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Not just any old bookshop in downtown Kolkata….



I can’t explain it.


One moment I’m exploring Archie’s Portal in good old safe-as-can-be Fyansford, Australia. I step into the lift press a button and, “Wow! I’m here.”

















As I descend through the levels of the old bookshop, a chilling hush falls over me. The air grows denser, mustier, as if the very essence of time has settled into the dust motes that dance in the slivers of light piercing through the creaking floorboards above. Each step downward is a step further from the world I know, into a realm where whispers of the past cling to the spines of the ancient tomes.


The wooden stairs groan underfoot, protesting the intrusion into this forgotten sanctum. Shadows flit across my path, cast by the flickering candle I hold, the only beacon in the oppressive gloom. The scent of mildew and aged paper is heavy here, mingling with the earthy musk of the underground.

As I enter the labyrinthine depths, the silence is profound, save for the distant drip of moisture from stalactites to the stone floor below. Cobwebs, thick and undisturbed, drape over forgotten relics and moss-laden walls. The air is cooler now, the darkness almost tangible, wrapping around me like a shroud.

There’s a sense of something lurking just beyond the reach of light, watching, waiting. It’s a place untouched by time, where the line between the past and present blurs, and every corner holds a story shrouded in mystery. The weight of countless stories untold presses upon me, and the realization that I am but a fleeting visitor in this ancient place sends a shiver down my spine.

This is a world of its own, a hidden chapter of history, where every whisper and echo might just be the voices of those who once wandered these halls, now forever part of the labyrinth’s embrace. It’s thrilling and terrifying in equal measure, a journey not just through space, but through time itself.


At the end of the narrow corridor, a light flickers erratically, casting an unsteady glow that dances across the damp walls. The light is distant and seems to be struggling against the overwhelming darkness that seeks to consume it. Its wavering beam is a beacon of uncertainty, a feeble protest in the face of the enveloping shadows.

The corridor itself is a passage of anticipation, each step towards the light filled with a mix of hope and trepidation. The walls are close, almost claustrophobic, and the air is thick with the musty scent of neglect. The flickering light promises an end, a destination, but its inconsistent nature also whispers of the unknown.


As I move forward, the light seems to pulse with a life of its own, now brightening to reveal the contours of the corridor, now dimming to leave me in near darkness. It’s as if the light itself is breathing, alive with the secrets it guards at the corridor’s end.

The closer I get, the more the light seems to play tricks on my eyes. Shadows leap and twist, forming shapes that are gone in the blink of an eye. The light becomes a symbol of the fragile line between reality and imagination, between the solid ground beneath my feet and the eerie tales that this place might tell.

In this corridor, the flickering light is not just a source of vision; it’s a companion on my journey, a silent guide through the whispers of history that echo off the stone, a flicker of truth in a place shrouded in mystery.


The sensation of cold seeping through my clothes is like an uninvited whisper that starts at the edges of my awareness. It begins subtly, a slight chill on the skin that could almost be mistaken for a draft. But slowly, it grows more insistent, creeping through the fabric of my attire, bypassing the barriers I’ve put up against it.

It’s a gradual invasion, one that doesn’t announce itself with a shock but rather settles in, layer by layer. The cold is patient, finding every gap in my armour, every threadbare patch, every loosened button. It wraps around me, a second skin of frost that tightens with every breath I take.

As it seeps in deeper, the initial discomfort gives way to a numbing embrace. My fingers and toes are the first to surrender, feeling as if they’re being gently squeezed by icy fingers. The chill presses against my chest, making each breath a little sharper, a little more deliberate.

It’s a pervasive feeling, one that commands my attention, distracting me from my surroundings as I focus on the cold that’s now a part of me. The world around me may be alive with activity, but within the confines of your clothing, it’s just me and the relentless cold, engaged in a silent dance that only ends when I find warmth once again.

What's that in the corner; some sort of machine?







As I approach the metallic object in the corner, there’s a palpable shift in the atmosphere. The air seems to thrum with energy, a silent hum that resonates with the gleam of the metal. It stands out against the musty backdrop of the labyrinth, a stark contrast to the ancient stone and moss.

The object’s clarity and sharpness are almost otherworldly, its surfaces reflecting the dim light with an intensity that seems to pierce through the gloom. It’s as if this object is a slice of the future, a piece of tomorrow trapped in the bowels of yesterday. The closer I get, the more it feels like I’m approaching a portal, a gateway that could whisk me away from this subterranean world of echoes and whispers.

