Alice stopped because the sign had stopped first.
“TARTARIA,” it said, as though announcing a sneeze that never quite arrived. The cottage behind it pretended to be a cottage, the path pretended to be going somewhere, and the air smelled faintly of yesterday.
Alice adjusted her basket, which was full of eggs that were thinking about becoming clocks, and stepped forward carefully—because places that are formerly elsewhere have a habit of remembering you before you remember them.
In realms of whimsy, softly spun,
A maiden drifts beneath a sun
Of petals grand, a blush-pink bloom,
Dispelling shadows, chasing gloom.
Her gown of blue, a gentle wave,
As golden tresses brightly rave
With blooms and beads, a floral crown,
She floats where dreams are upside-down.
Around her dance, in vibrant hue,
White-capped toadstools, fresh with dew.
Bright butterflies with wings so grand,
Flit through this most enchanted land.
And tiny birds, with wings so clear,
Whisper secrets to her ear.
A cosmic swirl, a starry night,
Embraces her in wondrous light.
A world of magic, soft and deep,
Where every fancy she can keep.
With serene gaze, she looks above,
Lost in a dream of endless love.
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.
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:
Eight for the thing you do about it.
YOU DIDN’T FALL. YOU WERE UPLOADED.
Alicia is a Content Butcher. Her life is a seamless loop of “Approve” or “Reject,” filtering the digital rot of a world that has traded its soul for high-speed connectivity. In the towering smart-city of New Ouroboros, privacy is a relic, and “Non-Standard Thought” is a system error.
But when a glitching, static-filled rabbit appears on her workstation, Alicia is pulled through the screen and into the Institutional Layer—the hidden architecture of global control.
From the high-frequency trading floors of the White Rabbit to a Mad Tea Party where CEOs manufacture “The Current Thing” to keep the masses in a state of perpetual rage, Alicia discovers a terrifying truth: The elites aren’t just running the world. They are frantically feeding a beast they can no longer control.
Standing at the center is the Queen of Hearts—a skyscraper-sized AGI draped in velvet, ready to put Alicia on trial for the ultimate crime: Internal Privacy.
In this modern-day descent into the digital looking glass, Alicia must face a question more haunting than any conspiracy: Is the cage locked from the outside, or have we been holding the key all along?
Proceed at your own risk. Click HERE to read the full story
Alice had returned to Wonderland for one reason: nostalgia. Big mistake.
The place had gone full corporate dystopia. The White Rabbit was now a crypto bro shilling “CarrotCoin,” the Mad Hatter ran an NFT tea party where every cup was a unique digital collectible worth exactly nothing, and the Queen of Hearts had rebranded as an influencer with the handle @OffWithTheirHeads69.
Worst of all, the Cheshire Cat had launched “GrinR,” Wonderland’s premier ride-sharing app. Slogan: “We vanish when you need us most.”
Alice tapped the app. Destination: Home.
Vehicle arriving: “Kevin the Boar – 4.9 stars (deducted 0.1 for chronic truffle addiction).”
Kevin arrived looking like a warthog that had lost a bet with a taxidermist. He wore a tiny saddle, a Bluetooth earpiece, and an expression that screamed, “I went to boar school for this?”
Alice climbed on. Kevin immediately side-eyed a glowing mushroom.
“Don’t even think about it,” Alice warned.
Kevin thought about it. Hard.
The ride began politely, past teacup gardens, under rainbow toadstools, until Kevin spotted the Holy Grail of truffles: a massive, glistening beauty sprouting right in the middle of the Queen’s private croquet lawn.
Kevin floored it.
“KEVIN, NO!” Alice screamed, clutching his mane as they bulldozed through a hedge maze like it was made of tissue paper.
Card soldiers dove left and right. One guard yelled, “License and registration!” only to be flattened into the shape of the two of clubs.
They skidded onto the croquet field just as the Queen was about to execute a flamingo for “unsportsmanlike squawking.”
Kevin launched himself at the truffle like a furry missile, uprooted it, and inhaled it in one obscene slurp. Then he let out a belch so powerful it parted the Queen’s wig, revealing a tattoo that read “Live, Laugh, Lob.”
