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Monthly Archives: March 2026

The Camel Who Misplaced His Hump

The Camel Who Misplaced His Hump

The Camel Who Misplaced His Hump

In a wide golden desert where the sand rolled like waves upon the sea, there lived a camel named Cedric.

Now Cedric was, in almost every way, an ordinary camel.

He had long legs.
He had long eyelashes.
He had a rather thoughtful expression.

But one morning Cedric woke up and discovered something most alarming.

His hump was gone.

Completely gone.

Cedric turned his head to the left.

No hump.

He twisted to the right.

Still no hump.

He even tried peering straight over his shoulder, which caused him to fall over sideways into the sand.

“This,” said Cedric solemnly, “is not ideal.”


A Most Peculiar Problem

Cedric wandered across the desert, asking everyone he met.

First he asked a lizard.

“Excuse me,” said Cedric politely, “have you seen a hump anywhere?”

The lizard blinked slowly.

“I’ve seen many things,” said the lizard.
“Sand. Rocks. The occasional biscuit dropped by travellers.”

“But not a hump?” asked Cedric hopefully.

“Not today,” said the lizard.

Cedric sighed.


Next he asked a desert owl who was dozing in the shade of a cactus.

“Have you seen my hump?” Cedric asked.

The owl opened one eye.

“What colour was it?” she asked.

“Sandy,” said Cedric.

The owl looked around the desert.

“Well,” she said, “that certainly narrows it down.”


The Wise Tortoise

At last Cedric met Terrence the tortoise, who was the oldest creature in the desert.

Terrence listened carefully.

“A missing hump,” said Terrence slowly.
“Hmm.”

Cedric waited nervously.

“Tell me,” said Terrence, “what were you doing yesterday?”

“Well,” said Cedric, thinking hard,
“I walked to the oasis…
I ate three palm leaves…
I had a nap…”

“And?” asked Terrence.

“I rolled down a very large sand dune,” Cedric admitted.

“Ah,” said Terrence.


The Discovery

They walked together to the dune.

And there, halfway down the slope, was the most peculiar sight.

A perfectly round hump-shaped lump in the sand.

Cedric blinked.

“That looks familiar.”

Terrence nodded.

“You appear to have left it behind.”

Cedric leaned carefully against the lump.

There was a gentle pop.

And suddenly—

boing!

His hump bounced neatly back into place.

Cedric stood up straight.

“Oh!” he said happily. “That feels much better.”


A Valuable Lesson

Cedric thanked Terrence and began walking home.

From that day onward he was very careful when rolling down sand dunes.

Because losing one’s hat is embarrassing.

Losing one’s lunch is unfortunate.

But losing one’s hump, as Cedric discovered—

Is extremely inconvenient.

 
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Posted by on March 6, 2026 in Fairy tale

 

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The Grasshopper and the Fly

The Grasshopper and the Fly

The Grasshopper and the Fly

On a bright summer morning in a meadow that hummed gently with life, a grasshopper sat upon a tall blade of grass, playing the fiddle.

Now this was no ordinary grasshopper.
He played with such enthusiasm that the grass itself seemed to sway in time with the music.

Fiddle-dee-dee, fiddle-dee-dum,
went the bow as the grasshopper scraped out cheerful tunes for anyone who cared to listen.

A fly, who had been buzzing lazily through the warm air, happened to hear the music and landed on a nearby daisy.

“Good morning!” buzzed the fly.

“Good morning!” chirped the grasshopper, still fiddling away.

“Why are you making such a racket so early in the day?” asked the fly, tilting her head.

“It is not a racket,” said the grasshopper proudly. “It is music.”

“Well,” said the fly, “I prefer something a little quieter. But you do seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I enjoy it greatly,” said the grasshopper. “Music makes the day brighter.”

The fly buzzed thoughtfully.

“I suppose that is true,” she admitted. “But you might consider doing something useful instead.”

“Useful?” said the grasshopper, lowering his fiddle.

“Yes,” said the fly. “I spend my time investigating things. Exploring. Visiting places. Finding interesting smells. It is very productive.”

“Productive?” asked the grasshopper.

“Certainly,” said the fly. “For instance, I discovered a magnificent jam sandwich on a picnic table yesterday.”

“That does sound interesting,” said the grasshopper politely.

“It was,” said the fly proudly. “And there were crumbs everywhere.”

The grasshopper considered this.

“Well,” he said at last, “that may be productive for you. But I believe music is useful too.”

“How?” asked the fly.

“Because,” said the grasshopper, lifting his fiddle again, “it makes people smile.”

Just then, a breeze drifted through the meadow.

The grass rustled.

The daisies nodded.

And a group of ants paused in their marching to listen.

The grasshopper began playing again.

Fiddle-dee-dee, fiddle-dee-dum.

The fly listened for a moment.

Then she buzzed gently in the air.

“You know,” she said, “that tune is rather pleasant.”

“Thank you,” said the grasshopper.

The fly hovered thoughtfully.

“I believe I shall stay and listen for a little while.”

