gnomes grow sunflowers taller than mountains, turned barren desert into candy floss forests, and once, famously, made a flock of sheep spontaneously learn opera.

Fle’s job was simple: dig. And point. He believed the pointing was crucial. “You see, my dear saplings,” he’d croak to the tiny, bewildered pixies he occasionally conscripted for help, “the pointing directs the inherent whimsy of the earth towards the digging! Without proper pointing, you might just unearth… well, an old boot. And who wants that?”

One Tuesday, a particularly vibrant Tuesday where the air smelled faintly of blueberry muffins and old socks, Fle was pointing with gusto. “Hark! The earth beckons!” he declared, gesturing wildly with a gloved hand. His shovel, lovingly named ‘Sparkle-dig,’ plunged into the soil. Instead of the usual shimmering, nutrient-rich earth, he hit something solid.

“Aha!” Fle exclaimed, convinced it was a particularly stubborn clump of enchanted compost. He dug around it, grumbling about the lack of respect for ancient digging techniques. Suddenly, the ground beneath him began to rumble. The “Finest Fertilizer” bags around him, filled with their magical contents, started to jiggle ominously.

“By the beard of Merlin’s mushroom!” Fle cried, momentarily forgetting to point. The solid object beneath him wasn’t a clump of compost. It was a giant, petrified, disco ball. And it was waking up.

With a final, earth-shattering thump, the disco ball erupted from the ground, sending Fle and his bags of fertilizer flying. It spun, glittering with a million tiny mirrors, illuminating the mine with a kaleidoscope of color. Funk music, surprisingly loud and bass-heavy, started to emanate from it, shaking the very foundations of the mine.

Fle landed rather ungracefully in a pile of “Not For Sale” fertilizer (which, ironically, was the most potent). He brushed himself off, adjusted his crooked spectacles, and stared at the pulsating disco ball. The pixies, who had thankfully scampered off at the first rumble, peeked back in, their tiny eyes wide with wonder.

“Well,” Fle mused, stroking his magnificent beard, “that explains the blueberry muffins. And the old socks, I suppose.” He then began to point at the disco ball with renewed vigor. “Now, if we can just harness this… this luminescent boogie… imagine what it could do for the petunias!” The pixies, sensing a new, undeniably absurd, magical project, began to hum along to the funk, already envisioning disco-dancing daisies. And so, the Finest Fertilizer Mine gained a new, shimmering, and exceptionally loud, resident.

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

The Pointing Elf: Fle and the Funk of the Fertilizer

Fle, the ancient elf, stood proudly on a giant sack of “Super-Grow Garlic Granules,” pointing with focused intensity at the colossal, glittering disco ball that had taken up unwelcome residence in the center of the Finest Fertilizer Mine.

“Listen up, you minuscule mischiefs!” Fle boomed, his voice echoing over the steady, bass-heavy thrum emanating from the sphere. The pixies—who had taken to wearing tiny reflective hats—were bobbing their heads in time with the funk. “The goal is synchronization! We must harmonize the whimsy of the earth with the inherent groove of this giant, petrified party favor!”

His plan was, naturally, absurdly complex. It involved a series of copper wires salvaged from a forgotten goblin telegraph, a repurposed ladle, and several yards of elasticated pixie-pants (for conductivity, Fle insisted). The objective was to channel the disco ball’s pure funk energy into a special, highly volatile batch of fertilizer: The Rhythm Compost.

“Remember the rules, team!” Fle adjusted his spectacles, which were now flickering with reflected light. “One: Always point towards the whimsy. Two: Never, under any circumstances, allow the funk to touch the opera sheep. We don’t need a chorus of ‘Baa-ss Nova’ again. Three: If you hear pan pipes, run.”

For three glorious, bass-filled days, Fle and the pixies worked. The mine was transformed into the world’s funkiest excavation site. The digging equipment vibrated with the beat, the walls pulsed, and even the air seemed to shimmer with purple and turquoise light.

Finally, the Rhythm Compost was complete. It was a shimmering, dark green mixture that pulsed with a faint, irresistible beat.

“The test, my dear saplings! The test!” Fle announced dramatically, scooping a tiny pinch onto a sickly-looking fern that had been drooping pathetically in the corner.

The fern twitched. Then it straightened. Then, to the astonishment of all, it began to breakdance.

It spun on its roots, popped and locked its fronds, and finished with a flourish, striking a dramatic pose.

“Success!” cried Fle, doing a surprisingly spry jig on the sack of garlic granules. “The Rhythm Compost works! Imagine the agricultural implications!”

But then, disaster struck. The fern, overwhelmed by the funk, started growing violently. It burst through the mine ceiling, transforming into a towering, rhythmically-shaking jungle of floral power. The fern’s breakdancing moves caused powerful tremors, sending dust, rocks, and, worst of all, an avalanche of Super-Grow Garlic Granules cascading down onto the disco ball.

Krrrr-ZAT!

The contact was catastrophic. The highly pungent granules, combined with the pure funk energy, caused a massive magical feedback loop. The disco ball didn’t just spin; it began to levitate, pulling the entire mine with it!

“RUN, PIXIES, RUN!” shrieked Fle, forgetting the pan pipe rule and resorting to common sense.

The last anyone saw of the Finest Fertilizer Mine was a colossal, earth-caked, funk-blasting disco ball soaring into the sky, dragging the mine’s contents behind it. Fle, clinging precariously to his giant sack of garlic, was still pointing.

“I still maintain,” he shouted into the rushing wind, adjusting his beard, “that the pointing was necessary! The whimsy is simply outside the earth now!”

