Sonnettics

Tweedledee and Tweedledum were having one of their usual quarrels in a sun-dappled glade in Wonderland. This time, it was about who could bounce a mushroom higher. Tweedledee swore he had achieved at least three feet, while Tweedledum accused him of exaggeration.  

Their bickering was interrupted by a peculiar sound: a faint *click-clack* followed by a whispery *whir*. They turned to see a wooden figure standing at the edge of the glade, painted in bright reds, greens, and golds.  

"Who are you?" asked Tweedledee, eyes wide.  

"I'm Matryoshka," the figure replied in a lilting accent, bowing politely.  

"And what do you do?" inquired Tweedledum.  

Matryoshka smiled coyly. "I do not *do*, dear sirs. I *am*. But if you must know, I contain multitudes."  

With a dramatic twist, Matryoshka's torso separated, revealing a smaller doll inside. The inner doll gave a polite nod before stepping out, leaving the next layer visible. This continued until five distinct versions of Matryoshka stood in a neat line, each smaller and more intricately painted than the last.  

The Tweedles clapped enthusiastically. "Marvelous!" exclaimed Tweedledee. "Do it again!"  

Matryoshka giggled, and one of her layers—a medium-sized doll with rosy cheeks and a mischievous smile—spoke up. "You two are quite charming," she said.  

The Tweedles puffed up with pride. "Why, thank you!" said Tweedledum.  

But the smallest doll, barely six inches tall and painted with a frown, crossed her tiny wooden arms. "I find them insufferable," she muttered.  

"Insufferable?" gasped Tweedledee, clutching his chest. "What have we done to deserve such scorn?"  

The smallest doll glared at them. "You're loud, you're foolish, and you argue over nonsense. It's exhausting just watching you!"  

"Well, I never!" Tweedledum exclaimed, while Tweedledee looked ready to faint from indignation.  

The medium-sized doll interjected. "Don't mind her. She's always been a sourpuss. The rest of us find you delightful."  

"But she's part of you," said Tweedledee, scratching his head. "How can you both love us and loathe us?"  

Matryoshka, now fully assembled again, gave a serene smile. "Ah, such is the complexity of the heart, my dear Tweedles. Each layer of me feels differently, yet together, we are one."  

The Tweedles exchanged confused glances. "So... you like us, except when you don’t?" asked Tweedledum.  

"Precisely!" Matryoshka said with a wink.  

The Tweedles, baffled but not displeased, decided to make the best of the situation. They spent the afternoon showing Matryoshka their favorite mushroom-bouncing techniques. The medium-sized doll clapped with glee, while the smallest muttered under her breath about their "ridiculous antics."  

As the sun set, Matryoshka prepared to leave, her layers sliding back into place. "Goodbye, dear Tweedles," she said. "Remember, love and loathing are just two sides of the same wooden coin."  

The Tweedles waved as she disappeared into the forest, still arguing about who had bounced the mushroom higher. Somewhere inside Matryoshka, a tiny wooden doll rolled her painted eyes—but even she couldn’t deny she’d had a little fun.

