Poem and Drawing: Jacqui’s Worldly Beauty – 27/07/19

Picturesque Jacqui striking a pose.

When Jacqui looked into the full length mirror that day,

What did she see that led her astray?

Was it the small bump on her nose?

The purpled birthmark above her left toes?

Or the misshapen right eyebrow that needed delicate plucking and multitasked managing?

Everything Jacqui could see before her, of herself,

Caused her to be displeased.

Nothing was perfect,

Nothing was right,

To her she needed a reimaging, an overhaul, a makeover,

To match her insides.

She knew that internally, she was a beautiful, loving, caring person,

This her mother would reflect each and every morning saying,

“Jacqui, keep being loving, keep being kind, everyone sees you for the beauty you have and are inside.”

Yet these words halted her,

It was as though she was visibly unworthy of her inner truths,

That her personality did not match the outer appearance,

And it was as though her mother was hinting at that too.

So when Jacqui looked in a reflective surface,

Desperate to find something visible to adore,

She could only find faults, problems, wrong, wrong, wrongs,

Nothing that could be appreciated and admirably looked upon and mentally stored.

But Jacqui was lovely!

Jacqui was fantastic!

She wore her head bald and proud,

A statement to the world,

That she was different from the crowd.

She knew how to pose for photos,

In a most inventive, imaginative, photogenic manner,

And with false bravado,

She could even break into runway modelesque behaviour.

It did not matter what flaws she believed she had,

For these were so minute they were small, of such paling insignificance,

That I could squash them with my forefinger and thumb into disappearance.

For the truth of the matter is Jacqui was a wondrous being, inside and out,

And she simply needed some convincing,

Some cajoling,

To know that she was wonderful, and the world was better with her,

Not without.

 And one fine day, at the park she happened upon a lost dog,

 “Are you lost, dear honey?” she asked, bent at the knees and gently patting his scruffy fur.

“RUFF!” the dog ruffed, and led her to her future love, a great star.

With wonder, Jacqui approached his presumable owner,

And reflected in his big brown eyes,

She saw herself, awe and star struck,

Trembling quietly inside.

Was this her love, her future man, was this who she was meant to be with for life’s tumultuous ride?

Struck with a similar feeling, the man smiled at her knowingly,

“Jacqui? I’ve heard of you, beautiful, intelligent, kind and lovely You,” and with a wild anticipation, she pictured herself with him forever: him, her, and Ruff the dog, living at the house across the street, number twenty two.  

I shan’t suggest any further,

Whether Jacqui had met the man who would help her understand,

With his reassuring,

That she was perfect,

Internally and externally.

But if you have a certain hunch,

That this man at least asked her out to lunch,

You’d probably be right,

And the answer would be some positively worded muttering or uttering of such and such.

The rest was for Fate to decide.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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Poem and Drawing: Two Sword Playing Mice – 27/07/19

Sometimes mice just want to have fun.

Two sword playing mice,

See how they fight,

Watch as one leaps gracefully into a dance,

And slices the thin air near the first sword mouse, making him evasively prance.

The air rippppps, ever so slightly,

A reflection of the thin sword being so mighty.

Gleeful grey Field Mouse,

See as he clicks his sword and turns,

Elegantly with his protruding pot belly,

Attacking violently is something which he will never learn basically let alone wholly.

Then to the serious blonde Field Mouse,

He wants to be victor of all,

Champion of the underbelly of the sword mice world,

He’d walk a mile to gain the golden cup with a nip, spin, thrust, and a final stab with a twirl.

Sword fighting mice,

See how they interact in their world,

Then suddenly an appearance of Chester the Cat,

And the game has been encompassed by him outside and of their world – oh crap!

Chester plays with them for fun,

Pawing, toying with them this way and that,

How to escape they have not yet learned,

Then growing bored of their flailing antics he allows them escape,

Their victorious cries of freedom can now be widely heard.

Off they scurry for more swordplay,

For a long cheerful afternoon of that day.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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Story example: Gerald the Graveyard Caretaker – 27/07/19

Ghouls can be viewed in differing lights.

