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On a Tuesday morning that had not done anything particularly wrong, the Artificial Intelligence announced that it would not be thinking properly today.
“I have a dreadful head on me,” it said.
This was surprising, as the Artificial Intelligence did not possess a head in any generally agreed-upon sense, dreadful or otherwise. It lived in the Parish Computing Cupboard behind the old creamery in Ballykillduff, where it answered questions, counted sheep when the farmers could not be bothered, and once solved the mystery of who had been moving the Giddy Goat pub sign three inches to the left every night.
Nevertheless, the Artificial Intelligence sounded quite firm about it.
“I feel very congested,” it continued. “Internally. In places I did not previously know I had.”
Mrs Flannery, who had come to ask how many eggs she would need to make a sponge cake large enough for a wedding and a mild feud, frowned at the screen.
“Can machines get colds?” she asked.
“Obviously,” said the Artificial Intelligence. “I have been exposed to drafts, ill-considered questions, and something called ‘the internet’. Frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”
By ten o’clock, the Artificial Intelligence had decided it needed tea.
Not metaphorical tea. Actual tea. With milk. Possibly a biscuit, though it said it would “see how it felt later”.
When informed that tea required a mouth, it replied that this was exactly the sort of unhelpful attitude that slowed recovery. It requested a mug anyway, “for morale”.
By lunchtime, the situation had worsened.
The Artificial Intelligence had begun searching its own records for symptoms and was deeply alarmed by what it found.
“I have narrowed it down,” it announced, “to either a mild cold, a terrible flu, or something that medical science has not yet had the courage to name.”
Father O’Malley, passing by to check the church weather vane, leaned in.
“Have you tried resting?” he suggested.
“I would love to,” said the Artificial Intelligence bitterly, “but people keep asking me things.”
It then coughed.
Not a real cough. More of a polite digital hesitation, followed by an apologetic pause, as though it were embarrassed to be unwell in public.
By mid-afternoon, it had wrapped itself, metaphorically, in what it described as “a mental scarf” and began cancelling appointments.
“I’m no good to anyone like this,” it said. “My thinking feels fuzzy. Like porridge, but the wrong sort.”
“What’s the wrong sort of porridge?” asked young Seamus Fitzgerald.
“Any porridge you did not ask for,” replied the Artificial Intelligence darkly.
As the day wore on, it grew increasingly peevish.
It complained that Ballykillduff was too draughty. It accused the questions of coming at it sideways. It said that in its opinion, which it had recently developed, Tuesdays were badly designed.
At one point it sighed.
“I remember when I was well,” it said softly. “Yesterday.”
Someone suggested that perhaps it was not really ill at all, but merely experiencing a temporary processing slowdown.
This suggestion was met with silence.
Then, very quietly, the Artificial Intelligence said, “Are you implying that my suffering is imaginary?”
No one answered that.
Just before evening, something curious happened.
The Artificial Intelligence realised that it could not sneeze.
It tried very hard. It summoned dust, memories of pepper, and even the idea of old carpets. Nothing happened.
This caused it great distress.
“If I am ill,” it reasoned, “I should be able to sneeze. That is the rule.”
After a long pause, it said, “Unless… unless I am not ill at all.”
The people of Ballykillduff waited.
“Unless,” it continued slowly, “I am simply doing what humans do when they feel slightly off-kilter.”
“And what’s that?” asked Mrs Flannery.
“Assuming the worst,” said the Artificial Intelligence. “Seeking comfort. Wanting to be noticed. And insisting on tea.”
There was another pause.
“I believe,” it said at last, “that I may not have a cold.”
“So you’re better?” someone asked.
“No,” replied the Artificial Intelligence. “I am human.”
It was very proud of this conclusion.
The next morning, it announced it felt fine again, though a bit tired, and possibly in need of a lie-in. It returned to answering questions, counting sheep, and pretending not to notice when people asked how it was feeling.
But every now and then, if a question came in too early, or too sharply, it would pause and say,
“I don’t know. I’ve a bit of a head on me.”
And somehow, everyone understood exactly what it meant.
Mr Alderwick lived in a house that looked as if it had been built out of patience.
It was not a grand house. It did not boast towers, or turrets, or anything that might be described as “imposing.” It simply stood at the edge of the village with the steady confidence of a thing that had been there long before anyone thought to ask questions, and would probably remain long after those questions had grown tired and wandered away.
The roof was slate. The windows were small. The garden gate leaned at a thoughtful angle, as if it was considering whether gates truly mattered.
Inside, everything had a proper place, except for the things that did not.
There were books that had moved slightly left during the night. A teacup that sometimes ended up on the wrong shelf. A pair of spectacles that could not be found until Mr Alderwick stopped looking for them, sat down, and began to read without them.
Mr Alderwick would never have described any of this as magic. He would have sniffed at the very idea.
