Alice in Wonderland
The Mad Hatter
The March Hare
The White Rabbit
The Queen of Hearts
The Crazymad Writer
Category Archives: A new Alice in Wonderland story
Alice on Top of the World
Alice discovered quite by accident that the world has a top.
Most people, she had noticed, were too busy walking around it to check.
It wasn’t marked by a flag or a signpost—nothing as sensible as that. Instead, it felt like a place the world itself had agreed upon in a moment of quiet pride. When Alice stepped there, the ground did not wobble or roll away. It simply paused, as though holding its breath.
Below her, the Earth unfolded in bright, broken shapes: seas made of blue ideas, continents stitched together with yellows and greens, clouds cut into careful pieces like a puzzle no one had finished. The sun shone from one side and the moon from the other, neither arguing about whose turn it was.
Alice put her hands on her hips—not because she felt particularly brave, but because it seemed like the correct posture for standing somewhere important.
She waited for something dramatic to happen.
Nothing did.
“Well,” she said to the air, which was listening, “that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”
From up here, worries shrank into polite little shapes. Arguments lost their sharp edges. Even time—dangling somewhere nearby with its pocket watch—seemed unsure whether to tick forward or simply admire the view.
Alice realised then that being on top of the world did not mean ruling it, or shouting instructions down at it. It meant seeing how all the pieces fitted together, even the crooked ones. Especially the crooked ones.
After a while, she stepped down again, because no place likes to be stood upon forever.
But the world remembered.
And from that day on, whenever things felt impossibly large, Alice smiled—quietly—knowing exactly where the top was, and that she had already been there once.
The First Pipe
The First Pipe.
*************
The pipe appeared sometime between the last letter being posted and the postmistress locking the door.
No one saw it arrive.
In Ballykillduff, this was not considered suspicious. Things often arrived without arriving. Days slipped in sideways. Tuesdays borrowed from Thursdays. A sheep once spent an entire afternoon convinced it was a gate. Compared to these, a pipe was a small matter.
It was brass, newly polished but already faintly tired-looking, as though it had anticipated being admired for only a short while. It ran vertically up the outside wall of the post office, stopping just short of the roof, and ended in a small valve that hissed very gently, like someone attempting to whisper a secret to a brick.
Below the valve was a round gauge.
The needle trembled.
The word printed beneath it read: NEARLY…
To be continued
Alice in Tartaria
Alice in the Magical Square of Tartaria
Ballykillduff is a village that thinks quietly.
Lanes hesitate. Grass leans when it should not. Things happen just slightly to the side of where they are supposed to be. Alice has lived there long enough to know this, and just long enough not to question it.
So when a crease appears in the air behind the Old Creamery, and a place called Tartaria slips sideways into existence, Alice is the only one who notices — and the only one who understands that some places survive by being remembered badly.
Tartaria is a civilisation that vanished by behaving too well. Now it endures in a state of almost compound memory: misremembered, misfiled, and dangerously unfinished. Maps argue. Councils disagree. Scholars from Outside begin asking sensible questions — the most dangerous kind of all.
As Alice moves between Ballykillduff and Tartaria, she discovers that memory is not passive, certainty is a trap, and being understood may be far worse than being forgotten. Worse still, Tartaria begins to misremember her.
To save both worlds, Alice must learn how to remember wrongly on purpose — without doing it too well.
Alice in Ballykillduff and the Almost-Remembered Tartaria is a whimsical, quietly unsettling fantasy in the tradition of Lewis Carroll: a story about places that think, truths that refuse to settle, and the peculiar courage it takes to remain unfinished.
To read this new story click on the link below.
The tea is poured from empty air,
With whiskers twitching in despair!
The clock has struck a purple grin,
Let the nonsense now begin!
A rabbit in a ruff of lace,
With panic written on his face,
Drinks from a cup of floral bone,
While sitting on a velvet throne.
The Hatter grins a jagged tooth,
He’s quite forgotten every truth!
He offers cakes of dust and light,
To keep the morning out of sight.
Poor Alice sits in quiet dread,
While floating teapots soar o’erhead.
The sky is full of spinning gears,
And echoes of a thousand years!
The Cat is but a giant smile,
That stretches for a country mile.
He’s here and there and gone again,
The king of every madman’s pen!
So gulp the steam and eat the spoon,
Beneath the grinning, cosmic moon!
For once you’ve joined this tea-time host,
You’re nothing but a buttered ghost!
The White Rabbit in Wonderland
A tick, a tock, a pocket watch,
A sky of ink and butterscotch!
The rabbit runs on legs of light,
To catch the tail of noon-at-night!
The petals scream a silent tune,
Beneath a pink and pulsing moon.
Don’t drink the tea, it’s full of stars,
And tiny, golden handle-bars!
My shadow’s gone to fetch the mail,
In a thimble-boat with a paper sail.
The mushrooms groan and start to sneeze,
While logic buckles at the knees!
So tip your cap to the empty chair,
And weave some chaos through your hair!
For when the rabbit rings the bell,
There’s simply nothing left to tell!
The March Hare in Wonderland
A swirl of logic, backwards-bound,
Where feet are lost and skies are found!
The tea is cold, the clock is dead,
With buttered toast inside my head!
The blossoms roar a petal-song,
Where right is right and wrong is long.
I’ve painted all the lilies green,
And danced with ghosts I’ve never seen!
The stars are buttons on a vest,
The moon is put to final rest.
A sneeze of glitter, a cough of gold,
A story that can’t quite be told!
So pour the wine that isn’t there,
And comb the static from your hair!
For in this wild and dizzy place,
There’s not a lick of time or space!
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 