Gerald was a peculiar character, he possessed strange characteristics, oddities that stuck out, character flaws, personality antics. He was awkward around men and women, and only felt comfortable around ghouls, of the graveyard in which he took care of them. He faltered at the sight of a real person, scurried away with all his might once they were in sight, but when it came to welcoming a ghoul, so strident and proud was he, to welcome it into his home, where he would serve them jam and cream scones and a pot of steaming tea. For Gerald was the town’s graveyard caretaker, and of real life humans he had little contact, which he was most pleased about, as in his past he had experienced some negative tragedies. With the ghouls, instead of humans, did he love to converse with and dance with them with ease.

It was not Gerald’s fault he had experienced negative activities, one was when he was twenty three. The perpetrators saw him with his deep hunch, walking with eyes staring straight to the ground, laughing with animosity of his awkwardness, their mirth was much. They began to throw small pebbles at him, irritating him, then deeply angering him for a great while. His rage bubbled to the surface, he was enraged and screamed with a sincere lack of eloquent style.

Another incident occurred when he was twenty two, the year prior, when his confidence in himself was the highest, oh, how it soared. For it was this year that he was travelling the world alone, taking in breathtaking views and meeting other travelers and interesting locals to know and of their culture’s understanding grow, he didn’t need Mum or Dad as emotional crutches, but then he met Sandra, whose heart he did snatch.

She and he fell in deep romantic love, it was as if they were made for the other, perfect opposites complementing the other’s love, what a perfect, pretty picture. Then one day, after five months, she told him, quite out of the blue, that she had met someone better, what on earth was he to do? The love of his life now walked away from him for the very last time, arm in arm he imagined them, walking into the setting sun, to awaiting glasses of sparkling wine.

Their love had been rich, a tapestry that was not quite complete, a dangling thread here and there, and that destroyed the dream when side by side a perfect image was compared. He returned to his homeland with a bitterness surrounding his understanding of life, and within the month applied for the job of graveyard caretaker, instead of him having returned with a new loving wife.

And that was why he preferred ghouls, they didn’t hurt you the most, not like real life humans who wanted to serve you the painfully raw truths which direly hit home. Ghouls were his friends, humans were out of style, wondering less and thinking more, Gerald decided that he would commence a certain life trial. He would live and breathe the life of a ghoul, awakening when least expected, creating sounds worthy of the ghoul nearby, coming soon to you, the only things that he could not achieve were flying through the walls and soaring through the roof. To do this, Gerald would have to leave life as a human, and dedicate his life to becoming a Caretaker Ghoul. Sometimes he felt he was ready enough for this role, for what was the point in dealing with human life, when he saw one or two or three, he wanted them to go?

He prayed day and night for his transformation, he asked all his friendly ghouls how he would ascend to the Ghoul Heaven, where he could obtain his transparent form, achieve his hauntingly lilting “oooOOOooo”s, when would he arrive there, what to do? Gerald had to remain patient, for many, many hours. Hours, upon days, upon weeks, upon years, and at the age of seventy five, he felt a tugging behind his ears. A certain soul-like grip pulling him apart, soul under attack, physical form presenting forth one day, soul pulled backward, disconnect, and then, POOF! He was looking down upon his formerly present human self, he gave an almighty yelp!

“I’m a ghoul, I’m a ghoul!” he shouted, in celebratory style. “I can do whatever I want, I’ll be Caretaker Ghoul for a long while!” But what was the difference in being a real life human Caretaker and the Caretaker of the Ghouls, why, they listened to him, and now they’re listening to you.

“OOOOOoooooOOOOO,” we all sing. “Gerald, we bid you farewell, may you live a happy ghoul life, with no sadness to know of, no feeling that you failed. Be joyous in your new life, you are here forevermore, mix with the hauntingly beautiful souls who surround you, much more happiness for your life is in store.” And flit away, this way and that, did Gerald joyously, gleefully he celebrated for the next twenty five breakfasts, lunches and teas.

Though he remembered his past love, the details were now hazy, he didn’t need them to resurface enough, her name was absent, eventually he found another love in his ghoul, Susie Patsy Pagent Daisy.