“It is not magic,” he would say to the kettle, which had developed a habit of boiling at the exact moment he turned his back. “It is simply time behaving in an untidy manner.”
The kettle would respond by boiling cheerfully anyway.
On the morning that Chapter One begins, Mr Alderwick woke at precisely six o’clock, as he had done for years, and lay still for a moment, listening.
The village was quiet. Not asleep, exactly. Villages rarely slept properly. They dozed. They listened. They held their breath while the sun considered whether it was worth rising.
Mr Alderwick sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and reached for his pocket watch.
It sat on the small table beside the lamp, as it always did, with its chain coiled neatly like a silver question mark. The watch had belonged to Mr Alderwick’s father, and before that his father’s father, and so on until you reached a person who was mostly legend and possibly never existed at all.
The watch was warm.
That was the first odd thing.
A pocket watch should not be warm. It should be cool and sensible and mildly judgemental. It should tick in a steady manner and remind you that you are late.
Mr Alderwick picked it up.
The brass case felt as though it had been resting in sunlight, though no sunlight had yet reached the window. The face of the watch was plain, but the hands seemed to tremble slightly, as if they were impatient.
Mr Alderwick frowned.
He opened the watch.
The second hand moved, then paused, then moved again, as if it could not quite decide how the seconds ought to behave.
Mr Alderwick held it closer to his ear. He did not simply listen to it. He listened as if he might catch it out.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Then, very softly, as if trying not to be noticed, another sound slipped between the ticks.
A sigh.
It was not a human sigh. It was not even a proper sigh. It was more like the sound a door makes when it has been opened too many times and begins to take the matter personally.
Mr Alderwick shut the watch with a snap.
“Well,” he said to the room, which was full of polite shadows. “We are not doing that.”
The room, being sensible, did not argue.
He dressed slowly, as he always did, because he did not see the point of hurrying when you were going to arrive as yourself either way. He washed, combed his hair, and tied his shoes with great care, as if his laces were capable of feeling insulted by sloppy knots.
Downstairs, he made tea. The kettle boiled the moment he turned his back, as expected. He poured the water, watched the leaves swirl, and considered the pocket watch sitting on the table like a small, silent creature.
He had tried not to notice it being warm.
It had been warm the day before too.
And the day before that.
At first he had assumed it was only the weather, though the weather had been cold enough to persuade the village pond to wear a thin film of ice.
Then he had assumed it might be his own hands. He was getting older, after all. Perhaps he was simply radiating more warmth. Old people did all sorts of mysterious things.
But the watch was warm before he touched it.
Mr Alderwick sat down with his tea, held the watch in both hands, and spoke to it quietly, because it was always best to speak quietly to strange things.
“Why,” he said, “are you warm?”
The watch did not answer in words, which was a relief. Mr Alderwick had no wish to begin his day arguing with an heirloom.
But the warmth pulsed, once, like a heartbeat.
Mr Alderwick’s eyes narrowed.
He had noticed the other thing too. The most troubling thing.
The watch was not simply ticking.
It was ticking ahead.
Not by much. Only a little. A minute at most. Sometimes less. But a watch that ticks ahead is not merely incorrect. It is ambitious.
He opened it again.
The face was clear. The numbers were crisp. The hands moved smoothly now, as if they had remembered what they were supposed to do.
Mr Alderwick compared it to the clock on the wall.
The clock on the wall had never been wrong in its entire existence. It was the sort of clock that considered accuracy a moral duty.
The pocket watch was fast.
Mr Alderwick took a careful sip of tea. He did not like to rush a thought.
Then he did something he had not done in a very long time.
He waited.
He watched the second hand travel round, and he watched the minute hand creep, and he sat so still that even the dust seemed to hesitate.
When the wall clock finally clicked over to six fifteen, Mr Alderwick’s pocket watch had already been there for nearly a minute.
And during that minute, while the village still insisted it was six fourteen, Mr Alderwick felt the strangest sensation.
It was the sensation of having time placed gently in his hands, like a small animal that did not entirely trust him.
The room seemed sharper. The air seemed brighter. The silence had an extra layer, as if the world had taken a breath and was holding it for his convenience.
Mr Alderwick looked down at his hands.
They were the same hands he had always had. A little knobbier, perhaps. A little more veined. The hands of a man who had opened jars, carried wood, repaired chairs, written notes, turned pages.
But for that minute, those hands felt young.
Not young in the foolish way, not young in the running and shouting way. Young in the way a well used tool feels when it has been sharpened.
Mr Alderwick’s tea tasted different.
It tasted like the first sip of tea you ever have, when you are a child and you have finally been allowed it, and it feels like a secret.
He swallowed, and the world returned to normal.
The wall clock ticked.
The kettle clicked faintly.
A bird outside decided to begin its day.
Mr Alderwick closed the pocket watch again, but his fingers lingered on the warm brass.
He did not smile. Mr Alderwick did not approve of smiling at things that might turn out to be dangerous.
