Fourteen-year-old Leo has always been “different.” While other kids are playing sports, Leo is often trapped in his bedroom, watching the walls recede into a vast canyon and feeling his own hands grow into monumental slabs of heavy stone. The doctors call it a syndrome. Leo calls it a nightmare.
But when a tiny knight on a dragonfly steed appears through a rift in his bedroom wall, Leo discovers the terrifying truth: He isn’t sick. He’s a Navigator.
The distortions Leo sees are actually “Gaps” in the fabric of reality, layers of a hidden, three-dimensional universe that the rest of the world has forgotten. But a malicious force known as The Static is spreading, erasing the depth of the world and turning everything into a flat, colorless wasteland.
Armed only with his grandfather’s mysterious journal and a power he’s only beginning to understand, Leo must journey to the heart of a shifting city to confront the Static King. To save reality, Leo will have to embrace the very things that once made him feel broken. He must learn that in a world that wants to be flat, there is infinite power in an inch.
Step into a world where size is a suggestion, time is a heartbeat, and the smallest boy might just be the biggest hero of all.
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.
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:
The air in the Quince living room was thick with the suffocating scent of fresh pine and manufactured guilt. It was 11:37 PM on Christmas Eve, and sixteen-year-old Lily Quince was perched on the edge of the sofa, trying to ignore the dazzling, high-wattage shame radiating from the pile of wrapped goods under the tree.
“Honestly, Mom, why does a human being need a self-stirring cocoa mug?” Lily muttered, batting a stray, metallic ribbon off the sofa cushion and onto the carpet. “It’s exactly what’s wrong with Christmas. Too much stuff.”
Her little brother, Sam, only eight, nodded solemnly, his brow furrowed with devastating sincerity. He was crouched by the fireplace, sketching feverishly in a notebook. “That’s what I keep trying to tell Santa, Lily. We need effort, not expenditure.” He looked up, his eyes shining with pure, tragic longing. “I just hope he remembered the Woven Basket of Live Earthworms this year. I truly don’t know how I’ll run my pet farm without them.”
“You’ll be yearning for a ceramic garden gnome that plays the lute by morning.”
Lily froze, her hand hovering near the tin. “Did… did the shortbread just talk?”
“Was that about the worms?” Sam asked, looking hopeful.
Lily shook her head, feeling a cold dread replace her cynicism. Outside, the first flakes of snow began to fall, but the typical, cozy feeling of Christmas Eve was absent. Something felt fundamentally wrong with the world. Across the street, they heard the distinct sound of Mr. Henderson, the CEO, weeping inconsolably about his lack of a custom-made tuba.
The Silent Night is Loud
Lily slipped on her coat, unable to wait for morning. If the Shifter had affected the desires of the entire neighborhood, Christmas Day would be a disaster—or a surreal comedy show.
“I’m just getting some air,” she mumbled to Sam, who was now meticulously reviewing his notebook, listing the exact dimensions required for a thriving earthworm community.
The moment Lily stepped onto the porch, the magnitude of the problem hit her like a punch of frosted air. Usually, Christmas Eve was silent and respectful. Tonight, it was a discordant mess of frustration and absurd longing.
Mr. Henderson, usually an impeccably tailored man, was kneeling in his snow-dusted front yard, staring mournfully into an empty, expensive-looking violin case. “They didn’t listen!” he wailed to his terrified poodle. “They brought me a watch! I need the booming resonance! I need the tuba!”
Two doors down, Mrs. Petula, the neighborhood’s notorious gossip, was shrieking at her husband, clutching a gift-wrapped broomstick. “A stick, Gerald! You call this a gift? I explicitly asked for a custom-made chandelier constructed entirely of dried macaroni! My heart is broken!”
Lily pulled her hood tight. The Shifter hadn’t just changed what people wanted; it had filled the absence of that desired object with genuine, heart-wrenching disappointment. It was weaponized absurdity.
She rushed back inside, snatching the Chrono-Crumble Tin off the mantel. “Listen, you rusty, talking dessert container,” she whispered fiercely. “What did you do? And how do I turn you off?”
The grumpy butler voice sighed dramatically from inside the tin. “Oh, the drama! I simply adjusted expectations, young hero. And I am only deactivated by a truly Perfectly Thoughtful Gift. A transaction of the heart, not the wallet. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to observe the mailman lamenting his lack of a ceramic foot bath.”