And somewhere, far below, a flock of opera sheep looked up, suddenly feeling an inexplicable urge to compose a power ballad about disco lighting and airborne agriculture.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 11, 2025 in magical, mine

 

Tags: , , , ,

Alice and the Case of the Unexpectedly Swift Hippo

11 Dec
Alice and the Case of the Unexpectedly Swift Hippo

Alice and the Case of the Unexpectedly Swift Hippo

“Faster, Barnaby, faster!” squeaked Alice, clinging desperately to the leathery hide of her unusual steed.

Barnaby, who was, to be perfectly clear, a baby albino hippo wearing a tiny, slightly crooked monocle, did not need encouraging. He was currently tearing across a very normal-looking riverside meadow—which was, of course, absolutely unacceptable for a meadow adjacent to Wonderland—with the speed and grace of a terrified washing machine. His little legs pumped like pink pistons, and his substantial body bounced alarmingly, causing Alice’s blonde hair ribbon to stream out behind her like a distressed banner.

“We must retrieve the Duchess’s runaway teacup!” she yelled, her voice vibrating from the sheer velocity. “It’s got all her important thoughts in it! Specifically, the one about why flamingos are structurally unsound as croquet mallets!”

Barnaby snorted, a sound that was half sneeze and half submerged tuba, causing his monocle to slip precariously over his eye. He did not slow down, mostly because he believed the patch of particularly lush clover just ahead held the secret to solving his life’s great mystery: “Do my toes have a collective name?”

The absurdity had begun precisely three minutes earlier when Alice, having narrowly avoided a philosophical debate with a disgruntled caterpillar about the proper use of semicolons, stumbled upon Barnaby trying to organize a pile of damp pebbles by their emotional state.

“Excuse me,” Alice had said politely, “but are you running away from something?”

Barnaby had looked up, adjusted his monocle, and declared, “On the contrary, Miss. I’m running towards the inevitable conclusion that I am an under-appreciated dramatic prop in this entire affair! Also, a teacup just rolled past me. It was humming something by the Mad Hatter, which is simply poor form for porcelain.”

And so, the chase was on.

They thundered past a family of hedgehogs attempting to build a miniature, functional guillotine out of biscuits. They leaped over a giant chessboard where the Queen of Hearts was having a surprisingly mild-mannered argument with a pawn about dental hygiene.

“It’s catching up!” cried Alice, glancing over her shoulder.

“Nonsense!” shouted a small, reedy voice from inside her pocket. It was the Duchess’s teacup, which had, apparently, decided to reverse course and hitch a ride on Barnaby’s tail before Alice noticed. “I’ve been here the whole time! I just wanted to see if the view was better from the back of a moderately athletic ungulate! Now, if you please, I need to get back to the Duchess before she tries to substitute the March Hare for a serving dish!”

Barnaby, hearing the word “ungulate,” skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust and slightly bruised daisies. He turned his wide, innocent, pink face back to Alice.

“Did I just hear someone refer to me as an ungulate?” he asked, deeply offended. “I’ll have you know, I am a pachyderm! A magnificent, mud-loving pachyderm! And now that the philosophical dilemma has been resolved, I shall revert to my natural pace of ‘ponderously waddling to the nearest body of water to look thoughtful.'”

Alice sighed, slid off the hippo’s back, and neatly caught the monocle before it hit the ground. She tucked the teacup safely under her arm.

“Well, Barnaby,” she said, giving his moist snout a pat. “That was entirely too much excitement for a Thursday. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I need to find a nice, quiet rabbit hole where nothing makes sense but everything is at least stationary.”

Barnaby simply smiled, the picture of serene, monocled pachyderm wisdom. He then slowly, carefully, and with great dignity, rolled into the river and sank immediately out of sight, leaving only a single, enthusiastic bubble.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 11, 2025 in alice and the baby hippo, Alice in Wonderland, alice in wonderland adventure, alice on top of the world

 

Tags: ,

Sir Splashalot

11 Dec
Sir Splashalot

It all began that morning at Buckingham Palace, when King Charles received an urgent memo from the Royal Beastmaster: “Your Majesty, the baby hippopotamus has arrived from the Commonwealth as a coronation gift. Tradition demands the monarch mount the creature for the ceremonial blessing.”

Charles, ever dutiful, assumed this was one of those ancient protocols no one had bothered to update since the days of Henry VIII. “Very well,” he sighed, adjusting his crown (which was already slightly crooked from a minor tussle with a corgi earlier). “One doesn’t like to break with tradition.”

The zookeeper, trembling with excitement, led him to the royal enclosure where Sir Splashalot—a deceptively cute, round, and utterly unstoppable baby hippo—was wallowing in a mud bath. A small velvet mounting block had been provided, complete with the royal cipher embroidered on it.

With the dignity befitting a sovereign, Charles ascended the block, sceptre in one hand, robe carefully arranged. The plan was simple: sit sidesaddle for thirty seconds, wave regally, dismount. A photographer stood ready.

But Sir Splashalot had other ideas.

The moment Charles’s royal posterior made contact with the hippo’s broad back, the creature mistook the weight for the signal to launch into his daily sprint for snacks. With a joyous bellow that sounded suspiciously like “WHEEE!”, Sir Splashalot exploded forward.

Charles’s polite “I say—” turned into a full-throated shout of alarm as the mounting block toppled, the photographer dove for cover, and the King found himself clinging to a galloping hippo in full coronation regalia, crown now at a 45-degree angle, sceptre flailing like a jousting lance.

And that, dear reader, is exactly how His Majesty ended up charging through the royal grounds atop a baby hippopotamus—because no one dared tell the King that the “ceremonial mounting” tradition was actually invented five minutes earlier by an overenthusiastic intern.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 11, 2025 in king charles

 

Tags: , , , ,

← Older posts
Newer posts →