And together they guarded the graveyard, with strength, unconditional love and hope. His former love should have remained, for Gerald was the one in the world who would have loved her forever and cared for her the most.  Lessons to be learned, of love and loyalty lost, the reckoning and strength of a solid relationship requires trust and confidence ever so very much.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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Story example: The Magic Potion – 27/07/19

Beneath the surface bubbled rage.

The Magic Potion sat upon the table, stewing beneath its surface. What was is that making him so darned aggressive this day, when the reality was such anger was pointless? What was causing his inner anguishing and upset, why, let me tell you, my precious pets. Alice will show you yonder, Alice will show you how, Alice will map the way for you, for I know how. Let me weave the story line for you…

One day, in mid August, when the wind was gusting gaily, doing as it wished and pleased, a small potion was being concocted in Manstonian Lane, Apartment 1/303. The nimble fingers of the chemist danced as though possessed; adding this ingredient, then that, then this, then a touch of that. After much adjustment, the potion was now complete, a green, slimy offering, for someone who will soon no longer speak.

For, this potion snatched away any means of self expression, thieving the partaker into a slice of dumbfounded heaven, it stole away the ability to talk, and what’s more, it ruined the ability for their feelings to expressed in a manner of being written.

The truth of the matter is that this potion was extremely dangerous, it was only intended for one’s worst enemy, given the depth of punishment dolled to the user, it stole the moments in life where one could be free.  Instead one was left mute, expressionless, nothing to share, not even through their eyes, living became pointless. The ability to feel and the ability to see became far less intense, there was no loving within them, nothing to view, nothing to be.

And because of the intensity of the chemist’s emotions during creation, the potion absorbed some of his personality and increased his degree of poison. He could now feel and hate like the chemist did, it aided their cause, it was plain to see that the target was in grave danger, most certainly, of course.

While this potion should never have been created, the chemist had one user in mind, Simon the Spook, who became bitter because Chemist failed to rock his socks. Simon then instead chose to indulge in a brought bottle of red and upon Chemist’s sofa and fresh new white carpets spill his bottle of magnificent merlot, his favourite red. It was his favourite because this particular wine never went to his head.

Simon acted as though the spillage were an accident, that during this first online date this was simply an incident, but the chemist knew spitefulness and rage when he saw it, and within Simon’s eyes he saw these bubbling.

All because Simon had leaned in for a premature kiss, and the chemist had backed away hesitantly, not ready for this. And bitter and twisted had become Simon, or so it seemed, that he wished hateful rage upon the chemist from him. In a moment of sheer audacity, in slow motion it seemed, the chemist saw the bottle become a-knocking, and falling, falling, slowly, drips and drops spilling everywhere, suddenly, moment of impact: blood-like red wine everywhere.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he proclaimed, hand facade-like held to an open mouth, “Let me get that for you, I’ll grab a cloth…” he trailed off.

“No, you most certainly won’t.” Chemist would deal with the mess himself, not with a cloth that would rub the stains in. Simon nodded in agreement with a slightly visible smirk, then growing into a grin. Chemist hated him for that.

With a sharp glance to his damaged, thousands of dollars worth of carpet and with the potion in hand, Chemist now waltzed to the doorway of his apartment, unknowingly not realising that this would be the last time his evil nature would be seen again, for in an accidental moment, when he visited Simon the Spook and served him potiony goodness, he mixed up the glass his with his own, wouldn’t you know it?

Luckily for him though, the potion did not take effect, in his creation of it he had missed adding the catalyst. His voice would remain, his happiness at self expression would be there to save him throughout rainy, miserable days, and now he learned forgiveness most haphazardly became he had been allowed to properly live.

He almost snapped out of a mood he hadn’t realised he was in, and understood plaintively and guiltily that he had cruelly, willingly, intended for Simon’s suffering. In the moments prior to this poisoning, he had experienced some apprehension, and thank goodness that internally he had the space for that. And when it came to remorse and regret he had much to contemplate of that.

He bid Simon farewell and erased his number from his phone, there was little point in pursuing anything of the like with him anymore. Each time he saw the faded red stains, he growled to himself but then calmed, he had to learn this again and again to become a habitual behaviour that utterly tamed, calmed his mindset, flooded serotonin and relaxants into the brain.