Lily stared at the tin, then down at the gigantic pile of expensive, unwanted electronics destined for Sam. “A perfectly thoughtful gift,” she repeated. “Something that proves I know him.”
Suddenly, a memory sparked: the feeling of peeling away a piece of glow-in-the-dark putty—a tiny, molded star—from her mirror two Christmases ago. And a ridiculous, low-value object immediately sprang to mind: the Worry-A-Day Jar. A simple jar filled with 365 days of Sam’s cheesy jokes and encouraging observations. Lily had scoffed at it then. Now, it felt like the only non-absurd object left in the world.
“That’s it,” Lily whispered, ignoring the tin’s muffled giggling. “The jar. I have to find that jar.”
Chapter Two: The Search for the Sublime
Lily’s bedroom was a landscape of teenage archaeology, a place where sentimental objects went to be buried under layers of homework, fashion magazines, and forgotten technology. The room was the first place she looked for the Worry-A-Day Jar, and it instantly felt like searching for a needle in a haystack—a haystack that suddenly felt full of unwanted and cursed gifts.
She dug through her closet, shoving aside boxes of things she’d asked for but never really used. Under a pile of textbooks, she found a plastic, voice-activated diary she’d begged for last year. It beeped softly.
Diary:“My deepest desire is for a miniature, fully functioning, decorative garden hedge.”
Lily slammed the lid shut. The Shifter was still working its magic on things, too.
She pulled out her winter wear. There, tucked inside a ski boot, was the brightly colored, slightly misshapen Green and Purple Mitten that Sam had knitted two years ago—the one intended to replace the left mitten she always lost. She felt a pang of guilt, remembering how quickly she’d bought a professional black pair instead.
“A thoughtful gift,” Lily muttered, holding up the uneven wool. “This could have been it, except I tossed it aside.”
The Chrono-Crumble Tin, which she’d tucked under her arm like a mischievous football, offered a raspy chuckle. “Close, but no cigar. The magic requires perfect thoughtfulness, not near-perfect discardment. And besides,” the tin added with spite, “it’s nearly Christmas morning. You’re running out of time.”
A glance at her phone confirmed the tin’s warning: 1:15 AM.
Lily began tearing through her desk drawers, scattering papers, pens, and loose change. The desk was where the Jar belonged. Sam had presented it to her with such a proud, serious expression two years ago.
“It’s the Worry-A-Day Jar, Lily,” he had announced. “You open one slip when you’re worried. I filled it with things you need more than homework.”
Lily remembered politely putting it behind her laptop, deeming it too childish. She hadn’t even opened a week’s worth of slips. Now, the space was filled with charger cables and empty soda cans.
Frustration bubbling up, she accidentally kicked a box under her bed. It was a dusty container labeled “Old Toys.” She pulled it out, coughing in the dust cloud. The box contained all the childhood treasures she thought she had outgrown: old picture books, a handful of plastic dinosaurs, and—
Bingo.
Sitting nestled between a stuffed unicorn and a broken kaleidoscope was the Worry-A-Day Jar: a simple, painted mason jar, the lid wrapped with a glittery pipe cleaner, looking utterly out of place amidst the chaos of her teenage room.
Lily carefully lifted the jar. The hundreds of small, folded paper slips inside were the only thing that felt real and pure in the whole magical, ridiculous night.
“Okay, Shifter,” she whispered to the tin under her arm. “I have the tool. Tell me how to use it to reverse the spell.”
The Chrono-Crumble Tin cleared its metallic throat. “You must craft the desired gift—the earthworm basket—with an act of love so genuine that it proves you truly saw the recipient. The key is in the Jar, child. The key is in the words.”
Lily frowned. “The words? The terrible jokes and advice?”
“They are proof of his attention,” the Shifter corrected with a rare note of seriousness. “You need to read the slips, understand how he sees you, and reflect that sincerity back in your gift to him. Go now. The sun rises in four hours.”
Lily clutched the Jar and the Tin, the strange weight of the magical responsibility settling on her shoulders. She had to rush downstairs, read her brother’s heart, and then craft a perfectly thoughtful earthworm basket before the world woke up to the most disastrous, absurd Christmas morning in history.