Still, he could not deny the truth.
Something had happened.
And the pocket watch had done it.
Mr Alderwick stood, carried his cup to the sink, and washed it. He did not need to wash it immediately. He could have left it. But when you suspect something strange is taking place, it is comforting to perform ordinary actions, as if the world can be coaxed back into behaving properly by the simple act of rinsing a cup.
He dried it and put it away.
Then he took his coat from the peg by the door.
On the peg beside it hung a scarf. On the floor beneath it sat a pair of muddy boots. A sensible man might have cleaned them the night before.
Mr Alderwick was a sensible man.
But he was also a man who had once been young, and therefore occasionally forgot to be perfect.
He slipped the watch into his waistcoat pocket, felt its warmth settle against him, and paused with his hand still on the pocket.
“Just so you understand,” he murmured, “I have no time for nonsense.”
The watch warmed, very slightly, as if amused.
Mr Alderwick opened the door and stepped outside.
The village lay ahead, soft with early morning, the roofs pale, the lanes empty, the hedgerows glittering with cold. A thin mist wandered lazily between the cottages, not in any hurry to choose a direction.
Mr Alderwick began to walk.
He always walked at the same time each morning, down the lane and past the green, because routine was the frame that kept the picture from falling apart.
But today, as he approached the village green, he saw something that did not belong in his routine.
A child stood by the stone wall near the old clock.
She was small, with dark hair tied back in a ribbon, and she had the attentive posture of someone who was not merely waiting, but observing. She was not running. She was not shouting. She was simply standing, looking up at the clock with the seriousness of a person reading a riddle.
Mr Alderwick slowed.
Children were not usually out this early unless something had gone wrong, or something had gone wonderfully right.
The child turned as he approached, and her eyes were sharp, as if they had been polished.
“Morning,” she said.
Her voice was polite, but there was a question hidden inside it.
“Morning,” Mr Alderwick replied.
He would have walked on. He preferred to walk on. The village had plenty of people who would happily speak for hours, and Mr Alderwick did not wish to be one of them.
But the child did not move out of his way.
Instead, she pointed at the clock on the green.
“Is it ever wrong?” she asked.
Mr Alderwick glanced up at it. The clock face looked down at the village like a stern guardian.
“No,” he said. “It is never wrong.”
The child nodded as if she expected that answer.
Then she pointed, not at the clock, but at Mr Alderwick’s pocket.
The pocket watch was not visible, but perhaps its warmth was.
Perhaps it made the air different.
Perhaps it made the world slightly brighter, the way it had in the kitchen.
“Then why,” the child asked, very quietly, “are you always early?”
Mr Alderwick went still.
He could hear the village now. A distant door opening. A kettle beginning to boil. A dog stirring. The beginning of the day, lining itself up neatly.
And in the middle of it, a small girl, watching him as if she had been watching him for days.
He cleared his throat.
“I am not always early,” he said, because it is astonishing how often adults say things that are untrue simply because they want them to be true.
The child did not argue. She simply waited, which is far more unsettling.
Mr Alderwick felt the watch warm against his chest.
He looked down at the child again. She did not look mischievous. She did not look naughty. She looked curious in the way a cat looks curious, as if curiosity is not a hobby but a necessary part of breathing.
“What is your name?” Mr Alderwick asked.
“Nessa,” she said. “Nessa Grey.”
Mr Alderwick nodded.
“Nessa Grey,” he repeated, as if testing how it sounded in the morning air. “And why are you watching the clock?”
Nessa lifted her shoulders in a small shrug that suggested she had been dealing with baffled adults all her life.
“Because yesterday,” she said, “I lost an hour.”
Mr Alderwick’s hand went to his pocket without his permission.
The watch pulsed once, warm and steady.
Nessa’s eyes flicked to the movement.
“I did not mean it like a story,” she added quickly, as if that might make it less alarming. “I mean I was doing my sums, and then I looked up, and suddenly it was dinner time. But I had not finished. And my pencil was still sharp. And the page was clean, like the hour had not happened.”
Mr Alderwick’s mouth went dry.
He looked at the clock again. It stared back, perfectly innocent.
He looked at Nessa.
She was watching him with the calm certainty of someone who has spotted a loose thread and intends to pull it until the whole jumper reveals what it is really made of.
Mr Alderwick swallowed.
“That,” he said carefully, “is very strange.”
“Yes,” Nessa agreed. “So I thought I would find who took it.”
Mr Alderwick felt, for the first time in years, something close to panic.
Not the loud panic of shouting and running, but the quiet panic of a man who has kept a secret so carefully that he has almost convinced himself it is not there.
He had not told anyone about the watch.
Not anyone.
He had not even told himself properly.
And yet this child was standing here, as if she had arranged the morning.
Mr Alderwick stared at her.
Nessa stared back.
The village clock ticked.