In a dimly lit lecture hall filled with twisting vines and oversized toadstools, the Caterpillar lounged on a massive, velvety mushroom that served as both podium and perch. The room buzzed with a strange energy, like the walls themselves were curious to hear what would happen next. A lazy swirl of smoke hung in the air, twisting into shapes as the Caterpillar puffed on an ornate hookah.
The students were an odd bunch, each stranger than the last. At the front sat Tweedledee and Tweedledum, identical in every way except for the tiny differences they insisted didn’t exist. Beside them, a card from the Queen’s court scribbled notes with one corner of its flat, red body. Toward the back, a dormouse balanced on a teacup, blinking sleepily but clearly determined to stay awake.
The Caterpillar exhaled a perfect ring of smoke that hovered in the air like a question mark before fading away. Leaning forward, the Caterpillar spoke, voice slow and deliberate.
“Who. Are. You?”
The students glanced at each other nervously. The question hung in the air, heavy and almost too big to grasp.
Tweedledee raised a tentative hand. “I’m Tweedledee,” he said, puffing up his chest.
“And I’m Tweedledum!” his twin added, like the universe needed this fact to stay in balance.
The Caterpillar’s antennae twitched. Was that amusement? Disdain? It was hard to tell. “Are you?” the Caterpillar asked, smoke curling around the words. “Or are you just parroting what you’ve been told? Names, my dear twins, are not identity. Who. Are. You?”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum froze, their mouths slightly open.
“We’re...” started Tweedledee.
“We’re us?” finished Tweedledum, but it sounded more like a question.
“How imaginative,” the Caterpillar said, exhaling another plume of smoke with a roll of its eyes. “Identity isn’t just about names or looking alike. It’s a journey—a messy, endless tangle of choices, actions, and the dance between freedom and responsibility. But don’t let me interrupt your riveting display of sameness.”
From the back of the room, the dormouse stirred. “I think,” it said softly, blinking its big, sleepy eyes, “I’m a dream. Or maybe the one dreaming. I’m not sure which.”
The Caterpillar tilted its head slightly, expression unreadable. “A dream and the dreamer. How profound—if only it weren’t so obvious. But remember, dreams shape the dreamer as much as the other way around. Do try to keep up.”
A rustling sound came from the side of the room. The card raised a corner of itself to speak. “If we’re shaped by choices, then what about the rules? What if I’m just following orders? Can I still be... me?”
The Caterpillar took a long, slow puff from the hookah. “Ah, the rules. How comforting for those who’d rather not think for themselves. You’re bound by them, sure. But even within rules, there’s space for choices. How you follow them, why you follow them—those things matter. They shape who you are, perhaps even more than the rules themselves. Though, clearly, you haven’t thought about it that far.”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum whispered furiously to each other, clearly trying to work out their next answer. Finally, Tweedledee stood up, looking determined. “We’re not just Tweedledee and Tweedledum. We’re ideas! Contrasts, reflections of each other, but also... different.”
The Caterpillar gave a small nod, though its expression was far from impressed. “Better. But let me ask you this: Is an idea still an idea if it’s never shared, never spoken? Or does it wither like a mushroom left in the dark? Don’t strain yourselves too hard answering.”
The twins sat back down, looking like they had even more questions than before.
The Caterpillar scanned the room, gaze landing on each student like it was peeling back the layers of their thoughts. “Who you are isn’t a puzzle to solve. It’s a question you live. Every choice, every failure, every little joy or heartbreak adds to the answer. And even then, it’s never finished. Now, think on that, and maybe next time, you’ll manage something less insipid.”
With that, the Caterpillar exhaled a final cloud of smoke that filled the room with shifting shapes: a question mark, a labyrinth, a pair of mirrored twins. Then it leaned back into the mushroom, clearly done for the day.
The students filed out, lost in their own thoughts. None of them said it, but every single one felt like the Caterpillar had asked the question directly to their very soul: Who are you?

Alice wandered further down the path, feeling a strange mix of confusion and curiosity. As she walked, the air seemed to shift, and the world around her grew quieter. In the distance, she saw a figure, silhouetted against a soft light. The figure hung from a cross, its form serene yet profound, radiating an aura of calmness and sacrifice. It was Jesus, his arms stretched wide, his eyes closed in quiet reflection.

Alice approached slowly, unsure of what to say or do. She had heard of Jesus before, but never like this. She had seen paintings of him, stories told of his miracles and teachings, but this… this was different.

“Excuse me,” Alice called gently, her voice trembling slightly.

The figure opened its eyes, and though Alice could not see his face clearly, she felt a deep sense of compassion and understanding in his gaze. The figure spoke in a soft, comforting voice that seemed to resonate with the very air around her.

“Child, why do you wander in confusion?” he asked.

Alice paused, her mind swirling with questions. “I… I don’t know where I am or what to do. Everything seems so strange. I feel like I’m losing myself.”

Jesus smiled faintly, a warmth spreading from his words. “The world is full of strange things, Alice, and yet, all of it is a part of the journey. Sometimes, you must lose yourself in order to find your true path.”

“But how do I know which way to go?” Alice asked, her brow furrowed.

He nodded thoughtfully, his gaze softening. “The way is not always clear, but it is always within you. Look within your heart, for the answers you seek are there. Trust in your own spirit, for it is stronger than you realize.”

Alice blinked, absorbing his words. “But what if I can’t find my way? What if I make the wrong choice?”

Jesus’ voice grew gentler. “Every path you take is a lesson, a part of your growth. You will stumble, you will fall, but you will rise again. Remember, I am with you, even when you feel lost.”

Alice stood in silence for a moment, feeling an unfamiliar sense of peace. She had been so consumed by her confusion that she hadn’t realized how much she needed guidance. She looked up at the figure on the cross, sensing both strength and tenderness in his presence.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

With a soft smile, Jesus nodded, his voice carrying a final note of wisdom. “Go now, Alice. The path is yours to walk, and you are never alone.”

As Alice continued on her way, she felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from her heart. The world still seemed strange, but now, she felt a little more ready to face it.

—

Robert paced the small parlor, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath his boots, their groans echoing in the stillness of the room. The air was thick with the mingled scents of beeswax and dried lavender, the latter carefully arranged in small bundles along the windowsill. It was Catherine’s way of bringing a sense of calm to the house, a subtle nod to the fresh start she would soon embark upon. She sat across from him in a high-backed chair, her needle poised over an embroidery hoop. Her fingers moved with precision, but her eyes betrayed her distraction, following his restless movements like a cat tracking a flickering shadow.