(Verse 1) In Ballykillduff, where the grass is so green, Lived a man named Jimmy McGroggan, the wildest ever seen! They called him “Mad Jimmy”, but not for bad grace, He once tried to heat up the entire whole place! With a kettle and toaster, and a spring from a peg, He wasn’t quite right from the waist to the leg! He was just inventive, you see, a mechanical nut, Like a squirrel who stores nuts in a lawnmower’s gut!
(Chorus) Oh, the Ballykillduff Banger, a sight for sore eyes, A chariot of junk, underneath Irish skies! A mobile compost heap and a Transformer blue, Mad Jimmy’s creation, for me and for you! It’s got a wee wobble, it’s got a small cough, But when he got going, the wheel just fell off!
(Verse 2) Jimmy had a dream, not of riches or fame, But to drive a fine motor and utter its name! Now, banks made him sneeze and the law made him frown, So he built his own car from the junk of the town! The lads in the pub put their money down fast, They bet his poor shed wouldn’t properly last. His garden, a scrapyard, a magpie’s delight, With half a fridge, a pram, and a bathtub painted: “CURSED! DO NOT SIT TIGHT!”
(Verse 3) The chassis was bunk beds, all twisted and old, The engine from a lawnmower, the tale must be told! Four wheels he found, two from a trolley so bright, One from a wheelie bin, one from a unicycle‘s might! The steering wheel? Ah, a dinner plate grand, Glued fast to the shaft of a Dyson in hand! The horn was a bicycle bell, gave a “meep” when it cared, And the seat was a toilet with a cushion prepared!
(Chorus) Oh, the Ballykillduff Banger, a sight for sore eyes, A chariot of junk, underneath Irish skies! A mobile compost heap and a Transformer blue, Mad Jimmy’s creation, for me and for you! It’s got a wee wobble, it’s got a small cough, But when he got going, the wheel just fell off!
(Bridge) Sunday morning arrived, the townsfolk all near, Father Dunne kept his distance, quite sheltered by fear! Jimmy put on his goggles (a sieve with some film), The engine went “brrrrrrr” like a goat in a chill! He shot down the hill, then he spun to the side, Right into the hen house where Seamus’s chickens reside! Jimmy popped out the hole, with a feather on top, “She handles like a dream! Full of terror and POP!”
(Verse 4) They made a repair, added the bathtub as a seat, A microwave door for the glass, isn’t that neat? He tried one more time, on a hill stiff and steep, He made it just seven feet, then fell fast asleep! ‘Cause the wheel took a runner and flew down the slope, Chased by a child, a dog, and Father Dunne shouting: “NOPE!It’s heading for the Sacristy, oh dear, dear, dear!”
(Outro) Now the Banger is parked, an exhibit for sure, Tourists take selfies beside the front door. But Jimmy sits in it each Friday at dark, Sippin’ tea from a spark plug, just having a lark! Hands on the dinner plate, engine noises he’ll make, “Best car that I owned!” for goodness’ sweet sake! And smoke rises gently from somewhere amiss, But nobody tells him, they just nod and they kiss! Ah, nobody tells him otherwise!
Slimy’s ambition far exceeded his speed, or his girth. His dream was to cross the unforgiving expanse of Mrs. Higgins’s back garden to reach The Sacred Head of Romaine, a prize of such size and crispness it was practically a monument.
The year was 1968, the height of summer, and Slimy had a plan. He wasn’t going to crawl. Crawing was for amateurs.
He was going to surf.
His partner in crime was Pip, a beetle whose main function in life was complaining.
“I still don’t understand why we’re doing this during the hottest part of the day,” Pip muttered, clinging precariously to Slimy’s shell-less back.
“Silence, Pip!” Slimy yelled, his eyestalks twitching with maniacal focus. “The sun bakes my trail! It creates a slick, semi-solid layer of… of pure velocity!”
In reality, the heat was just evaporating the water in his mucus, leaving behind a sticky, awful film.
Slimy pushed off from the edge of the shed, aiming for the first patch of damp shade fifty feet away. Immediately, his undercarriage seized up. He wasn’t sliding; he was sticking. Every micro-millimeter of progress was achieved through pure, agonizing abdominal contraction, a motion less like surfing and more like peeling a sticker off a varnished tabletop.