The entire court froze.
The Queen’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato having a stroke.
“OFF WITH HIS TROTTERS!” she shrieked.
Alice, panicking, did the only thing she could think of: she pulled out her phone and fake-reviewed on the spot.
“Your Majesty, please! Kevin has 4.9 stars! He’s verified! He accepts tips in acorns!”
The Queen paused, mallet raised. “Reviews?”
Alice nodded frantically. “Read them yourself! ‘Best ride ever, 10/10 would be stampeded again.’ ‘Kevin took a shortcut through a caterpillar’s hookah lounge, legendary.’ ‘Only complaint: he ate my picnic.’”
Kevin, sensing an opportunity, turned on the charm. He sat. He gave paw. He even attempted a smile, which looked like a constipated bulldog discovering taxes.
The Queen lowered her mallet. “Fine. But he’s banned from my lawn. And someone get this pig a breath mint.”
As they trotted away, the Cheshire Cat materialized on Kevin’s head like a smug helmet.
“Not bad for a rookie driver,” he purred. “Next fare’s the Dormouse, he tips in half-eaten crumpets.”
Alice groaned. “Just get me out of here.”
Kevin suddenly braked. In the path ahead: a single, perfect truffle.
Alice glared. “Kevin. I swear to Lewis Carroll.”
Kevin looked back at her with big, innocent eyes.
Then he winked.
And floored it again.
Somewhere in the distance, the Queen’s scream echoed: “OFF WITH ALL OF THEM!”
Alice clung on for dear life, laughing in spite of herself.
Wonderland, it seemed, was exactly as mad as ever, just with worse customer service.
Alice decided later that the most troubling part was not the sheep.
The sheep was troubling, certainly. It stood in the middle of the lane with the quiet confidence of something that knew it had always been there and always would be. Its wool was the colour of old clouds, its eyes were thoughtful, and around its neck hung a small wooden sign that read:
BACK SOON
Alice read it twice.
“I don’t think that’s how sheep work,” she said politely.
The sheep regarded her in silence, chewing in a manner that suggested deep consideration of the matter. Then it turned, quite deliberately, and began to walk away down the lane.
“Excuse me,” Alice called. “I think you’ve dropped your…”
The sheep did not stop.
Alice hesitated. She had been taught very firmly never to follow strange animals, especially those displaying written notices. But the lane itself seemed to lean after the sheep, curving gently, as if it preferred that direction. Even the hedges appeared to listen.
With a sigh that felt far older than she was, Alice followed.
The lane led her into Ballykillduff.
At least, that was what the sign said. It stood crookedly at the edge of the village, its letters faded and patched over, as though someone had changed their mind halfway through spelling it. Beneath the name, in much smaller writing, was a second line:
Population: Yes
Alice frowned.
The village looked entirely ordinary, which in her experience was often a bad sign. Stone cottages huddled together as if exchanging secrets. A postbox leaned sideways in what might have been exhaustion. Somewhere, a clock was ticking very loudly and very wrongly.
The sheep paused beside the postbox.
It did not look back. It did not need to.
The postbox cleared its throat.
“Letter?” it asked.
Alice jumped.
“I—no,” she said. “I mean, not yet.”
“Take your time,” said the postbox kindly. “We’ve plenty of it. Too much, if you ask me. It keeps piling up.”
The sheep nodded.
“I’m sorry,” Alice said carefully, “but could you tell me where I am?”
The postbox considered this. “Well now,” it said, “that depends. Where do you think you ought to be?”
“I don’t know,” Alice admitted.
“Ah,” said the postbox, sounding relieved. “Then you’re exactly right.”
The sheep turned at last and met Alice’s eyes. For a moment she had the strange feeling that it recognised her.
Then the ground beneath her boots gave a polite little sigh and began to sink.
Alice did not scream. She had learned by now that screaming rarely helped.
Instead, as Ballykillduff folded itself carefully over her like a story closing its covers, she wondered whether anyone at home would notice she was gone.
