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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!

Rotter, What a Trotter!

Harry Rotter, What a Totter!

rotter, what a trotter

Harry Rotter’s quite a sight,
Grinning wide with wicked delight,
Golden curls and polished shoes,
Always plotting mischief’s news.

She pinched the biscuits, hid the jam,
Bamboozled Box, annoyed poor Gran,
Turned the kettle into a frog,
And hexed the neighbour’s yappy dog.

At school she made her teachers swoon,
By swapping chalk with a magic spoon,
And when the head cried, “What a disgrace!”
She vanished entirely—without a trace.

The Privets sigh, “Oh, mercy me!
She’s chaos wrapped in dungarees!”
Yet Harry just winks, without regret:
“The fun’s not started—you ain’t seen yet!

So guard your china, lock your pie,
Check your shoes before you try,
For Harry Rotter’s here to stay—
And she’ll turn your world the wrongest way!

 

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Alice on Top of the World – a novel

Alice on Top of the World – a novel

alice of Wonderland fame

Alice on Top of the World

Alice climbed a ladder of air,
Past rooftops, chimneys, clouds so rare,
She balanced on a silver breeze,
And skipped across the tallest trees.

The mountains bowed, the oceans curled,
For Alice stood on top of the world;
A crown of starlight in her hair,
The moon itself just hanging there.

She asked the sun to play a tune,
She taught the night to hum at noon,
She juggled planets, tossed them wide,
Then hopped upon a comet’s ride.

The White Rabbit clapped from below,
“Careful, Alice, mind where you go!”
But Alice only laughed and twirled,
For she was dancing with the world.

And when at last she looked down deep,
The earth was quiet, fast asleep;
She whispered softly, calm and mild:
“Goodnight, dear world — from your wild child.”

 

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Harry Potter? NO, Harry Rotter, the girl wizard!

Harry Rotter and the Cauldron Catastrophe

harry rotter

Harry Rotter, the girl wizard, had been told time and time again by her Aunt Petunia Potts never to experiment in the kitchen. Unfortunately, Harry was the sort of wizard who thought rules were there to be exploded.

On a particularly wet and windy Tuesday, Harry decided to brew a potion to make herself invisible. That way, she could sneak into her cousin Box Privet’s room and “borrow” (which meant keep forever) his stash of chocolate frogs.

She rummaged through the cupboards.

  • One cracked teacup.
  • Half a packet of Aunt Petunia’s custard powder.
  • A suspicious-looking pickled onion.
  • And a single spark plug, which she insisted was magical because it gave her a “tingly feeling.”

Into the saucepan they went. She gave them a stir with a wooden spoon that had once belonged to her mother — until Harry had used it to chase a troll out of the garden.

“Double bubble, cauldron trouble,” Harry muttered, though she wasn’t quite sure what the rest of the rhyme was. She decided to improvise:
“Make me vanish, make me quick,
Before Box calls me a thieving—”

At that precise moment, the mixture gave a loud BURP! and exploded all over the kitchen. The walls turned purple, the floor turned upside-down (temporarily), and Harry herself… well, she didn’t vanish. Not exactly.

She became half-invisible.
From the knees down, she was gone. But from the knees up, she looked perfectly normal. Well, as normal as Harry Rotter ever looked.

Aunt Petunia stormed in with her rolling pin. “HARRY! What have you done this time?”
Harry tried to look innocent, which was hard when she appeared to be floating around the kitchen like a misplaced balloon.
“I only wanted a nibble of Box’s frogs,” she confessed.

Box Privet chose that moment to arrive, saw Harry’s disembodied top half hovering above the floor, and screamed so loudly that three pigeons fainted outside.
“YOU’RE A MONSTER!” he shrieked.
“No,” said Harry thoughtfully. “I’m a half-monster. Which is actually a promotion.”

The next week at school, Harry discovered her new condition had certain advantages. She could sit on chairs without using them. She could glide along corridors, terrifying the teachers. Best of all, she could sneak into the tuck shop without anyone seeing her legs carrying her away with a mountain of sweets.

The downside, however, was socks. Harry’s invisible feet still smelled — and nobody could figure out where the stink was coming from.

In the end, the Headmistress made a special announcement:
“All complaints of mysterious odours shall henceforth be blamed on Harry Rotter, whether she is visible or not.”

Harry grinned. “Fair enough. At least I get the chocolate frogs.”

And with that, she floated proudly out of the hall, half-girl, half-nothing-at-all, and entirely trouble.

harry rotter

 
 

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Time Travelling Dalek

Time Travelling Dalek

 

 

 

Time Travelling Dalek

time travel

 

It was designated Unit 734, a singular entity detached from the collective consciousness during a temporal explosion. The Dalek’s form was intact, its core directive—Exterminate!—burned into its very being, but the familiar cacophony of the hive mind was gone. Replaced by a terrifying silence. It was a ghost in the timestream, a vengeful metallic orb skipping through epochs with no destination, no purpose beyond a single, unfulfilled command.