“Velocity, you said,” Pip wheezed, adjusting his tiny sunglasses. “I believe the current rate of travel is approximately one Planck length per fortnight.”
Slimy ignored him. “I just need a better… launch!”
With a burst of desperation, Slimy secreted a volume of mucus that, had it been liquid, would have drowned Pip. The result was not speed, but a magnificent, sticky dome that enveloped them both. They slid three inches, then stopped dead, firmly glued to the concrete path.
The Unlikely Rescue
Just then, Kevin, a nine-year-old boy and resident Terror of the garden, came skipping out the back door, singing a song about “Groovy, Groovy Caterpillars.” Kevin was known for two things: an unnerving love of brightly coloured wellington boots, and an innate talent for accidentally stepping on invertebrates.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Pip whispered, knowing their sticky situation meant a lack of escape options.
As Kevin’s neon green boot descended toward their mucus-prison, Slimy had a flash of inspiration. The glue!
He expanded the sticky dome, coating the bottom of the approaching boot just before impact. Kevin’s foot landed, missed Slimy by a hair, and then… stuck.
Kevin lifted his foot, and the entire surface layer of the concrete path, along with Slimy and Pip, came up with it. Slimy found himself traveling higher and faster than he ever had, clinging to the sole of the enormous boot.
“We’re airborne, Pip!” Slimy cried out, ecstatic. “We’re surfing the very winds of fate!”
“We are adhered to the sole of a rapidly moving, oversized rubber shoe!” Pip screamed back.
Kevin, oblivious, took a giant, stomping step right over the prize.
THWUMP!
Slimy, Pip, and the sticky patch of concrete landed squarely on top of The Sacred Head of Romaine.
The Victory
The impact shattered the lettuce, but left Slimy and Pip relatively unscathed. The surrounding slugs, who had spent the morning methodically nibbling the lower leaves, looked up in astonished, mucous-covered silence.
Slimy, covered in concrete dust and Romaine flakes, raised his eyestalks in triumph.
“See, Pip? Pure velocity!”
Pip merely shook his head, scraped himself off the sticky wreckage, and began eating the debris.
“Just call me King Slimy from now on,” Slimy declared.
“I’ll stick with Slimy,” Pip mumbled around a mouthful of lettuce, “but I’ll grant you this: you are the only slug in the county who has ever been rescued by his own failed adhesive technology.”
And that was the story of how Slimy, through utter incompetence and a staggering quantity of glue, successfully completed the greatest lettuce heist in garden history. Though, for the rest of his life, he was forced to peel himself off various surfaces using his tail.
On most Tuesdays in Ballykillduff, nothing more dramatic happens than the post landing in the wrong cottage and the weather deciding to be three kinds of rain at once. Mrs. O’Toole hangs out washing and scolds the sky. Old Seamus McGroggan studies his pipe as if it might tell him who ate the last custard cream. And young Mick—ambitious, daft, and acrobatic—tries to cycle backwards down the main street while balancing a loaf on his head. (It is, he insists, “training for the circus.”)
But on this particular Tuesday, at precisely half past eleven, a copper light spread over the village like someone had polished the clouds. The hens went quiet. The sheep froze mid-chew. Father O’Malley paused with the parish bell rope in his hand and whispered, “Saints preserve us.”
Then came the sounds: HSSSSSS… CLANK-CLONK! WHOOOOMP-TCHAK! TOOT-TOOT!
Gears rattled. Pipes sighed. Something big exhaled steam with the weary dignity of a very old kettle.
Mrs. Byrne put down her shopping basket. “That’ll be the weather packing in for the year,” she said.
“Or the circus,” said Mick hopefully, wobbling.
A shadow rippled across the crossroads. And through the copper-coloured sky, down they came: brass-plated, rivet-studded, monocle-winked, stovepipe-hatted… Daleks.
“Ah,” said Seamus softly to his pipe, “we’re doomed so.”
The first of the strange machines landed with a THOONK that made the turf stacks shiver and the pub sign spin half a turn. Its dome lifted a fraction; a curl of steam puffed out like a sigh of satisfaction.