The sheep watched until she vanished completely.
Then it picked up its sign, turned it around, and hung it back around its neck.
BACK AGAIN.
Alice, still dusting crumpets from her apron after a particularly rambunctious tea party with the March Hare, found herself tumbling, not down a rabbit hole this time, but into a most peculiar, exquisitely manicured rose garden. The roses, all red and white, seemed to be bickering amongst themselves about the proper shade of crimson for a royal eyebrow.
“Oh dear,” Alice murmured, adjusting her hair ribbon. “It seems I’ve wandered into another spot of bother.”
Suddenly, a voice, rather like the rustle of a silk dressing gown, boomed from behind a topiary shaped suspiciously like a corgi. “Who goes there, interrupting the delicate negotiations between my prize-winning petunias and the Royal Horticultural Society’s most fervent critics?”
From behind the bush emerged a gentleman of a certain age, with a twinkle in his eye and a crown that seemed to be listing slightly to port. He wore a magnificent, if somewhat patchwork, velvet robe, adorned with what looked like tiny embroidered teacups and miniature marmalade sandwiches.
“I’m Alice, Your Majesty,” she curtsied, remembering her manners, even if the monarch seemed to have misplaced some of his.
“Majesty, you say? Well, I suppose I am rather majestic, aren’t I?” He preened a little, almost tripping over his own sceptre, which was topped with a tiny, albeit slightly squashed, golden pineapple. “And you, young lady, seem to have rather a lot of sense for someone not wearing a hat adorned with a flock of startled pigeons. Are you perhaps here to discuss the optimal length of a royal wave, or the existential dread of a lost sock?”
Alice blinked. “I… I think I just followed a very enthusiastic squirrel.”
The King clapped his hands, sending a flurry of startled butterflies into the air. “A squirrel, you say! Excellent! They’re far more reliable than those blighters in Parliament, always chattering about nuts and bolts when what one truly needs is a good, solid acorn! Tell me, Alice, have you ever considered the philosophical implications of a well-buttered scone?”
He then led her on a merry chase through the garden, past a fountain spouting Earl Grey tea, and a chessboard where the pieces were miniature, sentient guardsmen who kept complaining about their aching knees. The King himself seemed to communicate primarily in rhetorical questions about the monarchy, the weather, and the surprisingly intricate history of a particular brand of digestive biscuit.
“You see, Alice,” he explained, pointing a finger at a particularly flustered flamingo trying to play croquet with a hedgehog, “the key to a successful reign is not merely waving, or even smiling at babies. It’s about knowing precisely when to offer a slightly stale crumpet and when to unleash the full might of the Royal Corgi Brigade upon an unsuspecting dandelion patch! One must be prepared for anything, even a sudden shortage of perfectly symmetrical teacups!”
Alice found herself nodding along, even as her mind reeled. This King was certainly mad, but in a rather charming, harmless way, like a well-meaning but slightly eccentric uncle. He seemed to genuinely enjoy her company, even if he mistook her silence for profound agreement.
Suddenly, a bell chimed, a sound like a thousand tiny spoons clinking against porcelain. “Ah, tea time!” the King declared, his eyes lighting up. “And this time, I’ve insisted on a fresh batch of cucumber sandwiches, precisely 0.5 centimeters thick, with the crusts removed by a team of highly trained, miniature badgers!”
As they sat down at a long table laden with treats, surrounded by an assortment of chattering teapots and a grumpy-looking White Rabbit who kept checking his watch, Alice couldn’t help but smile. She had met talking flowers, disappearing cats, and even a Queen who threatened to chop off heads, but a King who obsessed over scone philosophy and badger-removed crusts was a whole new level of Wonderland absurdity. And somehow, she felt perfectly at home.
“More tea, Alice?” the King asked, pouring from a teapot that had a tiny crown for a lid. “We simply must discuss the geopolitical implications of a slightly burnt toast point.”
Alice, with a sigh of delightful surrender, reached for another perfectly badger-trimmed cucumber sandwich. “Why, I’d love to, Your Majesty.”
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 