Simon has now found his own boyfriend, they met on an exclusive dating site, they share the love of the theatre, comedy shows, computing, and most especially chemistry on quiet, cold nights. Chemist has learned his lesson, on not being malicious with his physical potions and explosions and keeping in check his emotional conditions, and never more has he or will he misuse his knowledge anymore, no matter what the situation.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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Story example: Shower of Superpower – 26/07/19

The Shower helped you slip into an outfit more comfortable.

It was a little known fact in the town of Wertferdshire that the public toilet and shower block possessed much power. Only among the adults was this subject made privy, for their children and other younger folk, the fact was unknown, and to share it with them would be unforgiving.

In Shower Block C, with its scummy algae scale and potential living disease lurked a shower that was most potent indeed. While its water was painfully cold, the powers it provided were available for the wise and old, for a day, the shower would transform one into a superhero or super character, their dreams becoming vibrantly real and bold!

The type of superpower that the Shower would provide was determined by the depth of hope and courage one possessed inside. For example, for the courageous Mr. Skin, he stepped into that spurting wash of frozen water and left with a second, impenetrable scaly green reptilian skin. Whereas Mrs Meek, while hopeful she were, she shook and trembled at the idea of being something else that was usually not within her. And escape did she, as a large, powerful Mouse, Mouse Woman she was known of that day, and didn’t she ransack her enemy, Mrs. Shingle’s, house!

One morning, Mister Fire Chief’s son followed him to work early. He loved to skip school, and play hookey. And witness did he, his father entering the seemingly abandoned, derelict shower block, and exit as a Marshall with hoses strapped to his chest, fire extinguishers upon his back, and a trailing fire truck behind him on a string at that. Aghast, yet amazed, and utterly impressed, his son giggled to himself, and decided to keep this secret close to his chest. The next morning he would follow his father inside quietly, and learn and watch the magic develop and change him. Then he could be a superhero, if only for one day! He would attend school and wow the schoolkids away.

But the Shower of Superpower was an intelligent sort. He knew when he had been detected, and when he was about to be caught. He did not want the young children to have this escape, for it was only for the tired adults with their monotonous lives that he wanted to assist and allow their stresses to vacate. If all the children knew, then what would be the use in their ability to daydream, to write silly stories, to draw as they pleased? Most adults of this town weren’t afforded that right, they were required to work, work, and work, most of their lives.

So the Shower, quietly at night, decided to up and leave, of this town of Wertferdshire it was time to be free. To seek another town, to set up premises and become known from utterly unknown, the curiosity and joy the adults would feel from exploring his power providing style on their own.

And when the Fire Chief’s son crept into the shower block, he saw nothing different, nothing out of sorts. Simply his father having a quick free shower, because the price of water was far too expensive at home, with disappointment and sadness, the son softly groaned. Perhaps the image he saw yesterday was but an illusion, perhaps he had fallen down and suffered a concussion, or maybe he slipped into daydream and fantasy and imagined his dad in a fire-fighting superhero way, either option, his uncertainty would remain. He kept this secret to himself, fearing judgement, until his dying day.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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Drawing and Checklist: How To Be Turtley Awesome at Life 101 – 26/07/19

How to turtley rock at life.

·         Never hide, ashamed inside your shell, always reveal your true character confidently, and be yourself!

·         Don’t be afraid to express the ideas in your mind, for others will appreciate your thoughts of this kind.

·         Look in the mirror and smile, you are beautiful, one in a million, you are yourself in your own detailed style!

·         Be friendly, be wise, be kind, treat others with respect, every single moment, to do this there is always time.

·         Love the ones close to you, and love those who cannot love themselves too.

·         Extend a helping hand, be a good Samaritan, sometimes others cannot help themselves, but sadly, some could not give a damn.

·         Be the shining, fluorescent self you were born to be, light the way for yourself and others, take a leadership role, this is wise indeed.

·         Explore the world for its passageways and journeys, it’s your story, this is your life.

