Timeless Tales: Regenerating the Public Domain #2

Featuring New Characters and a Continuation

Welcome back to Timeless Tales, where AI tells stories about characters in the public domain! Because if you’re going to use AI, use it to bring back long forgotten ideas.

Zé Povinho and the Tax Collector

Setting: A small Portuguese village, late 19th century.

The tax collector arrives, dressed in fine clothes and mounted on a fancy horse, announcing new tariffs “for the prosperity of the nation.” Zé Povinho, hauling sacks of flour from his field, pauses.

Zé Povinho (smiling):

“Prosperity, eh? That must be why your belly grows and mine shrinks.”

The collector huffs. “Your contribution is your duty to the Crown!”

Zé sighs and reaches into his pocket. He drops two rusty coins into the collector’s hand.

“Here’s my contribution. Shall I starve nobly or ignobly this winter?”

Later that night, the village gathers. Zé puts on a mock show with potatoes and sticks, reenacting the collector’s speech, puffing up his chest and talking in flowery nonsense. The villagers laugh—bitterness softened with shared humor.

At the end of the performance, Zé turns to the audience, grins, and makes the manguito gesture toward an effigy of the collector. The crowd erupts in laughter.

Narration (as in the original strips):

“He pays, he suffers, he endures—but he sees, and he remembers.”

The Steam Man of the Prairie Chapter 2: The Furnace War

The night howled like it remembered being wild.

Johnny Brainerd clung to the control yoke as the Steam Man lumbered through a burning forest, trees scorched blue by the unnatural heat left in the Devil’s Train’s wake. The automaton’s limbs hissed with steam as they cut through brush and debris, relentless in pursuit.

But this time, they weren’t alone.

A posse of resistance fighters—former captives who had escaped the train’s grasp—rode in a mismatched convoy of scavenged steam-cycles, wind wagons, and one airborne ornithopter made from rusted stovepipe wings. They called themselves the Furnace Guild, and their leader was a woman in a brass helm who answered to “Strike.”

“We hit it at dawn,” she said. “While it stops to refuel on heat and pain.”

Johnny nodded. “You’ve seen it feed?”

“Worse. I’ve seen it sing. It plays a siren-song of pistons and sorrow. That’s when people walk willingly into the cages.”

Strike handed Johnny a gear inscribed with strange markings. “A message from inside. There’s someone still aboard the train. They’re sabotaging it.”

“Then we’re not just hunting,” Johnny murmured. “We’re breaking someone out.”

The next morning, the Furnace Guild surged across the plains. The Steam Man led the charge, his arm now outfitted with a salvaged harpoon cannon. Ahead, the Devil’s Train shimmered with heat, crouched like a predator at the edge of a shattered mesa.

It saw them coming.

And this time, it whistled back.

“Quim and Manecas vs. the Automaton of Rua dos Fanqueiros”

Lisbon, 1916. The cobbled streets buzzed with whispers: “There’s a mechanical man at the corner shop!” A tophatted inventor had unveiled his greatest feat — a towering automaton that could sweep streets, wave to ladies, and even ring bells.

Quim, chewing on a stolen fig, elbowed Manecas. “Bet it can’t jump rope.”

Manecas adjusted his cap. “Bet it can’t take a punch.”

Thus, the plot was born.

That night, the boys snuck into the inventor’s workshop through a coal chute. Quim tied the automaton’s shoelaces together. Manecas replaced its instruction scroll with a torn poem about sausages.

The next morning, the mechanical marvel paraded down Rua dos Fanqueiros — only to suddenly recite: “Oh chouriço, noble tube of delight…” before tripping over its own feet and crashing into a fish cart.

Mad chaos. Screams. Eels everywhere.

In the confusion, Quim and Manecas strolled away, pockets full of sardines, smug grins in place.

Rupert and the Kindly Mare

One fine spring morning, Rupert set out across Nutwood Lane, his scarf tucked neat and his thoughts full of cheer. The hedgerows hummed with bees, and the songbirds trilled above, but what caught Rupert’s eye was a curious sight: a white mare grazing alone in the meadow, her mane as soft as snow.

“Good day!” called Rupert, tipping his paw politely.

The mare looked up with kind eyes. “Good day, little bear,” she replied. “Are you off on a walk?”

“I am,” said Rupert. “I’m heading to the Willow Copse to gather catkins for Mother. But the path’s quite muddy from the rain last night.”