And so she did.

For the rest of the morning the grasshopper played his fiddle, and the fly buzzed softly in time with the music.

And the meadow, which had already been a cheerful place, became just a little bit happier.

Which proves something rather important:

Even a fly who prefers jam sandwiches can enjoy a good tune on a sunny day.

 
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Posted by on March 6, 2026 in Fairy tale

 

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4th March 2026 — The Day the Wind Practised Speaking.

4th March 2026 — The Day the Wind Practised Speaking.

4th March 2026 — The Day the Wind Practised Speaking.

*********************
The morning in Ballykillduff began in a most unremarkable fashion.
Clouds sat politely above the village like sheep that had climbed the wrong hill.
The air smelled faintly of rain.
Mrs Murphy opened her shop door at exactly nine o’clock and immediately noticed something peculiar.
The wind was trying words.
Not full words, mind you — that would have been far too advanced for a Wednesday morning — but syllables.
At first it only whispered things like:
“Ba…”
“Lli…”
“Kil…”
By half past nine it had progressed to:
“Bal…ly…kill…”
And by ten o’clock the wind was confidently circling the village square announcing:
“Bally…kill…duff!”
Old Seamus at the bench beside the fountain looked up and nodded.
“Good,” he said. “It’s practising.”
The First Witness
Alice, who had arrived earlier than usual that morning, stood beside the cream-and-green telephone box (which, as everyone knows, is where unusual things tend to gather).
She listened carefully.
“Is the wind learning Irish?” she asked.
Seamus shrugged.
“It tries every spring.”
Developments by Midday
By lunchtime the wind had grown ambitious.
It began testing longer phrases:
“Dia… duit…”
A dog barked politely in response.
Then the wind attempted something very complicated indeed:
“Dia duit, Ballykillduff!”
Half the bunting outside the Giddy Goat pub applauded.
The Village Reacts
Reactions were mixed.
• Mrs Murphy said the wind had excellent pronunciation.
• Father O’Rourke said it might be a sign of cultural revival.
• Jimmy McGroggan tried to build a Wind-Translation Machine, but it translated everything as “sausages.”
Alice simply listened.
Late Afternoon
Toward evening the wind slowed slightly, as if tired from its lessons.
It drifted across the square one last time and said, rather proudly:
“Dia duit… Ballykillduff.”
Then it went quiet again.
The Only Question Remaining
Alice looked up at the clouds.
“Do you think it will remember tomorrow?” she asked.
Seamus considered this carefully.
“Oh yes,” he said.
“The wind always remembers.”
He paused.
“It’s the village that sometimes forgets.”
 

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The Fête That Was Never Announced

The Fête That Was Never Announced

 


Under the White Bunting

No one tied the bunting there.
It simply leaned from post to post
As though the wind had practised.

No chalkboard named the hour.
No bell rehearsed the call.
And yet by noon
The quarry field remembered us.

Tables stood
With lace that smelt of careful years,
Cakes waited
Under domes of patient glass,
Jam jars caught the light
Like small, obedient suns.

The tombola drum
Turned with its wooden sigh —
Hope in a circle.

Children ran before the rules,
Dogs disobeyed with confidence,
Tea was poured
As if it always had been.

And overhead
The bunting held its breath.

Not black.
Not bright.

Only listening.

A coin rolled.
A chair wavered.
A praise paused
On the edge of pride.

These were the fireworks.

Not flame —
But inclination.

Not thunder —
But reflex.

In the smallest space
Between falling and reaching
A village chose itself again.

By dusk
The bunting had settled
Into white.

The mirror said nothing.
The field resumed its grass.
The wind untied what it had tied.

Tomorrow
There would be no trace
Except doors opening
A fraction sooner.

And somewhere,
Folded into the quiet of the land,
The Fête would wait —

Unadvertised,
Unforgotten,
Watching
For the colour of the sky.

Epilogue: The One Who Watched

They did not notice her at first.

She stood where the stone wall dips,
Where daisies lean
And lantern light does not quite reach.

Her hair caught the fire’s gold
Before the fire caught her face.

She did not enter the sack race.
She did not judge the sponge.
She did not turn the tombola drum.

She watched.

When the coin rolled,
Her hand did not move.

When the chair wavered,
Her breath did —
But she did not.

She has learned, you see,
That villages must steady themselves.

The bunting above her
Had begun the afternoon undecided.

She saw the first thread pale.
She saw the second follow.

She saw Mrs Doyle’s praise
Tilt the colour toward light.

And when the mirror stood
At the field’s edge,
She did not look for herself.

She looked for the field.

Grass.
White bunting.
No ledger.

That was enough.

Later — long after the fire fell to embers —
A child would say,

“Was Alice there?”

And someone would answer,

“Of course she was.”

Because there are some gatherings
She does not begin,
Does not mend,
Does not command —

She only keeps.

And when the wind untied the bunting
And folded it back into the sky,

It brushed her shoulder
Like thanks.


 


You can read the full story via this LINK. Enjoy.

 

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