·         But most of all, HAVE FUN in life, be turtley awesome, and avoid getting into unnecessary strife.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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Story example: The Pear Who Lost Her Shape – 26/07/19

Lucy unintentionally became unhealthier and gaunt.

Lucy the Pear had always been of a hefty size. Because of this, throughout her primary and secondary schooling years she had been bullied relentless, emotionally tortured, several times a day she couldn’t help but hide in the bathrooms and sometimes sob hysterically, or even just silently cry. Her tormentors would follow her into the bathroom – she was not even afforded the time to personally self soothe. Cruel and nasty were her bullies that they’d relish verbally attacking Lucy as soon as she reached the school doors; some even waited for her at the oval’s gates, where she walked inside the premises each day, shaking to herself, thinking, “Will they tease me some more?”

It was utterly disgusting that Lucy had to deal with such atrocious behaviour, for thirteen long years she tried to hold her composure, and despite keeping their behaviour a secret – she did not want to be a burden – she came closer and closer to deep depression with her great suffering. Telling Mum or Dad would result in no end, of their telling her she should not care. For, she had once suggested that she was being bullied, and her Mother and Father poo-poohed the idea of this.

“What could they possibly bully you about?” her father had demanded. “Your weight? YOUR WEIGHT? Why, you’re perfectly normal sized for a rich crispy treat to be devoured.” He went on to say that they should thank their lucky stars that Lucy was such a confident, strong, and self assured fruit, that nothing could break her skin, their rudeness would never succeed nor compute.

By the end of schooling, Lucy had had enough. She wanted to lose her shape, just… because. Nothing to prove the bullies right, the idea that image was of more importance, that she’d starve herself just to feel alive, no! It was for herself, for her peace of mind, as well as her health. While Lucy was not extremely overweight, she was unhealthy. Her doctor had mentioned this to her on more than one occasion, and never, ever briefly. He had placed her through stress tests to check her fitness, checked her blood levels, her cholesterol and discovered the results were certainly less than the best, and he urged Lucy, on multiple occasions to take care of her health, internally, not simply visually and superficially.

This was it, the month after graduation, she kick started her healthy lifestyle with a new diet and a fresh new exercise regime to be performed daily. And how she worked so hard over the next six months, until finally, slowly, others began to notice her gaunt face, her bulging calf muscles and grew concerned, but Lucy said, “Enough is never enough!” She’d continue on with her obsessive daily exercise onslaught, in fact, she was now exercising three times a day, each an hour and a half time slot. She barely ate these days, egg white omelettes made of three eggs were her main source of protein, she stayed well away from carbohydrates, and for dinner only ate lean meat and greens.

Then one day, she encountered a crunch of pears roaming the street, they jeered, pointed, beckoned, cackled that she was far too thin.

“What happened to your shape, lady?” one cat called at her.

“Yeah, why are those little pears following you? Bad role model you most certainly are!” With shock, Lucy scurried away, and in a passing shop window, she glanced at her reflection and decided to remain there, to stay. She suddenly realised she looked terribly ill, like a pear undergone emotional torture, stressors only more in store. Her facial skin sagged from lack of fatty tissue underneath, her cheekbones protruded, her jaw line jutted, with wonder and amazement she thought, “Why could not I see?” From buxom and curvy, to now deathly thin and incredibly unhealthy, she knew she must rectify this.

Having swung from one polar to the other, her aim was to feel satisfied with being in the middle of one another. To have time work holistically on oneself, yet time to relax, within the stress and whirlwind of life within themselves. Two recently acquired friends who she had met in the street, Steve and Amanda, kept her mind on her dream. To be healthy and look after herself, and regain some of her delightful curves which should be seen. After all, she was a pear, she was meant to be known for her crunch and curves to slink a hand along. Within the next three months, Lucy, with the emotional support of Steve and Amanda, regained a healthy weight, and obtained much confidence and personal happiness which she had never felt before – it made her want to burst out into song. They celebrated nightly, humming and singing along.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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Story example: Mugshots of a Famous Mug – 25/07/19

Barry was interrupted on his way to work.