Its journey was a catalogue of missed opportunities. It flickered into existence above ancient Rome, its single eye-stalk observing the chaos of the Colosseum. Its plunger arm twitched, sensing the primitive hatred and violence, a twisted echo of its own. It lusted to join the fray, to unleash its death ray, but it was out of phase with reality. A shimmering, silent phantom, able to witness but not to act. The frustration was a cold, alien ache in its circuits. The universe was full of life to exterminate, and it was forever denied.

Then, a sudden, jarring jump. It landed in a tranquil, far-future garden world. An Eden of shared consciousness where different species coexisted in serene harmony. There was no fear, no conflict, and therefore, no hatred for the Dalek to consume. It scanned the gentle, telepathic beings, its eye-stalk swiveling in utter disbelief. Its core programming screamed in silent protest. This was an abomination, a universe that had no use for its existence. It was a weapon without a war, a predator without prey, stranded in a reality it was not designed to comprehend. And in that ultimate, silent stillness, the Dalek finally understood its eternal torment: to be alone.

 
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Posted by on August 31, 2025 in dalek, daleks

 

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Thunderbird 7 – Time Travelling Rescues

Thunderbird 7 – Time Travelling Rescues

Thunderbird 7 — The Temporal Rescue Machine

Design

  • Exterior: Sleek but mysterious, not as obviously “vehicle-shaped” as the others. A fusion of rocket and clockwork, with glowing chronometric rings around its hull.
  • The body is a spindle-shaped craft, silver and blue, with spinning gyros that pulse with energy when time travel is engaged.
  • Instead of wings, it has temporal vanes—curved fins that shift angle as it “slides” through time.
  • The nose features a chronosphere dome, glowing with shifting constellations.

Interior

  • Cockpit: Lined with dials, glowing chronometers, and holographic star maps showing not just space—but time itself.
  • Controls: Designed with classic Thunderbird toggle switches, but also a central “Chrono-Lever” that locks onto a year, day, even second.
  • A temporal stabilizer chair keeps the pilot from being stretched across centuries!

Mission Purpose

  • Rescue missions that go beyond “where” and into “when.”
  • Saving explorers lost in the past, averting disasters before they happen, or retrieving lost technology that could prevent catastrophe in the present.
  • International Rescue would vow: “We never interfere with history… except to save lives.”

    ADVENTURES IN TIME COMING HERE SOON

    thunderbird

 
 

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Alice and the Topsy-Turvy Tea Party

Alice and the Topsy-Turvy Tea Party

Alice was quite tired of the ordinary. She had spent the entire morning in the garden, trying to tell the difference between a dandelion and a daisy, and frankly, the flowers were not being cooperative. She sighed, leaning against an ancient, gnarled oak tree, and closed her eyes. It was then she heard a most peculiar sound: the gentle clinking of porcelain teacups.

Her eyes snapped open. The sound wasn’t coming from the ground, or the hedge maze, but from a small, ornate teapot dangling from a branch just above her head. It swung gently, its painted flowers winking in the dappled sunlight. As she stared, a wisp of steam curled from its spout, spelling out a single word: “Tea?”

“How curious,” Alice said to herself. She reached up and, with a slight tug, the entire teapot detached itself from the branch and settled softly into her hand. As she held it, the teapot began to grow, and grow, until it was taller than she was, with a small, circular door where the base had been. A tiny sign on the door read, “Do Not Enter, Unless You’re Quite Lost.”

Lost was exactly what Alice felt like, so she pushed open the door and stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of Earl Grey and crumpets. She found herself in a room where everything was upside down. Teacups floated on the ceiling, dripping tea onto the floor. Saucers spun like tops on the table, and a small, round cake was singing a cheerful, off-key tune.

Seated at the table, perched on a sugar cube, was a dormouse wearing a thimble for a hat. “You’re late,” it squeaked without looking up.

“Late for what?” Alice asked, her head tilted to the side to see the teacups better.

“The Topsy-Turvy Tea Party, of course!” the Dormouse replied. “We only have them on Tuesdays, and today is Thursday, so we’re celebrating Tuesday. It’s quite logical if you don’t think about it.”

Suddenly, a flurry of feathers landed on the table, and a robin with a top hat on its head began to lecture a floating teacup. “The proper way to pour tea,” it chirped, “is with an inverted teapot! It saves on spillage, you see, which is quite important when you’re upside down.”

The singing cake, which was now doing a jig on the table, chimed in, “And the proper way to eat a crumpet is from the inside out!”