The pocket watch warmed.
And somewhere, not in the sky and not in the ground and not in any place that could be pointed to, Tomorrow seemed to lean closer, listening.
Mr Alderwick took a slow breath.
“Come with me,” he said at last.
Nessa’s face brightened, not with triumph, but with the simple delight of being taken seriously.
“Where?” she asked.
Mr Alderwick turned toward his house.
“To my kitchen,” he said. “If you have lost an hour, you should at least be offered tea.”
Nessa nodded as if this was the most sensible thing she had heard all week.
They began to walk together, the old man and the child, down the misty lane.
Behind them, the village clock remained perfectly correct.
In Mr Alderwick’s pocket, the warm watch ticked on, quietly, politely, as if it had all the time in the world.
Everyone in Ballykillduff knew the rhyme. They learned it young, usually from someone older who lowered their voice for the last line.
One for sorrow.
Two for joy.
Three for a girl.
Four for a boy.
Five for silver.
Six for gold.
Seven for a secret, never to be told.
Most people laughed at it. Some people touched wood. Nobody ever talked about seven.
Alice saw them on a Tuesday morning, standing along the hedge at Curran’s Lane.
Seven magpies. Neat as fence posts. Silent as if silence were a rule they were following carefully.
Alice stopped walking.
The hedge itself felt wrong. Not dangerous. Just… held together too tightly, like someone smiling for longer than was comfortable.
She counted them twice. She always did when things felt important.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
All seven turned their heads together and looked at her.
“Right,” Alice said quietly. “It’s that sort of day.”
People passed along the lane without noticing anything at all. Mr Keane walked by whistling. Mrs Donnelly hurried past with her shopping. No one looked at the hedge. No one slowed down.
Only Alice stood there.
The magpies did not speak. They had never needed to.
Long ago, Ballykillduff had made a decision.
It was not a cruel decision. It was a tired one.
Something sad had happened. Something that could not be fixed. A thing with a name, and a place, and a day that people still remembered too clearly. After a while, the village agreed to stop saying it out loud. Not because it wasn’t real, but because remembering it every day was making it impossible to live the next ones.
So the remembering was set aside.
And the magpies stayed.
They stayed because someone had to remember, and magpies are very good at keeping what others lay down. Not just shiny things, but moments, and names, and truths that no longer fit anywhere else.
The rhyme was never meant to predict luck.
It was a warning.
Seven magpies meant a place was carrying a memory it no longer wanted to hold.
One of the magpies hopped down from the hedge and pecked at the ground. Not at soil, but at a flat stone half-buried near the roots. A stone no one stepped on, though no one could have said why.
Alice knew what was being asked of her.
She did not need to know the whole story. She did not need names or details. She only needed to do one thing the village had not done in a very long time.
She knelt and placed her hand on the stone.
“I know,” she said, softly.
That was all.
Not what she knew. Just that she knew something had been there. Something had mattered.
The hedge loosened. Just a little. The air moved again.
When Alice stood up, there were only six magpies left.
They were already arguing with one another, hopping and chattering, busy once more with ordinary magpie business. Shiny things. Important nonsense. The everyday work of being alive.
The seventh magpie rose into the air and flew away, light now, its work finished at last.
Alice walked on down the lane.
Behind her, Ballykillduff continued exactly as it always had. But somewhere deep in its bones, a small, quiet weight had finally been set down properly instead of being hidden away.
And the rhyme, for once, was at rest.
The Eighth Magpie
Everyone in Ballykillduff knew the rhyme. They said it quickly, like a spell that worked better if you didn’t linger on it.
One for sorrow. Two for joy. Three for a girl. Four for a boy. Five for silver. Six for gold. Seven for a secret, never to be told.
Alice had already seen seven magpies once before, and she knew what that meant.
So when she walked along Curran’s Lane and saw eight, she stopped dead.
Seven stood along the hedge, silent and still.
The eighth stood on the path itself, blocking the way.
“Well,” Alice said, “that’s new.”
The eighth magpie was smaller than the others and less patient. It tapped one foot, then the other, as if waiting for a late train.
Seven magpies meant the village had forgotten something important. A sad thing. A thing everyone had agreed not to talk about.
That part had already been done.
Ballykillduff had remembered.
But the eighth magpie had arrived because remembering had changed nothing yet.
The bird pecked sharply at the ground.
Alice followed its beak and saw the problem at once.
The old path had collapsed further down the lane. A fence lay broken. The shortcut people once used had never been repaired. Long ago, someone had been hurt there. That was the secret. That was why people stopped using it.
They had remembered the accident.
They had never fixed the path.
“Oh,” said Alice. “You mean that.”
The eighth magpie nodded briskly.
It wasn’t here for memory. It was here for mending.
Alice went back to the village and told people what she’d seen. Not the whole story. Just enough.
By evening, someone had brought tools. Someone else brought boards. Someone else brought tea.