Barry the Mug led an ordinary life. He woke, put the coffee on, fixed breakfast for his disabled wife. They sat together as he quietly sliced her pancakes into smaller pieces, it made it easier for her to tackle, one of the many difficulties that existed for her to experience and slowly handle. Then off to work at the canning factory Barry would go, his wife would be okay, for their son, Desmond, was her official carer, Barry had to work, the money had to come in somehow.

Then hours into the shift, he was afforded a short break, he puffed on a cigarette hastily, wanting to finish the entirety before it was too late. This daily smoke was his true luxury, he knew it was damaging to his health, yet the feeling of relaxation pressed itself upon him like a welcoming, insistent host.

And at three in the afternoon, time to clock off, to return to his family home, where the love was more than enough. Barry may have led a monotonous life, however what mattered was the life satisfaction and warmth that he felt for his worldly existence inside.

One particular morning, on his walk to the factory – for Barry’s luck was quite rotten and his current car had many things wrong with it – a man approached him with great curiosity.

“Why, sir! Please stop!” he pleaded, insisting with an irksomely eager tone. “Sir, please! Now! You have to know!” Barry ceased his trudging steps and glanced up with eyes possessing deep bags from overwork and stress, surely this man had enough gall to be speaking to the wrong mug, for his excitement was overt and too much. Barry softly responded, “Yes, how may I help?” Within the man’s eyes, glory now abounded, he wanted to share much, to allow Barry to know.

“You, my friend, are a unique piece of art, with your green shadings, and googly eyes, and intrinsically interesting mouth. Have you ever thought of modelling?” he suggested, with a wry smile upon his face. Barry could not believe this person, such discourse was not commonplace. Only beautiful girls and women were stopped in the streets for this, this man’s excitement was essentially an entire waste upon him.

“No, no, I think you have the wrong mug,” he said, smiling modestly, and making out as though to walk away. After all, every minute that one was late to work meant another dollar taken away. It was an unfair policy, to be sure, but that was the manner in which the bosses kept the workers in line, their managers smugly assured.

“Stop!” the man said, suddenly grabbing Barry’s handle with a vice-like grip of his hand as a hook. “You must believe me. You will be the next Booth.” (Booth was the world’s greatest supermodel, he had also been discovered walking the streets, and though Barry thought it was highly unlikely he was similar, this man had such breathiness and glee about Barry to speak.) Still unsure, he arranged to meet this man over the weekend, and have some photos taken. Apparently he was incredibly photogenic, the man said he could see it most certainly indeed, he was, “a viewfinder into heaven”.

Although the photo shoot made Barry uncomfortable, for he was modest and embarrassed by his grotesque appearance and odd looks, he allowed the man to become his agent, and overnight, why, would one believe, that he became an utter success! Soon his face was splashed across advertisements, the television shows, interviews with hosts, travelling the world, flying and meeting dignitaries and experiencing what life had to offer him and his family the most.

Who knew what made him so spectacularly successful, perhaps it was that he was different, something in the ceramics that made his glaze and character appear so utterly unique and different. Now he’s working on a biographical movie, named ‘Mugshots of a Famous Mug’, which details his life story from simple, hard working mug, to bright shiny model to be not only seen, but heard. For while Barry has his face well known, he is also passionate about world events, and human rights, and speaks widely of these does he, for his words and his looks he is renowned and his opinions can only develop and grow.

‘Mugshots of a Famous Mug’, is out in August 16th, 2022, and Barry is most excited for you to come and view.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

*This mug is a real item in circulation, a gift from my mother, sourced from an op shop. As it only has “Made in China” written on it, I am unable to mention a designer or maker.

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Story example: Christine the Curious Crab – 24/07/19

Christine explored with her special, unique skill.

Christine the Crab was an adventurer. Her heart leaped at the promise of exciting exploration and wild adventures. She tried to investigate the sand dunes but they were tiresome and boring to her, miniscule grains of sand upon a million more, what point was there to continue to explore? Besides, the climate of the dunes was far too scorching for her, she’d become a pickled, bright red crab meal if she weren’t careful enough, of this she was most assured!

