Story: Trudence the Child Thief and the Queen of Finery – 08/09/19

The Queen of Finery was amazingly resplendent coated in her gems which adorned every inch of her. They glittered and glimmered upon her velveteen robes. Being so ostentatious a figure, she had nothing to say to those in the palace who passed her; she was too incredible in her own mind to pay attention to others unworthy of her obtaining her attention themselves. She would not bother with beings such as these.

What determined whether someone was unworthy? Well, it is saddening to say that she was always haughty around everybody whose paths she crossed because to her, normal folk – servants, chefs, cleaners, maids, drivers – were unworthy. Some might find it difficult to understand why a queen would look down upon her people. Most especially, the people who served her well, and painted of her a delicate, refined picture. Because for these others, they were always required to speak incredibly highly and well of her. In reality, the truth of the matter was that she was arrogant and undesirable, with moods so flighty they caused chaotic booms, seismic ripples, rather than being calm and assured.

Would anyone in the country willingly spend their time with her? It wouldn’t surprise you to know this – they wouldn’t waste a second with her. The only reason they spent fleeting moments in her presence was because she paid them to be there. She was so outrageous with her moods that these unfortunate souls never came to work underprepared. Before arriving, they listened to soothing, meditative music, to calm their wrought nerves from the days before, healing an ache that was positively shaking at the knowledge they’d once more be required to be with her indoors. But this Queen didn’t realise how horrible she could be; she was used to being just so. She didn’t understand that her “minions” as she referred to them, couldn’t wait for the end of the day when they’d be permitted to return home.

It was the King who had to deal with his tempestuous Queen at night, with her tales of complaints and rapid words, high strung, of how somebody, always someone, had performed a slight against her again. He would sigh under his breath, tune out from the tirades, the rants. He would wait until her breath was spent then he would roll over and fall asleep quickly, before she could find another topic to complain about – usually something petty. She’d then wander around in her mind expelling her warring words quite freely, to be easily spent quite easily. It didn’t matter that the King no longer heard her. What was important to her was the illusion of being heard.

One day, there arrived a new servant, a child of eight years old, by the name of Trudence. She was clever, kind, humorous, but had had a challenging life. Trudence was an orphan, at the age of three her parents had died in a massive train wreck, and being babysat by her Auntie Beatrice that day, she was spared that moment of sudden death. But Aunt couldn’t afford to keep her, for Trudence was an expensive child to cater for. She ate, ate, ate at every given moment, and Aunt knew not how to provide for her. Instead she decided it would be best to put her to work at the Palace, where she could earn her keep, to pay for both their meals and means to survive in this life, lest she continue taking and they both ended up on the streets. Aunt was unable to work due to a debilitating case of “Can No Longer Be Bothered”, so she was glad that she had Trudence willing to work to provide for both of themselves.

To Aunt’s surprise, Trudence took to her new role with zest. She told stories of how she’d passed the Queen in the corridors, flashing her a beaming smile, glancing into the gems that sparkled so much that Trudence felt utterly blessed. It didn’t matter that the Queen never smiled back, the fact that she was in the Queen’s presence meant everything – she was such a finely dressed woman that her efforts to avoid smiling at anyone must surely be an epic test. This palace, for some reason, gave her good feelings. However, one day, Trudence would grab the Queen’s gems, pluck one from the her swishy robes, and another from her vest! Then run away with great speed would Trudence. Her life now was in dangerous waters, she should have already known what this theft would have meant, the fate which the Queen would wish to deliver.

Off with her head!” shrieked the Queen. “That wretch stole my emeralds, so joyously and lovingly green!” By then the soldiers couldn’t find her. Trudence was long gone, with Aunt running alongside her, as they escaped through the forest, away from their home, away from the palace walls where they would never be seen again, never found. Into a neighbouring land would they retreat, where they lived off fragments of the gems, selling each shard for fortunes on the street. They were millionaires now and it was all thanks to Trudence’s wiles. She felt not shame nor guilt for stealing from a Queen who everyone secretly reviled. Trudence had eventually realised that she was nasty, she was mean, she had too much wealth and she’d made it too obviously seen.