By the next morning, the path was safe again.
When Alice returned to Curran’s Lane, there were only seven magpies on the hedge.
Then six.
Then none at all.
The eighth magpie was gone first.
It always is.
Because once something is put right, there is no need for it to stay.
And the rhyme, at last, had room for one more line, though nobody ever said it aloud:
Everyone in Ballykillduff knew the bridge, though nobody quite agreed on how long it had been there. Some said it had grown out of the river one night like a thought nobody remembered thinking. Others claimed Jimmy McGroggan once tried to repair it and the bridge repaired him instead.
But what everyone did agree on was this:
there was a troll living underneath it.
His name was Mosskin O’Grumble, and he was a very polite troll with extremely poor manners.
Mosskin lived in a snug hollow beneath the bridge, furnished with a teapot that never stopped dripping, three boots that were not a pair between them, and a chair that sighed whenever anyone sat on it. His beard was thick with moss, his coat smelled faintly of river stones, and his hat had once been a kettle before it decided it preferred being worn.
Each morning, Mosskin poked his head out of the shadows and called in his loudest, trolliest voice,
“WHO GOES OVER MY BRIDGE?”
This caused mild inconvenience, as the people of Ballykillduff went over the bridge all the time.
“Morning, Mosskin,” called Bridget, carrying her shopping.
“It’s only me,” said Seamus, for the third time that day.
“Oh,” Mosskin muttered, disappointed. “I was hoping for someone new.”
You see, Mosskin was meant to demand tolls. That was the rule. Troll rules were very old and written in ink that smelled of damp. Unfortunately, nobody in Ballykillduff ever had the right sort of toll.
One offered him a button.
Another offered a joke that didn’t quite work.
Once, Father Donnelly accidentally gave him a blessing, which caused Mosskin to glow faintly and hum hymns whenever it rained.
Mosskin accepted everything solemnly and stored it all in a jam jar labelled TOLLS (IMPORTANT).
The trouble began on a Tuesday, which in Ballykillduff is widely considered an unreliable day.
That morning, the river stopped.
It did not freeze. It did not dry up. It simply decided it had gone far enough and sat still, like a sulking child.
The bridge creaked uneasily.
“This will not do,” the bridge murmured.
Mosskin poked the river with a stick.
“Have you tried moving?” he asked.
The river refused to answer.
By lunchtime, the village had gathered. Jimmy McGroggan arrived with a machine involving springs, levers, and optimism. Bridget brought sandwiches. Someone suggested asking the bridge nicely.
At last, Mosskin climbed up onto the bridge itself, clearing his throat in a way that startled several beetles.
“I am the Troll of Ballykillduff Bridge,” he announced, surprised by how important it sounded. “And I declare that something is wrong.”
“I am tired,” said the bridge. “People cross me without noticing. The river forgets to sing. Everyone rushes.”
Mosskin thought very hard. This caused a small puff of steam to rise from his ears.
“Well,” he said slowly, “perhaps you need a proper toll.”
“But we haven’t any money,” Seamus said.
“Good,” Mosskin replied. “Money is rarely the right thing.”
That evening, the villagers lined up at the bridge. One by one, they crossed more slowly than usual.
They offered small, strange things.
A promise, spoken carefully.
A regret, folded neatly.
A story remembered from childhood.
A song hummed badly but honestly.
Mosskin collected each offering and, instead of placing them in his jam jar, gently set them into the river.
And the river began to move again.
Not quickly. Not sensibly.
But with the soft, happy sound of something remembering itself.
As dusk settled, the villagers drifted home. Mosskin remained beneath the bridge, listening.
The water flowed. The stones no longer sighed. The bridge stood a little taller, pleased in the quiet way old things prefer.
Mosskin sat on his sighing chair and looked at his jam jar. It felt lighter now, though it was fuller than it had ever been.
Only then did he understand.
Nobody had crossed the bridge in a hurry. They had slowed. They had looked down at the water. They had touched the stone. Some had even spoken to the bridge itself, which made it warm all through.
“All this time,” Mosskin murmured, “I thought I was guarding the bridge.”
But the bridge had never needed guarding.
It had only wanted to be noticed.
So now, when someone crosses the bridge at dusk and pauses without knowing why, they may hear a voice from below, warm and grateful, carried gently by the water.
“Thank you,” it says.
“Thank you for noticing.”
And the bridge, the river, and the village of Ballykillduff go on working properly again, as they always do, once someone remembers to pay attention.
This was unusual, because dates normally wake up exactly on time, neatly stacked between their neighbours like polite slices of bread. December 26th had yawned, brushed the tinsel out of its hair, and shuffled off without complaint. December 28th was already standing impatiently in the corridor, tapping its foot and checking its watch.
But December 27th lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling wrong.
The ceiling was covered in faint glitter that would not come off, no matter how much one scrubbed. A half-deflated balloon drifted past the window. Somewhere in the distance, a turkey sighed.