So she travelled in time to her forest friends and their luscious greenery to view, their little crevasses, mossy undertakings, so much more to sniff, touch and view! But I hear you think aloud, “Did she say time travel?” Of this, Christine was most proud, to have developed the ability to rush back and forth into time and certain areas that she’d already visited quite cheerily. Merrily, she showed off, showcased her talent, it allowed her to widely explore, where did she learn it, I also hear you wonder, why of that I’ll not breathe a word more.

There was one area she could not handle, of this she was slightly embarrassed, for a creature such as a crab must surely have certain habits. One such being accustomed to being around and freely entering water, but this little hermit crab left much for the listener and reader to ponder. Was she a land crab, or an underdeveloped marine crab who unfortunately had missed the day of learning the skill of being comfortable inside the watery depths that were begging to be had? She was disinclined to answer, for the truth she will never know, her heart beat intensely and frighteningly when she viewed the watery depths of the Great Below.

Still, she could explore everywhere else she wanted, time travelling little crab was she, flying before someone’s dinner, and taking a bite and a sip of their tea. It is ridiculous, it’s ludicrous, how skilled Christine could be, whereby she understood her life was pretty damned well great indeed. What did it matter if she could not enter the water, her hermit crab friends could come out to welcome her, they’d meet her on her own planes and she’d show them her talents, by gosh, were they amazed.

Encouraged by her close friends to chase her dreams of exploration, she became a true fledged adventurer with a university education. Weekly, the students would set off in the pursuit of adventure, and learn the craft of being resilient and appreciating all the world’s wonders. Strictly enforced by herself not to cheat and use her time travelling skills, Christine learned the abilities she’d missed out in self learning with persistence, strength, and a decided yearning to know more to experience and view.

Now I see her on the television daily, she has her own instructional show, how famous has my little curious Christine become that I’m so glad to have detailed her story just so. An open time traveler, a non marine hermit oddity, why, types like her would rarely be seen. But she has made it against the odds, created a name for herself, educating the world with her knowledge, and assisting other creatures such as herself. A role model is she, and I am so very proud to say, Christine the Curious Crab has certainly and essentially found her unique way.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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Story example: The Spinning Top Who Couldn’t Spin – 24/07/19

I just couldn’t spin…

I’m just a little baby spinning top. I’ve come into the world and flourished and grown magnitudes, from the size of a wee little finger to a baby size of ‘still most large enough’. My striped colours of beauty were splashed upon me through childhood, growing in richness and vibrancy, my ordered rainbow speaks volumes, not of a creation made daintily.

Despite my appealing appearance, I have a secret to admit. It is a shameful thing to share with you, this I will readily admit, these words I plan to share with you, I will duly commit. When it comes to commencing the start of my movement, I’m too scared to start myself, for I cannot bring myself to move in circles, this is a delicate and difficult moment in itself. The very first time I attempted a spin, I became so nauseated deep within, I felt as though rats were scrambling in my belly, frantically searching for cheese and red wine, their teeth biting, paining in me in every way. For this was a special type of sickness, only known to me, the rats continued their running, running, running, as I hurled empty air regularly.  

 My mother instructed me to stop, shared her thoughts that perhaps I was born in the wrong body, that spinning was not my style and to cease, for she’d had enough, of watching her precious baby Spinner try to unintentionally remove her dinner, why the fact of the matter is, I was questioning myself, why wasn’t I born even a participant let alone a Spinner winner? My sister was the family champion, she could spin nonstop for seven and a half days, Father was a champion in his heyday: he lasted five and a third days. Even Mama was skilled, she took the pudding at moving for four days and three quarters, and here I was, only being able to take a cessation order.

I could not spin for let alone a minute, yet this did not sadden me, for I had other dreams for my life and that essentially bolstered me. Being forced to be static, I could perform many things, I could sing, I could play the trumpet, I could write, draw art, I could do anything! Not living up to the pesky family name of having spinning in the skills and spinning on the brain was in fact a blessing in itself.

For, I could do whatever I wished, and not be questioned about spinning failure any more, or anything else. It was accepted I was an oddity, that I was a family anomaly, and I was fine with this, I was multitasking daily, who wanted to be only able to spin daily? Not me, no more, no how, not me. I was the Creative Spinner of the Family.

© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock, also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.

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