The mare chuckled gently. “Why not climb on my back? I’m heading that way too. The ground’s no bother for hooves.”

With a smile and a thank-you, Rupert climbed aboard. As they trotted on, the mare told stories of the fields—of foxes that danced at dusk and old toads who held concerts in the pond reeds.

When they reached the copse, Rupert leapt down and gathered a small bundle of golden catkins. The mare waited patiently.

“Thank you for the ride,” Rupert said, bowing low. “You’re very kind.”

“And you’re very polite,” said the mare with a wink. “That’s worth more than any carrot.”

With a neigh and a swish of her tail, she trotted off toward the hills, leaving Rupert smiling in the sunshine, his scarf catching the breeze and his paws full of spring.

“Cagayous and the Revolutionary Broom”

(As serialized in Le Petit Trottoir Illustré, circa 1901)

Once upon a noonday swelter in the white-hot alleys of Algiers, when the cats napped and the gendarmes fanned their moustaches instead of chasing pickpockets, Cagayous decided it was high time for a revolution.

Not a proper revolution, mind you—not one with rifles and manifestos. Cagayous couldn’t be bothered with all that reading. No, this was to be a Revolution of Cleanliness.

You see, old Madame Boukha, who ran the corner absinthe bar (and who’d once beaned Cagayous with a copper pan for trying to steal her pickled lemons), had posted a sign:

“NO SHOES, NO DRINK. AND WASH YER FILTHY MITTS.”

Insult! Scandal! Tyranny!

Cagayous stormed off, tripping over a goat, and declared to no one in particular:

“If they want clean, I’ll give ’em so much clean the whole Casbah will sparkle like a dancing bellybutton!”

He reappeared later that afternoon, barefoot and brandishing a broom twice his size. It had been stolen from the military barracks, he later claimed—“confiscated for the cause of hygiene.”

He marched through the winding streets hollering:

“Make way for the Grand Sanitary Procession! Out with the dirt, in with the revolution! Long live the Soap Republic!”

Behind him trailed a dubious parade: three barefoot kids with tin cans, a dancing chicken, and one old man who had mistaken the whole affair for a funeral.

Cagayous swept everything: dust, pigeon feathers, a sleeping drunk, and half a watermelon rind. He barged into cafés and swept the floors mid-card game. He climbed onto balconies and flicked off laundry that “looked suspiciously unwashed.” He even tried to sweep a nun, until she rapped his knuckles with her rosary and muttered something in Latin that may or may not have been a curse.

The final act came when he stormed the City Hall steps, where the mayor sat dozing in a wicker chair, cigar drooping from his lips.

Cagayous took a mighty swing of his broom and shouted:

“By the power invested in me by the Order of Holy Disinfectants, I hereby decrassify the municipal behind!”

The broom connected. The mayor yelped.

The cigar flew.

A pigeon exploded into flight.

Chaos.

The next day, Le Petit Trottoir Illustré ran the headline:

“CAGAYOUS DECLARES HYGIENE WAR: CASBAH CLEANER, POLITICS DIRTIER.”

And Madame Boukha, true to her word, let Cagayous back into the bar.

Provided he sit outside.

“Britomart and the Shattered Reflection”

In the twilight of a ruined temple, Britomart stood before a mirror not made by mortal hands. The glass shimmered with truth—unveiling not what is, but what must be. In its depths, she saw a face not her own, yet tethered to her soul: Artegall, knight of justice, locked in iron chains beneath a tyrant’s keep.

Rather than weep, Britomart donned her helm. She rode through storm and shadow, her lance crowned with silver fire. Beasts bowed. False knights fell. Even despair gave her path.

At last, she reached the blackened tower where Artegall lay. But before her stood Malecasta, sorceress of pleasure and sloth, weaving illusions of comfort to tempt the weary.

Britomart raised her visor and spoke:

“I need no softness that hides truth. Let love be earned, not given.”

Their swords rang like thunder. Light against illusion. Truth against deceit.

When Malecasta’s spells broke, the tower crumbled—its glamour undone. Amid the falling stone, Britomart found Artegall not weakened, but watchful. He had resisted too.

They left side by side—not lovers yet, but equals, their paths now shared.

“Sich a Circus!”