“ATTEND!” wheezed a crisp, Victorian voice through a whistling grille. “THE AGE OF STEAM COMMENCES.”
“Will it take cash,” Mrs. Byrne whispered, “or does it run on scones?”
The brass teapot-on-wheels swivelled its monocled eyestalk. “WE REQUIRE… TEA.”
“Right,” said Mrs. O’Toole, squaring up. “That we can manage.”
In the depths of the Whispering Mountains, Fle, the very old elf, lived a life intertwined with the earth. His home was a sprawling fertilizer mine, a place rich with the essence of life itself. Here, he nurtured the most potent fertilizer known to the realms, a secret blend of organic matter that could bring even the most barren soil back to life. Fle guarded this treasure jealously, aware of its immense value and the greed it could inspire in others.
The Secret of the Fertilizer
Fle had discovered the unique properties of the fertilizer centuries ago, when he first ventured into the mine. It was a blend of decayed leaves, crushed minerals, and the remnants of ancient plants, all steeped in the magic of the earth. With it, he could grow lush gardens and heal the land, but he also knew that in the wrong hands, it could be weaponized to destroy rather than nurture.
Each day, Fle would tend to his precious stock, carefully mixing and aerating the fertilizer, ensuring it remained potent. He would sing to it, his voice echoing through the caverns, infusing the mixture with his ancient magic. The fertilizer thrived under his care, glowing faintly with a life of its own.
The Threat of Greed
Word of Fle’s extraordinary fertilizer began to spread beyond the mountains. Rumors reached the ears of greedy merchants and ambitious alchemists who sought to exploit its power for profit. They envisioned vast fields of crops, riches beyond measure, and the ability to control nature itself.
One evening, as Fle was tending to his garden, he sensed a disturbance. The air grew thick with tension, and the faint sound of footsteps echoed through the mine. He knew he had to protect his treasure.
The Intruders
That night, a group of shadowy figures crept into the mine, their eyes glinting with greed. They were armed with tools and bags, ready to harvest Fle’s precious fertilizer. As they approached, Fle emerged from the shadows, his presence commanding and fierce.
“Who dares to enter my domain?” he called, his voice resonating like thunder. The intruders froze, startled by the sudden appearance of the ancient elf.
“We mean no harm, old one,” one of them said, trying to sound convincing. “We only seek a small portion of your fertilizer. It could help many people.”
Fle narrowed his eyes, sensing the deception in their words. “You seek to take what is not yours. This fertilizer is a gift of the earth, not a commodity for your greed.”
The Confrontation
The intruders, realizing they could not sway Fle with words, drew their tools, ready to fight for what they desired. But Fle was not just a guardian; he was a master of the earth’s magic. With a wave of his hand, the ground beneath the intruders began to tremble.
Vines erupted from the soil, wrapping around their legs and pulling them down. The intruders struggled, but the more they fought, the tighter the vines gripped them. Fle stood tall, his eyes glowing with ancient power.
“You will not take what belongs to the earth,” he declared. “Leave now, and never return, or face the consequences of your greed.”
A Lesson Learned
Realizing they were no match for the old elf and his magic, the intruders relented. They dropped their tools and begged for mercy. Fle, seeing the fear in their eyes, decided to show them the error of their ways.
“Let this be a lesson,” he said, releasing the vines but keeping a watchful eye on them. “The earth provides for those who respect it. If you seek to take, you will find only destruction. But if you learn to nurture, you will be rewarded.”
The intruders, humbled and ashamed, fled the mine, vowing never to return. Fle watched them go, knowing that he had protected not just his treasure, but the balance of nature itself.
A New Understanding
From that day forward, Fle continued to guard his fertilizer, but he also became a teacher. He welcomed those who sought knowledge and understanding, sharing the secrets of the earth with those who showed respect. The mine became a place of learning, where the old elf nurtured not just the soil, but the hearts of those who came to him.
Fle’s legend grew, not just as a guardian of the fertilizer mine, but as a wise mentor who understood the delicate balance between taking and giving. And in the depths of the Whispering Mountains, the magic of the earth thrived, nurtured by the love and care of an old elf who had learned the true meaning of guardianship.
Once upon a time, there lived a cheerful little girl who wore a cloak the colour of bright cherries, with a hood that framed her round face. Because she wore it so often, the neighbours called her Little Red Riding Hood.