Regarding the robbery, she had been asking for it, Trudence believed, and this Aunt reassured her this was completely correct. And now, that the greedy untoward being would knowingly have their lives punished, eradicated, because the Queen’s effort at performing horrid actions were completely unworthy, and her motives not at all well spent. Not that these thought process was morally right, this Trudence soon realised with time, but she had spent too much time experiencing her own sense of luxury to want to return mere fragments that would be nothing to the Queen, a woman whose nose was upturned so very high indeed. Returning to that land would only end in death for both Aunt and herself, and she was unwilling to risk her life simply to clear a conscience of ill-fated morals. She’d simply have to trick herself into accepting that what she had performed at the time was a necessary action.

There was no point in reversing it because what was done was completely done. Better to focus on what positives came of this; she began to whittle away at the gems, breaking them into manageable, saleable fractions, street-size appropriate pieces.

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


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Story: Super Slug – 07/09/19

One fine day, when the sun shone my way, I woke feeling completely whole again. Nothing could or would deter me from my exploration of the garden, my winding path, my set stage. Inside this bustling ecosystem were many specimens of flora and fauna, not least my favourite, Mister Wily Old Toad. He loved to croak at me while blinking incredibly slowly; his wrinkles determined his age as very wizened and old. Mister Toad had been living in the garden for many years. He lived off a diet of snails mainly, a family of them which never seemed to be diminish despite his fantastical sense of hunger that was present always.  It was not unheard of that he could consume two or three of these creatures a day. The poor snail family always lamented their losses, but there was nothing much they could do or say.

There was, however, one snail, who seemed to always be able to dodge the bullet. This snail had been around for many years, despite the fact that snails were meant to survive for only a short length of time. I would see this creature in the mornings, and after Mister Old Toad had lazily captured some of the snail’s family, I’d see him rest down for the night. Then so on and so forth, I’d spot him, and safe in the evenings, he had avoided any strife. How could this possibly occur, when a snail could not travel very fast nor far? How could he evade the sharp tongue of Mister Old Toad? For years he had survived, and I knew not how. I decided today to take a closer look, and follow this snail around until I could view what was happening, until I understood how he remained alive and whole.

So, this morning, when I had awakened whole myself, the broken pieces of me fixed back into place, I searched out this target snail, I shall call him Snail, myself. He was easy to find because he had certain markings upon his shell that made him appear as if he had a saddened donkey painted on his outside. On second thoughts, I could have called him Donkey, but it was a little late for changing the facts and details.

This snail was very peculiar indeed! As I watched him, it was as though my eyes were malfunctioning with the greatest of ease. From one corner of the garden he would suddenly zoom to another, essentially materialising from one space to another area. I couldn’t understand! Weren’t snails meant to be laboured and slow? Their movements barely aided by excessive slime and impeded by the unnecessary lack of desire for any speedy know-how? I shook my head, rubbed my eyes, and once more, the snail was moving in a laboured manner that was more fitting for his species. This I was now relieved to view. I felt satisfied that this was the behaviour that I was meant to find.

The more I stared, the slower the snail became. It was as if he knew I was watching him carefully, and he had slowed down his measures to a speed that caused me to feel incredibly pained. It was excruciating to watch a creature move so bloody slowly, how could he perform this task purposefully and knowingly? I swore that I had seen him move in a zig-zagging rushing pace, but maybe that was a trick of my eye or a trick of my mind; perhaps I had dreamed it. I almost fell asleep while observing him, there was nothing interesting to view, aside from the trail of sticky slime that he left for me to view.