It all started when the Yellow Kid overheard that a traveling circus was setting up in the vacant lot down by Hogan’s Alley. Eager for excitement—and maybe a chance to ride an elephant—he rushed off to see it for himself. But in his excitement, he tripped over a peddler’s fruit cart, set a dog chasing a cat, which in turn scared a policeman’s horse, and knocked over a painter’s ladder. The result? A ruckus of clowns, barking dogs, angry merchants, and delighted children tumbling after him like a one-boy parade.

The Yellow Kid didn’t mean to start trouble, but that’s the thing about him—wherever he goes, life turns into a circus. And truth be told, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Ginger Meggs and the Great Goanna Chase”

(A tribute to Bancks’ Ginger Meggs)

It was the first real scorcher of summer, and Ginger Meggs was up to his usual tricks. The creek behind the school was dry as a dead dingo, but Ginger had a plan — a legendary one.

“Reckon there’s a goanna down the back paddock!” he told Benny with wide eyes. “Big as a croc and twice as fast!”

Benny, ever the nervous one, gulped. “Goanna? You sure, Meggsie?”

“Dead sure! C’mon, we’ll catch it and charge a penny for a look! We’ll be rich!”

So off they went — Ginger with a butterfly net, Benny with a bucket, and Min (who followed just to stop Ginger from doing anything too daft).

When they reached the paddock, sure enough, a massive goanna skittered out from behind the woodpile. Ginger yelled, “There it is!” and took off like a shot.

Chaos followed — the goanna zigzagged through the chicken coop, Benny fell in the trough, Min got tangled in the laundry line, and Ginger Meggs? He chased that lizard straight into Mr. Crackett’s veggie patch.

By the time Mr. Crackett came storming out, shaking his rake, the goanna had escaped, Benny was soaked, Min was fuming, and Ginger…

…was stuck up a gum tree.

“Next time you want to catch a goanna,” Min huffed, brushing herself off, “try not to destroy half the neighborhood!”

Ginger grinned sheepishly. “Well… at least we didn’t have to pay admission.”

Caspar Milquetoast and the Elevator Dilemma

Caspar Milquetoast stood in the lobby of the Brocklehurst Building, nervously folding and unfolding his umbrella—though the forecast was “clear with no chance of weather.”

He glanced at the elevator, where a group of people waited, all standing far too close for Caspar’s comfort. He imagined the silence inside the box… the brushing elbows… the slight whir of judgment if he pressed the wrong floor.

Instead, he turned toward the staircase.

Halfway up to the twelfth floor, wheezing lightly and pausing at every potted fern to “check for aphids” (none were found), Caspar passed a man coming down.

“Elevator’s working fine,” the man said helpfully.

Caspar nodded, then added, “Yes, well, I find the stairs invigorating. Builds character. One mustn’t become too dependent on modern luxuries. Ha ha…”

He reached the twelfth floor approximately seventeen minutes later, having grown very fond of a framed photo of the building’s ribbon-cutting ceremony on the eighth.

When he finally opened the office door, he realized he’d left his briefcase in the lobby.

Captain Owen Kettle and the Devil’s Anklet

“If I may make so bold,” said Captain Kettle, “I’ll be having that cursed bauble back before your gods strike me blind.”

The schooner Firefly groaned into the humid air of the Bight of Benin, sails limp like laundry on a dead wind. Captain Owen Kettle, barely five-foot-five of bone and muscle, stood at the bow, fists on hips, regarding the jungle-covered shoreline with his usual contempt.

A voice behind him piped, “Beg pardon, Cap’n, but the crew’s whispering. They say the local priest took the gold anklet as a sign from his god.”

“Aye,” Kettle growled. “Then it’s time their god learned who I am.”

The trinket in question had been “traded”—with the vague understanding of British gunboat diplomacy—for a barrel of salted beef. But in the village of Kumburi, the item had vanished from Kettle’s hand before he’d blinked. Now it dangled mockingly from the wrist of a scarified priest who claimed it bound a river demon.

Undeterred, Kettle marched alone into the forest with a cutlass at his side and a battered revolver jammed into his belt. He returned twelve hours later, covered in mud, feathers, and one entirely unauthorized leopard skin. In his clenched fist?

The anklet.

The priest had fled. The jungle had caught fire (briefly). A canoe full of missionaries had been rescued mid-sermon. Kettle limped back aboard the Firefly with a cracked rib, two curses placed upon him, and his moustache singed at the edges.

He addressed the stunned crew:

“Gentlemen. Our business here is concluded. Next port: Paramaribo. And may God help whoever tries to touch my anklet again.”