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Author Archives: The Crazymad Writer

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About The Crazymad Writer

FREE EBOOKS FOR ALL, that's what I say, FREE EBOOKS FOR ALL, courtesy of ME, The Crazymad Writer. Stories for children and young at heart adults. And remember, my eBooks are FREE FREE FREE!

The Ballad of the Fertilizer Mine

The Ballad of the Fertilizer Mine

(Verse 1 – The Hidden Work)
Fertilizer is something we rarely perceive,
Though it’s working its wonders from winter to eve.
It’s spread on the meadows, the gardens, the glens,
Helping seedlings and saplings to rise up again.

(Verse 2 – The Quiet Magic)
It hides in the humus, it hums in the loam,
It whispers to roots in their subterranean home.
Oh, the world may see sunlight and praise the bright sky,
But the work of the soil is the reason buds fly.

Down in the deep, where the cool earth sleeps,
And the roots weave stories the daylight keeps,
There’s magic in the soil, from the humble to the grand,
With gentle care and steady work in every helping hand.

Oh, down in the deep, where the quiet things shine,
Life begins again in the Fertilizer Mine.


(Verse 3 – Fle Speaks Proudly)

I am old, an elf in charge of this place—
A mine full of minerals, earth-dust, and grace.
I shovel the treasure from cavern to shelf,
And I’m grateful each morning to simply be… well… myself.

(Verse 4 – The Work of His Hands)
I gather the powder, I sort every grain,
I cart it through tunnels in sunshine or rain.
I bag up the goodness, stack bundles with care,
A gift for the meadows, the fields, and the air.

Down in the deep, where the cool earth sleeps,
And the roots weave stories the daylight keeps,
There’s magic in the soil, from the humble to the grand,
With gentle care and steady work in every helping hand.

Oh, down in the deep, where the quiet things shine,
Life begins again in the Fertilizer Mine.


(Verse 5 – A Philosopher in the Earth)
For I’ve learned in my lifetime, a thousand years deep,
That the earth keeps her secrets where shadows all sleep.
There’s wisdom in soil, in the scent of the ground,
In the murmuring moles and the roots wrapped around.

(Verse 6 – The Gratitude Verse)
Oh, the luckiest elf in the world, I am he,
To labour where life starts its grand mystery.
When the shoots start to kindle and blossoms align,
I know I’ve a hand in the world’s grand design.

Down in the deep, where the cool earth sleeps,
And the roots weave stories the daylight keeps,
There’s magic in the soil, from the humble to the grand,
With gentle care and steady work in every helping hand.

Oh, down in the deep, where the quiet things shine,
Life begins again in the Fertilizer Mine.


(Verse 7 – Visitors Come Calling)
Sometimes, wandering travellers, dusty and worn,
Will knock at my door by the roots of the thorn.
I say, “Come right in! Have a warm cup of brew—
There’s a whole world of wonders I’ll gladly show you.”

(Verse 8 – The Lantern-Lit Tour)
I lead them through tunnels of amber and chalk,
Where the stalactites shimmer and mushrooms can talk.
Where carts full of compost roll softly along,
And the Thinking Moles sometimes break into song.

Down in the deep, where the cool earth sleeps,
And the roots weave stories the daylight keeps,
There’s magic in the soil, from the humble to the grand,
With gentle care and steady work in every helping hand.

Oh, down in the deep, where the quiet things shine,
Life begins again in the Fertilizer Mine.


(Verse 9 – The Heart of the Mine)
I show them the chambers where slow magic sleeps,
Where old crumbs of stardust are buried in heaps.
Where every small particle holds in its frame
A spark of the world when the world first became.

(Verse 10 – Fle’s Philosophy)
Then I tell them a truth that the tall folk ignore:
“That greatness begins where the humble restore.
For a garden’s true glory, a forest’s green roar,
Depends on the gifts of the creatures below floor.”

Down in the deep, where the cool earth sleeps,
And the roots weave stories the daylight keeps,
There’s magic in the soil, from the humble to the grand,
With gentle care and steady work in every helping hand.

Oh, down in the deep, where the quiet things shine,
Life begins again in the Fertilizer Mine.


 

 

(Verse 11 – The Farewell)
And when they depart with their minds opened wide,
I wave from my doorway with joy in my stride.
For they leave with new wisdom, and maybe a rhyme,
To recall as they wander away from my mine.

(Final Verse – The Blessing of the Soil)
So cherish the soil where the quiet things dwell,
For beneath every meadow lies magic as well.
And think of old Fle when the blossoms align—
For an elf keeps them blooming, down deep in his mine.