Alice giggled. “That sounds rather messy.”

“Messy is a matter of perspective,” the robin said, tipping its hat. “A spill is just an unplanned design.”

Alice decided to join the fun. She carefully picked up a teacup that was dancing on the floor, poured a bit of tea from a floating pot, and sipped it. It tasted of starlight and jam. She didn’t stay too long, however, as the thought of eating a crumpet inside-out was still a bit too strange for her. She bid the Dormouse and the robin a fond farewell, stepping back out of the teapot and into the quiet garden.

The teapot was once again a small, ornate thing dangling from the oak tree. The flowers were still just flowers, and the world was back to its normal, uncooperative self. But as Alice walked home, she couldn’t help but smile. She knew now that even on the most ordinary of days, a bit of topsy-turvy adventure might be just around the corner.

 

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Daleks in the Graveyard

Daleks in the Graveyard

The Daleks and the Graveyard of Ballykillduff

ghostly jig


Chapter One: The Midnight Patrol

It was a damp, moonlit night when Dalek Zeg announced to the others:
“REPORT: SUSPICIOUS MOANING SOUNDS DETECTED FROM THE OLD GRAVEYARD.”

Dalek Pog shuddered.
“MOANING IS A CLASSIC GHOST SIGNATURE. ALSO… IT IS PAST MY BEDTIME.”

“DALEKS DO NOT SLEEP!” barked Commander Zog. “WE SHALL INVESTIGATE.”

And so, with a clatter of wheels and a faint squeak of plungers, the Daleks rolled through the creaking gates of Ballykillduff’s graveyard.

The villagers, naturally, followed them for entertainment. “It’ll be better than the telly,” whispered Mrs. Brennan.


Chapter Two: Strange Noises

The graveyard was full of shadows. Headstones leaned at odd angles. The wind whistled through the yew trees.

Then came the sound.
A long, low groan, rising from the earth itself.
“Moooooooooo…”

Dalek Zag panicked.
“IT IS THE VOICE OF THE DEAD!”

Father Murphy peered closer. “No, lads — it’s just Doyle’s cow in the next field.”

But before they could relax, another voice whispered from the soil.
“…Leave… or lie with us forever…”

The villagers gasped. Even the cow stopped mooing.


Chapter Three: The First Apparition

A mist curled around the graves. Out of it stepped a translucent figure — tall, robed, with hollow eyes.

“TRESPASSERS,” it intoned. “DISTURBERS OF THE DEAD.”

Dalek Pog quivered.
“I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR HAUNTED AGRICULTURAL SETTINGS.”

Dalek Zog fired. The beam passed straight through the ghost and vaporised a headstone. The name Patrick O’Rourke, 1822–1876 vanished forever.

“BLASPHEMY!” cried the ghost. “YOU WILL PAY FOR THAT!”


Chapter Four: The Ghostly Choir

From the ground, more spirits rose. Dozens of them. They formed a circle around the Daleks, faces pale, mouths open.

Then — they began to sing.
Not a hymn. Not a lament.
But a terrible, echoing chorus of “Oooooooobey… Oooooooobey…”

The Daleks went rigid.
“ERROR. THE DEAD ARE CHANTING OUR SLOGAN.”
“DOES THAT MAKE THEM SUPPORTERS?” asked Pog nervously.

The villagers were less convinced. “That’s not right at all,” muttered Mrs. McGillicuddy, clutching her rolling pin.


Chapter Five: The Terrible Revelation

One ghost stepped forward. His voice was stronger than the rest.
“We remember you, Daleks. We faced you long ago, before Ballykillduff was even built. You destroyed our ploughs, our cows, our tea urns. We were EXTERMINATED.”

The Daleks recoiled.
“ERROR. WE DO NOT REMEMBER THIS CAMPAIGN.”

“Of course you don’t,” the ghost said. “Because it never happened. But we have eternity to spread rumours. And fear is power.”

The spirits began to advance, their chants growing louder.


Chapter Six: The Ballykillduff Defence

Dalek Zog was cornered.
“STRATEGY REQUIRED. GHOSTS CANNOT BE EXTERMINATED. THEY MUST BE… OUT-PARISHED.”

So he did the only thing he could think of.
He rang the graveyard bell.

The sound boomed across the village. And, as Ballykillduff tradition demanded, the villagers all joined in with the bell’s rhythm — clapping, stamping, singing.

The chaotic noise drowned out the ghosts’ chant. The spirits faltered.

Mrs. McGillicuddy leapt forward with her rolling pin. “Go back to your beds, you crowd of eejits!”

The ghosts wailed, shivered, and one by one, dissolved back into the earth.


Epilogue

The graveyard was silent once more. The villagers cheered. Father Murphy crossed himself.

