Mortimer S. Spindlewhisk and the Case of the Ticking Staircase

Stylish Mouse in Trench Coat at Mysterious Doorway

Artist
Michael Wi...
Prompt
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DDG Model
FluX
Access
Public
Created
3h ago
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  Mortimer S. Spindlewhisk and the Case of the Ticking Staircase
  
  Model: FluX
  
  Size: 2582 X 1936 (5.00 MP)
  
  Used settings:
  
  Prompt: A winding staircase in an old Victorian house, at night. The wooden steps appear old, with a slight greenish sheen, as if touched by time itself. The staircase spirals downward, but several steps are missing—they are just dissolving into golden gears and points of light. At the foot of the stairs stands Mortimer S. Spindlewhisk, an anthropomorphic, upright rat with black fur, wearing a beige trench coat and tartan deerstalker cap, with no visible tail. He gazes down intently, a small notebook in his hand. Beside him hovers a pale blue, old-looking parrot in a nightshirt, with slightly translucent feathers and a melancholy expression. At the very bottom, in the shadows: a tiny workshop made of wood and brass, half-visible—with gears, lights, small clocks, and a figure with glasses and several arms working on a stair of light. The atmosphere is calm, mysterious, slightly dreamy. Swathes of fog drift through the stairwell as if time itself were breathing. Light and shadow dance in delicate patterns. Style by Dave McKean
  
  Face enhance: No
  
  Upscale & Enhance: 5
  
  Aspect Ratio: landscape
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More about Mortimer S. Spindlewhisk and the Case of the Ticking Staircase

It began with a tremor in the walls. Not much—a faint tick. Then again. And again. Like a pendulum that had lost its way. Mortimer S. Spindlewhisk, the famous detective with the black boots and the calm gaze, sat in his office above Mr. Clamber's old clockmaker's shop. Outside, it was night, and the rain sounded like someone was playing a metal xylophone. Then a new client entered. Or rather, he was floating. It was an old, pale blue parrot in a nightshirt, who, instead of walking, glided lightly across the floor. "The stairs are ticking," he said. Mortimer raised an eyebrow. "Which stairs?" "The ones in my house. For days. They tick like a clock. And every night, one more step is missing." Mortimer, who had once argued with a duck that spoke in rhymes and questioned a handkerchief that claimed to be the key to truth, remained unfazed. "Show me the house." The house was old. It smelled of seaweed and forgotten birthdays. The staircase was narrow, made of dark gray wood, with an iron banister that curved like a question mark. And indeed: it ticked. Quietly, but steadily. Like a throbbing thought. "You see, she's alive," whispered the parrot. Mortimer put his ear to a step. There was a heartbeat. And it came from within. The next morning, one step was gone. Then another. Until Mortimer descended—into the belly of the stairs. There was no cellar down there. It was a workshop made of wood, gears, and light. A small figure with glasses and six arms stood at a tiny lathe. "Who are you?" asked Mortimer. "I'm the Staircase Clockmaker. I build time in steps. But this parrot has used up his time. And he refuses to let it go." "So the stairs take it back?" "Exactly." Mortimer thought for a moment. Then he rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out seven old buttons. "Could you make time out of them?" The Clockmaker nodded. "If he gives the buttons, he gets the last step back." The parrot agreed. Reluctantly, but with a sigh that tasted of farewell. The stairs stopped ticking. And the parrot finally slept—really, not just with his eyes closed. Mortimer disappeared, as always, through a door that had never been there.