Then all of a sudden, I heard him. Mister Old Toad had made his appearance. It seemed high time that this toad should now wish to manage Snail, in a manner that only he knew best. With a loud and slow opening of his mouth he flicked out his tongue. It wrapped around Snail’s shell in a most delicious and smacking sound heard by all in the garden, not only some. I half expected some shrieking from the snail, some wailing, some yells, but then out of his shell he did pop! And now revealed was a vibrant slug with a red cape, invisible ink upon it carrying his secret name! “Super Slug”, was etched on the fabric, and how the cape flowed as he flew along the ground and away. Mister Toad didn’t seem astonished, perhaps he had seen Super Slug on many days.

And how the slug flew around and around, alerting his other snail and slug beings and gathering them away from the area of Mister Toad, forming their own safety, an impermanent town. He brought all of them to a safe area, where they could avoid being devoured. Mister Old Toad lazily blinked his eyes. He wasn’t impressed by Super Slug’s flamboyance sense of rescue style. After all, he had seen it again and again. It was only impressive to me, for I had never seen it before. Super Slug, formerly known as Snail’s shell lay discarded on the garden path. I carefully picked it up to save it for him, when he decided to return to his disguise at last.

Suddenly, everything in the garden seemed calmer, it was like it had breathed a sigh of relief, for Mister Toad had not bothered any of them further, and he’d decided to go to sleep. So, I waited and waited for Super Slug, but it seemed he would never return, perhaps the fact that I’d viewed his transformation meant that he had to live elsewhere, for his secret had come undone.

No matter that the other creatures already knew of his alteration, I was different, because I was a human, and with other members of my species, I could talk with them. To reveal his ability, and this would not be good for the snail and slug family, not at all for them. I wanted to reassure him that I would not reveal, I would not talk, but the truth is, I may, out of excitement have slipped, and this was what Super Slug surely wanted to avoid, his identity was to be kept safe: that was of the greatest import.

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


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Story: Technology Invaders: When They Decide To Go Bump In The Night – 06/08/19

She was frustrated at every step; there were nasty, faceless individuals attempting to hold her back. They used their wily tactics to sneak into her system unknowingly, taking pride in themselves for being overly cunning. How cruel could some people be? Why did they wish to target little old she? She had not performed them any wrongdoings, nor ill. They simply wished to show off with their unwarranted intrusions and programs and smoking set of computer skills that would, hopefully they wished, cause her to run. But she would not give up, she would not allow them to alter her intent. She was here and now, and her time with her work and her passions was what she felt was well spent.

Although some might wish to aim for her, take her down for whatever reason, she hoped that with her fervent attitude, she would deter and evade the lot of them. Because some people wanted to hurt others for unknown reasons, and she greatly disliked individuals of this kind, they were certainly not looked upon favourably by those up in heaven, not at all, oh my. They wanted to create a hell for her on earth, but she wouldn’t allow it. She would continue creating and making, her creations birthed from her artistic mind and hands, from them they would flow through them.

How brave does one need to be to be a faceless enemy? To want to take down another when their vulnerabilities seem a-plenty? How courageous those individuals must be when it came to causing her duress, her distress was ongoing, and they must have loved to hear of her frustrated moans. Because she herself was learning, she needed to learn very quickly, how to rectify the processes which were coming thick and fast. She would hopefully not have to deal with these attacks as activities that were ongoing. But the question of that day was, was she being targeted for who she was? For what she did, for what she made? Was there a problem with the people or persons that she closely knew, or was she simply a random pick, like a braying sheep plucked from a field?

Was she simply anonymous to them, nothing more than a plaything to amuse themselves with, and once having stolen or self-gratified, they would move onto the next victim they could see? This was the problem with online things, certain people mixed in negative circles and their abilities were highly skilled, and they did not wish to be seen. They would sneak around the networks, with stealth and utter command, taking over computers and networks without any sense of giving a damn. In fact, it would probably be glorious for them to take someone down, and she didn’t quite understand why she was the pick, or even if she was a personal victim, of someone with a purposeful malicious hacking crown.