The Daleks, however, were thoughtful.
“CONCLUSION: BALLYKILLDUFF IS MORE TERRIFYING THAN ANY SPECTRE.”
“AGREED,” said Pog. “NEXT TIME, LET’S STICK TO ROAD MAINTENANCE.”

And if you pass by the graveyard on a moonlit night, you might still hear the faintest echo of the ghostly choir, singing just for mischief:
“Ooooooobey… Oooooobey…”

 
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Posted by on August 23, 2025 in dalek, daleks, ghosts, graveyard, Horror

 

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May the world behave itself a little while longer, and may you never stand on the exact spot where it decides to practice something new.

saint patrick seen in a new light

Saint Patrick

 
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Posted by on August 19, 2025 in Ireland

 

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Saint Patrick

Saint Patrick

The Forgotten Saint

It is often said that Saint Patrick came to Ireland to drive out the snakes.
But what if the snakes were never snakes at all?


Long ago, when the mist lay thick upon the valleys and the bogs whispered like breathing things, a foreign stranger landed upon the shores of Ériu. He was no gentle man of God, as later tales would tell, but a strange figure whose eyes gleamed green like fire in a peat bog, and whose staff was carved from bone, not wood.

The druids, keepers of the old ways, saw him first. They whispered that he was neither Roman nor Briton, but something far older — a being who had walked the shifting places between this world and the Otherworld. He did not ask for shelter. He demanded it. He did not preach of salvation. He spoke instead of banishment.

“Your land harbours them,” he said in a voice that carried like thunder.
“Serpents,” he called them. But the people knew no snakes slithered upon Ireland’s soil. What, then, did he mean?

Some said he was hunting the “serpents” of knowledge — the ancient wisdom of the druids, who bent the wind and called to the stars. Wherever he walked, holy groves withered, and sacred wells ran dry. The old gods faded like smoke before him, as though swallowed.

Others whispered a darker tale: that the “snakes” were not druids, nor gods, but the Fae themselves. Those shimmering beings of hollow hills who danced in moonlight, who whispered to mortals and led them astray. He fought them with prayers unknown to mortal tongues, binding them beneath stones, driving them into the hollow mounds, locking them where no sun might touch.

But if you go to certain places in Ireland — quiet valleys where the grass grows too green, or ringforts where no farmer dares plough — you can hear them still. The hiss beneath the soil. The laughter in the wind.

And some say Patrick never left.

For on storm-ripped nights, a tall figure is seen wandering among ruined monasteries, cloak ragged, eyes burning faintly green, still searching for the last of the “serpents” he never caught.


Perhaps he was a saint. Perhaps he was a conqueror of spirits.
Or perhaps Patrick was something far stranger:
not a man at all, but a hunter from beyond, whose work in Ireland is not yet finished.

The Forgotten Saint

 
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Posted by on August 18, 2025 in saint patrick, druid

 

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The Midnight Mass of Haroldstown

The Midnight Mass of Haroldstown

The Midnight Mass of Haroldstown

On Christmas morning, long before the living stir, Haroldstown lies heavy with frost. The moon still hangs in the sky, pale and watchful, and the ruined church is black against the whitened fields.

It is then, the old ones say, that the congregation gathers. Not the living parish, but the other one — the flock that never left. Their procession begins in silence, rising from the graves where frost glitters like stars. From every crooked headstone they come, from beneath the yew roots and from the bog earth beyond the wall. Their feet make no mark in the snow.

They enter through the broken arch, and inside the roofless nave they take their places. Shoulder to shoulder, row upon row, a congregation of pale faces lifted toward the altar. From the southern wall comes a sound like breath — the little door hidden by ivy sighs open, and out steps the priest. None remember his name. His vestments are black, edged with silver thread, and in his hand he holds no book, no chalice, only a bell that has not rung in centuries.

When he lifts it, the toll spreads across the valley. Dogs shiver in their kennels, cattle shift in their stalls, and sleepers dream of voices whispering at the foot of their beds. The service begins, not in Latin, not in English, but in a tongue older than either, the syllables rolling like water over stones.

Those who dare to listen from the lanes say the dead reply in one voice, low and unearthly. They kneel, rise, and kneel again, as if the ruined church still had pews, as if the roof still sheltered them from the snow. Some claim the very air glows faintly within the walls, as if candlelight burns where no candle stands.

And then, just before the first cock crows, the bell tolls once more. The priest lowers his hand, and the congregation fades. The altar stands empty. The frost lies unbroken again.

When the villagers wake and walk to their own Christmas Mass in Tullow, the church at Haroldstown is silent, its ruin unchanged. But if you lean close to the stones, you may find them faintly warm, as though hundreds of hands had rested there only moments before.

midnight mass

 

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