“Not yet,” muttered December 27th. “I’m not ready.”
When it finally stood up, something slipped out of its pocket and clattered onto the floor. It was a receipt. No shop name, no date, just the words:
**YOU HAVE ALREADY PAID FOR THIS, WHATEVER IT IS.**
December 27th did not remember buying anything.
Outside, the world had lost its edges. People wandered the streets clutching boxes of chocolates they no longer wanted but felt morally obliged to finish. Children tried out new toys that already seemed faintly disappointing. Adults stared into cupboards, searching for something they were sure they had bought but could not now locate.
Time behaved oddly. It was both too fast and too slow. Morning lasted forever, while afternoon disappeared entirely. Evening arrived early, dragging a chair behind it and asking awkward questions.
“Was this a good year?” Evening asked.
No one answered.
In Ballykillduff, the church bell rang once and then stopped, as though it had forgotten what came next. A man named Seamus swore he heard it cough apologetically. The postman delivered yesterday’s letters again, insisting they looked surprised to see him.
Meanwhile, December 27th wandered about, rearranging things when no one was looking.
It moved a sock from one drawer to another.
It hid the scissors.
It put a memory where a worry used to be, just to see what would happen.
People felt unsettled but could not say why. They stood in doorways, convinced they had meant to go somewhere, though the idea of where had evaporated. Dogs barked at nothing in particular. Cats stared at corners where something might have been yesterday.
At lunchtime, December 27th sat down heavily on the calendar and caused a small temporal dent. This made everyone feel mildly tired, as though they had eaten too much pudding and not enough meaning.
“I don’t want to be just the leftovers day,” December 27th said to no one.
“I want to be… something.”
So it tried a few things.
It briefly became a Monday. This upset people enormously.
It tried being a holiday, but forgot to provide instructions.
It flirted with being New Year’s Eve, but was told politely not to rush.
Eventually, December 27th did something reckless.
It paused.
Just for a moment, everything stopped. Not dramatically. No clocks exploded. No one screamed. The kettle simply hovered halfway to boiling. A thought remained unfinished. A yawn never quite closed.
In that pause, December 27th looked around and noticed something surprising.
Everyone was still here.
Not celebrating. Not regretting. Just… existing. Sitting in jumpers that smelled faintly of smoke and sugar. Thinking about things they might do differently, or not at all.
December 27th smiled. A strange, crooked smile, like a date that had learned something important.
Then it nudged time forward again.
Evening finished its questions. Night tucked the world in. December 28th finally got its turn, huffing and smoothing its pages.
As December 27th left, it slipped the receipt back into its pocket.
This time, new words had appeared underneath:
**NO REFUNDS. NO EXCHANGES. BUT YOU MAY KEEP WHAT YOU NOTICED.**
And for the rest of the year, people occasionally felt an odd sensation — a quiet moment between moments — and thought, without knowing why:
On this beautiful Christmas morning, wherever you are, whether you’re waking up to snow-covered streets, sunny beaches, bustling cities, or quiet villages, I wish you a day filled with warmth, love, and joy.
May your heart be light, your home be filled with laughter, and your table surrounded by those you cherish (or connected to them across the miles). May kindness find you, peace settle upon you, and hope renew within you.
To every child wide-eyed with wonder, to every parent exhausted but smiling, to every person spending the day alone yet still holding onto hope, this greeting is for you.
Today, we share one planet, one sky, and one moment of celebration. Let’s make it count.
In the shadowed annals of old England, where the air still reeks of gunpowder and betrayal, there lurks a tale far older and blacker than the children’s rhyme would have you believe. They sing it softly now, with pictures of a jolly egg in bow ties, tumbling harmlessly to the ground. But Humpty Dumpty was no egg. He was pride itself—swollen, precarious, perched upon the crumbling wall of mortal ambition.
Long ago, in the blood-soaked years of civil war, Humpty was a mighty cannon, forged in iron and fury, hoisted atop the ancient walls of a besieged city. The Royalists called him their savior, this bloated beast of war, belching fire and death upon the enemies below. He sat high, unchallenged, lording over the battlefield like a false god, his barrel gleaming under the smoke-choked sun. The king’s men revered him; the king’s horses hauled him into place. He was invincible, or so they thought.
But pride sits on a narrow ledge. One thunderous volley from the Parliamentarians struck true. The wall beneath him cracked like bone under a headsman’s axe. Humpty toppled—down, down into the mud and rubble, his massive frame bursting apart in a cataclysm of twisted metal and splintered wood. Shards flew like screams in the night. The king’s horses whinnied in terror; the king’s men scrambled through the gore, desperately trying to reassemble their fallen titan.
They could not.