There’s a sense of reverence as I draw near, a feeling of being on the cusp of something profound. The object’s presence is commanding, demanding respect and attention. It’s not just a physical entity; it’s a symbol of potential, of secrets held within its gleaming form.

My heart beats a little faster, not out of fear, but out of anticipation. What mysteries does it hold? What stories could it tell? The cold of the labyrinth seems to fall away, replaced by a warmth emanating from the metal itself. It’s a beacon in the darkness, a promise of discovery, and as I reach out to touch it, I can’t help but feel that I’m about to turn a new page in the story of this place.

It is a seating device that indeed stirs the imagination. It’s designed with a futuristic elegance, suggesting advanced technology that could be straight out of a science fiction narrative. The chair, set within a circular frame adorned with illuminated symbols, evokes a sense of mystery and possibility.

While it’s tempting to speculate about its functions, such as teleportation, based on its appearance, I can only imagine the stories it might tell. If this were a real object, the allure of sitting in it would be strong, driven by curiosity and the human desire to explore the unknown. Approaching the chair, I feel a mix of excitement and caution, wondering if it could, indeed, transport me to another location or does it serve an entirely different purpose….

In my imagination I see myself sitting in the chair. When, suddenly, I find myself actually in it awaiting some sort of extraordinary journey. The moment of contact, the sensation of the cool, smooth metal beneath my fingers, might be the last tangible sensation before embarking on an adventure dictated by the limits of creativity and wonder; not by me…

As I settle into its embrace, the lights around me begin to pulse, and a low hum fills the air. The walls of the room stretch away, and I’m enveloped in a kaleidoscope of colours and sounds; my physical world melting away as I’m propelled into the unknown.

This chair is obviously not just a piece of furniture; it’s a vessel for the mind, a conduit for the spirit, and a testament to the boundless potential of human ingenuity.

The experience is akin to stepping through the pages of a science fiction novel, where the boundaries of reality are blurred by the fantastic. The vibration and the enveloping blackness suggest transition, a journey not measured in miles but in possibilities.

Now, in this man-made structure, the tube-like entrances beckon with the promise of further discovery. The warmth I feel is the only comfort in this alien environment, a subtle reassurance amidst the unknown.

I am suddenly standing in a large space empty but for accumulated detritus, a tangle of pipes and a long ladder. Dust cloaks everything. This space hasn’t been occupied for quite some time. With the ladder providing access to the higher tubes, it seems the only way forward is up. Each tube could lead to a different outcome, a different story. The decision of which path to take rests with me, the protagonist in this unfolding adventure.

As for the seat that brought you here, its disappearance signifies a point of no return, a commitment to the path ahead. It’s a narrative device that leaves me with no choice but to explore, to seek out the secrets of this place. So, what should I do? Trust my instincts. Choose a tube that calls to me, whether it’s the one of those bathed in light or one of the two shrouded in shadow. Each tube represents a step towards understanding this new world. Or does it?

In this realm of the imagination, as in real life, We are all both the author and the explorer. Our actions write the next chapter in our lives. WE should all choose with courage, purpose, in order to let our stories unfold. The tunnel in the above story presents a gentle turn to the left and soft illumination without a visible source. It seems to welcome us further into its depths. The absence of fear and the presence of encouragement suggests we are on the right path. The light blue shimmer in the distance and the rhythmic sound that almost resembles crashing waves could be signalling an important discovery ahead. It’s as if the tunnel itself is alive with anticipation, its very essence urging us to continue.


The nature of the tunnel does not negate the need for careful exploration, the paying of attention to surroundings and noting of any changes in the environment. The light blue shimmer undoubtedly represents a visual goal, a point of interest that could hold answers or further mysteries. The sound could be a key auditory clue. As we move forward, we should try to discern its source or any patterns that might provide insight into what lies ahead.

In a narrative sense, this tunnel is a metaphor for our respective journeys of discovery. We choose our own starting points, but it’s the curious, adventurous part that will carry us through life. We need to embrace the total experience, for every tunnel, every shimmer, and every sound is a thread in the tapestry of our all-too-short life adventure.

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Not sure where the yellow tunnel goes to.

But the Blue one, I hear,

leads to a spotlit area and someone is in the glare...

Poppy reading to
one of his grand-daughters...

Were the Archie Books written with you in mind?


Nana Mary reading to
a small group of pre-schoolers?


I have a free set of the Archie's Patch Series
for the first pre-school teacher to contact me.
Tel. 0425 718 894. 
(Must collect books from Fyansford) 

If you have made it this far, well done....
Are you a primary school teacher?
Check out the following ....


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