One fine morning, her mother packed a basket with cakes, butter, and a flask of hot chocolate.
“Take these to your grandmother, dear,” she said. “She has not been well. But remember—stay on the path. And don’t talk to strangers.”
Little Red Riding Hood promised she would be good, although she was secretly curious about the forest. She kissed her mother’s cheek, hoisted her basket, and set off humming into the green, leafy world.
What she did not know was that a strange new visitor had arrived in the forest—a creature made of shining metal, whose voice echoed like thunder.
Chapter Two: The Stranger in the Woods
The path twisted beneath tall oaks. Birds should have been singing, but they were silent. Even the squirrels kept to their holes.
Suddenly, there came a grinding, wheezing noise, followed by a screech:
“IDENTIFY! IDENTIFY!”
Red stopped in her tracks. Before her stood something unlike any fox, wolf, or bear. It was shaped like a giant pepperpot, plated in bronze and gold, with a single glowing eye.
“I—I’m Little Red Riding Hood,” she stammered. “Who are you?”
“I—AM—A—DALEK!” the creature boomed. “WHERE—ARE—YOU—GOING?”
“To visit my grandmother in her cottage, with cakes and hot chocolate.”
The Dalek’s dome swivelled. “WHERE—IS—THE—COTTAGE?”
Red pointed, still polite though her knees were shaking. “Over the hill, through the glade, by the old stone well.”
Without another word, the Dalek spun round and rolled away, faster than seemed possible.
Chapter Three: The Cottage in Danger
Grandmother’s cottage was small, with roses round the door and a chimney that puffed like a kettle. Inside, the poor woman was knitting by the fire when—CRASH!—her door burst open.
The Dalek burst in, screeching:
“EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!”
Granny dropped her knitting and dived under the bed. The Dalek considered blasting her to pieces but then remembered a half-broken file in its databank titled “HUMAN FAIRY STORIES: STRATEGIC USE.”
“NEW STRATEGY: DECEPTION!” it bellowed. With difficulty, it plucked Granny’s nightcap with its plunger and balanced it on its dome. Then it reversed awkwardly into her bed, pulling the blanket up to its grille.
The disguise was… questionable.
Chapter Four: “What Big Lights You Have!”
Little Red Riding Hood soon arrived, her basket swinging. She pushed open the cottage door, surprised that it hung off its hinges.
Inside was smoke, scorch marks, and splintered wood. But on the bed lay her “grandmother,” strangely lumpy under the quilt.
“Oh, Grandmother, what bright blue lights you have!”
“THE BETTER—TO—SEE YOU WITH!” screeched the Dalek.
“Oh, Grandmother, what a terrible voice you have!”
“THE BETTER—TO—COMMAND YOUR EXTERMINATION WITH!”
And with that, the Dalek threw off the quilt, cap flying, and aimed its death-ray straight at Little Red Riding Hood.
Chapter Five: The Hot Chocolate Surprise
Red gasped. She stumbled backward, clutching her basket. In her fright, the flask of hot chocolate slipped from her hands. The lid popped, and steaming cocoa splashed across the Dalek’s grille.
The Dalek spun in circles, smashing Granny’s dresser, knocking over the kettle, and shouting, “MALFUNCTION! MALFUNCTION!”
With one last fizzing shriek, it toppled into the fireplace, where sparks and smoke finished the job. The Dalek went silent, its single eye fading to black.
Chapter Six: Safe at Last
From under the bed, Grandmother crawled out, trembling but alive.
“Oh, my dear child!” she cried. “You have saved me—from that dreadful… whatever-it-was!”
Little Red Riding Hood smiled shyly. “It seems hot chocolate can defeat more than just a cold day.”
They sat together, nibbling cakes and drinking what cocoa remained. And though the cottage was rather scorched and in need of repair, both were glad to be alive.
Epilogue: The Moral
From that day forth, Little Red Riding Hood never wandered through the forest without a flask of hot chocolate, just in case. And the villagers told the story for generations: how a girl in a red cloak defeated a terrifying Dalek with nothing more than kindness, quick thinking, and a very sticky drink.
Moral: Even the smallest comforts can triumph over the greatest terrors.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 