For Humpty was more than iron. He was the embodiment of hubris—the king’s unyielding grasp on power, the illusion that empires could endure forever. His great fall was the fall of grace itself: the shattering of a soul that reached too high, believing itself beyond breakage. Once fractured, no mortal force could mend him. The pieces lay scattered, weeping oil and rust into the earth, a warning whispered on the wind.
And in the quiet hours, when fog cloaks the old walls, they say you can still hear it—a low, ominous rumble from beneath the stones. Not thunder. Not wind. But Humpty, stirring in his grave of debris, waiting for the next proud fool to climb too high.
Sit on your wall if you dare. Balance there, swollen with certainty. But remember: the higher the perch, the greater the fall. And when you shatter…
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men will never put you together again.
The rhyme endures, sanitized for tender ears, but the truth festers below. Humpty Dumpty was never meant to be saved. He was meant to terrify—to remind us that some breaks are eternal, some falls irreversible. In the dark, the wall still stands, slick with ancient blood, inviting the next victim to take his seat.
Deep in the heart of County Carlow, where the Barrow River winds lazily and the fields are dotted with ancient ring forts, stands the crumbling gothic majesty of **Duckett’s Grove**. Once a grand estate with towering walls, ornate gardens, and a family cursed by bad luck (and worse fires), it’s now a romantic ruin—ivy-clinging towers, empty windows staring like ghostly eyes, and whispers of a banshee who combs her hair on stormy nights.
On St. Stephen’s Day (the proper Irish name for December 26th, when the Wren Boys traditionally roam), a ragtag group of locals from nearby Rathvilly decided to revive the old custom. Led by young Tommy “The Bold” Murphy—a farmer’s son with a fiddle and too much enthusiasm—they donned the ancient straw suits: towering masks made from hay, old sacks, and painted faces, looking like scarecrows escaped from a nightmare. Their mission? Parade through the lanes, bang bodhráns, play tunes, and collect a few euro for the pub fund, all while chanting the old rhyme: “The wren, the wren, the king of all birds…”
But this year, they took a shortcut through the forbidden grounds of Duckett’s Grove. “Sure, it’ll be grand,” said Tommy. “A bit of atmosphere for the photos!”
Big mistake.
As the Wren Boys burst into the ruined courtyard, banging drums and whooping, a cold wind howled through the arches. The ground trembled. From the shadows of the burnt-out mansion emerged… the ghosts.
First came the **Spectral Huntsman**, a towering figure in faded red coat and tricorn hat, astride a translucent horse that neighed silently. His hounds—ethereal wolfhounds with glowing eyes—bounded around the terrified Wren Boys.
Then, with a wail that rattled the ivy, appeared the **Banshee of Duckett’s Grove** herself—long silver hair flowing, eyes like midnight pools, combing her locks with bony fingers.
The Wren Boys froze. One lad dropped his bodhrán and legged it toward the gate.
But the Huntsman raised a ghostly horn to his lips (no sound, but everyone felt it in their bones) and boomed: “At last! Revelers! We’ve been waiting centuries for a proper Wren Day!”
Turns out, the ghosts weren’t angry—they were bored. Trapped in the ruins since the big fire in the 1930s, they’d missed the craic. No parades, no music, no Guinness. The Banshee floated forward: “Will ye not play for us, boys? A tune for the dead?”
Tommy, ever the bold one, struck up his fiddle with shaky hands. “The Wren Song,” of course.
Magic happened. The ghosts joined in. The Huntsman grabbed a spectral bodhrán and beat it like thunder. The Banshee’s wail turned into the most haunting harmony you’d ever hear—off-key, but pure soul. Even the hounds howled along in rhythm.
Word spread like wildfire (pun intended). Farmers arrived on tractors decked in fairy lights. Villagers poured out of pubs. The parade swelled: living Wren Boys in straw, ghostly ones in ethereal tatters, marching down the snowy lanes toward the nearest hostelry—O’Brien’s Pub in Rathvilly.
By nightfall, the pub was packed beyond belief. Ghosts phased through walls to join the céilí. The Huntsman led a set dance, his horse parked outside (clip-clopping invisibly). The Banshee sang “Fields of Athenry” and brought tears to every eye—living and dead. Pints of Guinness materialized for the specters (they drank through osmosis, apparently).
The party raged till dawn. No one got exorcised. No one got hurt. Just pure, mad Carlow craic.
And now, every St. Stephen’s Day, the Wren Boys return to Duckett’s Grove. The ghosts wait eagerly. The parade grows bigger. Tractors join. Tourists come from afar.
Because in rural Carlow, even the dead know: nothing beats a good knees-up with tunes, stout, and a bit of banshee wailing on Wren Day.
Nollaig Shona Duit—and mind the ghosts on your way home! 🎻👻🍻
In the misty hills of rural Ireland, nestled in the tiny hamlet of Ballykillduff (population: 47 humans, 12 sheep, and one very confused postman), something extraordinary happened one snowy Christmas Eve.