 

Down in the deep, where the cool earth sleeps,
And the roots weave stories the daylight keeps,
There’s magic in the soil, from the humble to the grand,
With gentle care and steady work in every helping hand.

Oh, down in the deep, where the quiet things shine,
Life begins again in the Fertilizer Mine.

 
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Posted by on November 24, 2025 in music, new, original

 

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Through cosmic gears and nebulous night…

Through cosmic gears and nebulous night…

Through cosmic gears and nebulous night,

A Cheshire grins, a mechanical light.

With wings of brass and eyes of gold,

A steampunk dream, centuries old.

 

Above the spires, a moon so vast,

Reflects the secrets of a broken past.

The city sleeps, a clockwork hum,

As shadows dance, and madness come.

 

Each cog a thought, each whir a plea,

For freedom found, or what’s to be.

A wicked smile, a promise kept,

In the realm where curious minds have wept.

 

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Do Not Open the Door to the Carolers!

A Dark Folk Ballad Inspired by the Story “Snowfall and Silence”

The Story: When three days of relentless snow silence a small, isolated town, the Christmas bells are frozen still—a bad omen for the darkest night of the year. Every family clutches their hearth, knowing the rule: when the mysterious carolers arrive, you must not acknowledge their presence, no matter how sweet and perfect their song. Máire’s Crisis: At the end of the lonely lane, the widow Máire Kinsella must endure the ritual alone. But the song outside her door is too precise, too pure, and it begins to resolve into the exact voice of her dead husband, Tom. Her survival depends on resisting the coldest, most beautiful temptation.

Themes: Isolation, Supernatural Horror, Grief, Winter Dread, Forbidden Rituals.

Music & Production: Gerrard Wilson.

Lyrics: Gerrard Wilson

This song is an adaptation of the original short story, ‘Snowfall and Silence’ (Chapters One and Two, including ‘The Carolers at the Door’).”

#DarkFolkBallad #AcousticGothic #FolkHorror #ChristmasHorror #WinterDread #TheCarolersBargain #DarkChristmasMusic #IndieFolk #Supernatural

 

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Horrible Horace Flies a Kite

Horrible Horace Flies a Kite

Horrible Horace Flies a Kite

Children LOVE him

Parents HATE him

Click on the link, below, to read this exciting new story

https://thecrazymadwriter.com/horrible-horace-2/horrible-horace-2/

 

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Wonderland Christmas Countdown 2025

Wonderland Christmas Countdown – ENJOY.

 


 

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Goth Alice in Wonderland

Goth Alice in Wonderland

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.

 

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Alice and the Sun-Dappled Clearing

Alice and the Sun-Dappled Clearing

🌸 Alice and the Sun-Dappled Clearing 🐇

 

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.”


 

 

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The Air is Screaming

The air is a screaming cyan and gold,
Where whiskers of madness are fiercely unrolled!
The Hatter’s hat spins, a chaotic cyclone,
His eyes like two clocks, ticking wildly alone!
The Hare beats a drum on a teapot quite cracked,
Yelling, “NO ROOM! NO ROOM!” and can never track back.
The Queen’s face is purple—a temper-tantrum hue—
“OFF WITH THEIR HEADS! And your teacups too!”
Alice, she stands in the whirling Van Gogh,
Her ribbons are snapping, a frantic bow!
The Caterpillar smokes ’til the canvas turns green,
A dizzying, madcap, and glorious scene!
Swirl, swirl, goes the paint, like a turbulent ocean,
Lost is all reason, logic, and motion!
The White Rabbit weeps, for he’s utterly lost,
In this masterpiece maelstrom, whatever the cost!
 

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In strokes of night

In strokes of night
In strokes of night, where stars ignite the sky,
Gerard Wilson sits, with a wild, knowing eye.
His hair, a tempest, mirroring the scene,
A mind ablaze, where madness has been.
A quill in hand, his parchment alight,
With tales of shadows and creatures of night.
From raven’s perch to dragon’s dark form,
His thoughts take flight, weathering life’s storm.
Books stacked high, a fortress of lore,
Whispers of worlds, forevermore.
In Van Gogh’s embrace, a soul laid bare,
The crazy-mad writer, beyond all compare.
 

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The Silent Sentinel of the Ticking Clock

The Silent Sentinel of the Ticking Clock

Listen to this song here

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.

Pre-Chorus

 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.

Chorus

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!

Verse 2

 

 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.

Pre-Chorus

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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.

Chorus

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!

Bridge

 

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.

Outro

 The clockwork glare…

The ticking, ticking…

 
 

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