“Robert,” she said gently, breaking the silence, “if you have something to say, you ought to say it.”

Robert stopped abruptly, his face turned away as though the act of speaking would cost him dearly. He stood near the mantel, the soft light of the late afternoon casting a warm glow on the planes of his face. When he finally turned to face her, his expression was a mixture of concern and hesitation, the kind that made Catherine set aside her embroidery and sit up straighter.

“It’s about William,” he began, his voice low and deliberate. “We Blakes are honest people, and there are things you should know before you marry him.”

Catherine tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “What things?” she asked, her voice calm but tinged with curiosity. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, the embroidery forgotten for now.

Robert sighed, his shoulders slumping as though he carried a weight he could no longer bear. He glanced toward the window, where the golden light of the setting sun filtered through the thin curtains. “You know how much I love my brother,” he began, his voice softening. “He’s a kind and brilliant soul, one of the finest men I know. But… he’s not the same as he once was. Not entirely.”

Catherine leaned forward slightly, her eyes searching his face. “Not the same? How do you mean?”

Robert turned away again, his gaze fixed on the small, flickering flames in the hearth. He spoke as though to the fire, his words tumbling out in a rush, as though afraid they might choke him if left unsaid. “It happened during the Gordon Riots, years ago. William was caught up in the chaos, as so many were. You know how he is – always outspoken, always willing to speak his mind, especially about matters of religion and justice. But that night… that night, someone mistook him for a sympathizer of the government’s policies.”

Catherine’s eyes widened, her lips parting in shock. “But William has never supported such things,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

“No, of course not,” Robert said bitterly, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “But when the army came to break up the mobs they didn’t care for truth. They only cared for “order,” as the government calls it.  He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and got struck in the head with a baton. They left him in the street, unconscious, as though he were nothing more than refuse to be discarded.”

Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “How terrible,” she whispered. “But he survived that!”

“He did,” Robert replied, his voice heavy with emotion. “But he was never the same after that night. When he awoke, he spoke of strange things – visions of angels and celestial beings, of voices that whispered truths only he could hear. At first, we thought it was simply a feverish delusion. But as the weeks turned to months, it became clear that these visions were not fading. If anything, they grew stronger, more vivid. I think the head injury did something to his brain, his mind”

Catherine’s frown deepened, though her gaze remained steady. “You think his visions are a result of this injury?”

“What else could they be?” Robert asked, his tone edged with frustration. “Before that night, William was a dreamer, yes, but his feet were firmly planted on the ground. Now… now, it’s as though he straddles two worlds – one of flesh and one of spirit. And Catherine, I worry that he may lose himself entirely to the latter.”

Catherine rose from her chair, the fabric of her dress rustling softly as she crossed the room to stand before him. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch steady and warm. “Robert, I love William,” she said, her voice firm. “I love him for his kindness, his passion, and his boundless imagination. If these visions are part of who he is now, then I will embrace them as I embrace him. They do not frighten me.”

Robert looked down at her, his dark eyes searching hers for any sign of doubt or hesitation. Finding none, he sighed deeply and placed his hand over hers. “You are braver than I am, Catherine,” he admitted, his voice softening. “I only hope that your love will be enough to keep him anchored to this world, even as he reaches for the heavens.”

Catherine’s lips curved into a soft, radiant smile that seemed to light the dim parlor. “Love is not a tether, Robert,” she said gently. “It is a pair of wings. And I will fly with him wherever his visions take us.”

Robert nodded, though his heart remained heavy with worry. He released her hand and stepped back, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment longer before he turned toward the door. “Take care of him, Catherine,” he said quietly. “He is precious to us all.”

As he stepped out into the cool evening air, the weight of his words still lingered in the parlor. Catherine returned to her chair and picked up her embroidery, her hands steady and her heart resolute. She knew the road ahead would not be easy, but she was prepared to walk it, hand in hand with the man she loved. Whatever dreams or visions lay in William’s heart, she would face them with him, unafraid.

I gave ChatGPT the first two lines and told it to complete the sonnet. (meh)

**A billionaire is like a rotten cyst,**  
**And all the billions are like rancid pus.**  
**Their greed infects the world; the poor persist,**  
**While wealth swells up, diseased and poisonous.**  

**Their factories cough smoke like labored breath,**  
**The rivers choke on filth they never clean.**  
**They spread through laws, a plague that welcomes death,**  
**Consuming all and leaving nothing green.**  

**They starve the healthy cells with selfish need,**  
**A cancer growing faster than we fight.**  
**Each mansion built while countless mouths still plead,**  
**Is but a symptom screaming all's not right.**  

**Yet sickness fades when cures begin to thrive—**  
**The host must rise, or none will stay alive.**