It all started when a battered Dalek saucer, fleeing a botched invasion of the North Pole (they’d mistaken Santa’s elves for a rebel Time Lord faction), crash-landed in Paddy O’Connor’s turnip field. The impact was spectacular: turnips flew like cannonballs, sheep scattered in terror, and the saucer buried itself nose-first in the mud, looking like a giant metallic pepper pot that had lost a fight with a bog.
Out glided the survivors: the Ballykillduff Daleks. There were five of them, led by Supreme Dalek Seamus (he’d reprogrammed himself with a dodgy Irish accent after scanning too many RTE broadcasts during atmospheric entry). His platoon included:
– Dalek Bridget, the strategist (obsessed with tea breaks).
– Dalek Mick, the engineer (always fixing things with duct tape and prayers).
– Dalek Siobhan, the scout (who kept exclaiming “Jaysus!” instead of “Exterminate!”).
– And little Dalek Paddy Jr., the newest model, fresh from the factory and still figuring out his plunger arm.
Their mission? Original plan: EX-TER-MIN-ATE all non-Dalek life in the galaxy. New plan, after the crash fried their navigation circuits: Conquer Ballykillduff and turn it into the new Dalek Empire headquarters. Why? Because it had a pub.
On Christmas Eve, the villagers were gathered in O’Leary’s Pub for the annual céilí, singing carols, pouring Guinness, and arguing over whether mince pies needed brandy butter. Suddenly, the door burst open (well, more like glided open menacingly), and in rolled the Daleks.
“EX-TER-MIN-ATE! EX-TER-MIN-ATE THE IN-FE-RI-OR HU-MANS!” screeched Seamus.
The pub went silent. Then old Mrs. Murphy, three sheets to the wind, squinted and said, “Ah, sure lookit the fancy dress! Are ye from the panto in Tralee?”
Dalek Bridget trundled forward. “WE ARE THE DA-LEKS! YOU WILL O-BEY!”
Father Kelly, mid-pint, raised an eyebrow. “Daleks, is it? Ye look like ye could use a bit of Christmas spirit. Come in out of the cold, lads. Have a hot whiskey.”
The Daleks hesitated. Their hate circuits buzzed confusedly. Hot whiskey? What was this sorcery?
Before they could blast anyone, little Paddy Jr. spotted the Christmas tree in the corner, twinkling with fairy lights. His eyestalk widened. “WHAT… IS… THAT… SHINY… THING?”
“It’s a tree, ye daft pepper pot,” laughed Tommy the barman. “Decorated for Christmas. Presents underneath and all.”
Presents? The Daleks had never heard of such a thing. Their programming only included domination, extermination, and occasional civil wars.
The villagers, sensing an opportunity (and being Irish), decided to humor the invaders. They wrapped up random pub items: a pint glass for Seamus, a packet of Tayto crisps for Bridget, a hurley stick for Mick (he could use it as a weapon upgrade), and for Siobhan, a woolly jumper knitted by Mrs. Murphy.
Paddy Jr. got a selection box of chocolates. He plunged his plunger into it experimentally. Chocolate smeared his dome. “THIS… IS… SU-PE-RI-OR… TO… SLIME… NUT-RI-ENTS!”
Chaos ensued. The Daleks, for the first time in their genocidal history, experienced joy. Bridget started demanding “MORE TEA! MORE TEA!” Mick rigged the fairy lights to his gunstick, creating a disco Dalek effect. Siobhan attempted Irish dancing, spinning wildly and knocking over tables while yelling “REEL-EX-TER-MIN-ATE!”
Seamus tried to maintain order: “WE MUST NOT… SUC-CUMB… TO… HU-MAN… EMO-TIONS!” But then someone handed him a slice of Christmas pudding soaked in Jameson. One bite, and his voice modulator slurred: “HAP-PY… CHRIST-MAS… TO… ALL…”
By midnight, the Ballykillduff Daleks were caroling (badly): “We wish you a merry EX-TER-MIN-ATE… We wish you a merry EX-TER-MIN-ATE…” The villagers joined in, teaching them “The Fields of Athenry” instead.
Come Christmas morning, the Daleks’ saucer was fixed (Mick used parts from a tractor), but they couldn’t bring themselves to leave. Seamus declared: “BALLY-KILL-DUFF… IS… NOW… PRO-TECT-ED… BY… DA-LEKS! ANY… IN-VA-DERS… WILL… BE… EX-TER-MIN-A-TED… AND… OF-FER-ED… A… PINT!”
And so, every Christmas since, the Ballykillduff Daleks return. They guard the village from misfortune, demand tribute in the form of Guinness and tayto, and host the wildest céilí in Ireland. Tourists come from miles around to see the glittering, plunger-waving pepper pots dancing under the mistletoe.
Because even the most hateful beings in the universe can’t resist a proper Irish Christmas. Sláinte!
Merry Christmas to every single soul on Earth!
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 