There may be people in the world who looked down their noses at her, for the things she wrote or talked about, but surely this was not worthy of herself being taken down. How was it fair that she was being punished for expressing her creativity, her art, her thoughts? Why couldn’t she be left alone to create, to be the person who she was? Besides, who were the real cowards, the ones with their faces hidden, or her, with her face on display, open for the world to know, she was not going to hide away. Why on earth would she allow these others to alter her life and set tasks, just because of the threats that splashed on her display, which once caused a fluttering heart?

She would not be deterred. She would not be taken down. She would fight onward, and be herself. No more fear would there be, she would take the lessons as they came. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore, because everything would be completely and securely saved. She would be the strongest in the face of these adversaries and she wished to pass a message on: Don’t bother to creep inside, when you dare not even show your faces.

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


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Story: A Resplendent Stag At His Own Stag Do – 04/09/19

There was a lucky stag, who was marrying the most wonderful deer in the world, tonight was his stag do, tonight would be when he celebrated at the same time but a different place to the girls. Usually the night would be filled with heavy drinking, antler fighting, wide eyed ogling, but this wasn’t what he wanted for himself, he didn’t want to sin. Besides, this stag wasn’t interested in drinking excessively, waking up feeling horrid, pains a-plenty, what he was interested in was projecting a special sense of beauty. He had always held a fond feeling, a soft spot, for the sublime and the visually appealing, and his stag friends knew that this was how he wished to celebrate, to project an aesthetically pleasing viewing.

Now, in a quiet corner of the forest they approached him, sombre, with a cascading wreath and male veil all of his own, placing the creation from Nature upon his antlers, his face, around his head, his crown. Upon their tippy toes they adorned him, made him shine resplendent from afar, the flowers, the buds, the leaves, brightening this special stag-star. One friend walked slowly with a full-length elaborately decorated mirror, presenting his stag friend with the visual version of who he presently was. With great delight and a widened smile, he threw his head back and grinned, admiring himself from left to right, all for a while did he.

“What a beauty I have become,” he breathed, so astonished. “Who made this crown for me, my veil, the maker I wish to know them!” Never before had he seen such an intricate crown made for anyone else, let alone him, and he was the King of collecting nature made crowns and other such things. In fact, at home he had stowed in the closet secretly from his future wife the amount of three times twelve, and she would never discover his collection because it was hidden incredibly well. But this crown veil took the cake, it was weaved so specially for him, the flowers and buds so dainty as they’d been plucked, preserved, tamed, and strangely he felt like what a goddess must feel like, a beautiful version of a nature queen. Because this veil was not manly, it appealed to the feminine inside, and this was the part of himself that he liked to be in touch with, it was a gentler part of his insides. He could be a manly stag, making noises to draw attention, fighting with other antlers of strong stag men, but when it came to general life, this stag preferred to be gentle and loving, and not so over protective and wild.

“It was Mrs. Simbalina!” one of his stag friends announced. “She was the one who created this for you, she must have known of your character quite well?”

“Bring her forth to me!” he roared in a manner quite proudly, as he preened and viewed himself again in the mirror, my, it was a glorious scene to behold. He became lost in absorbing the beauty that he usually only felt within, now it was as though Mrs. Simbalina’s creation had drawn out his beautiful inner truth and sense of visual beauty which was now available to be seen. It wasn’t as if he classed himself as unattractive usually, but this crown and veil made him feel quite chuffed, so pleased. Soon, the maker mouse was brought to him.

“Mrs. Simbalina! May I please pay my dues, you have brought the beauty out from within me, look at this wondrous view!” And with a flourish he turned his head this way and that, and groomed the flowing buds of premature roses, until, unfortunately, he accidentally pruned them from their holds, and that was that. Oh, how his heart ached, he threw his head back and produced a guttural wail, what had he done, he had planned to use this veil at the altar, with his lover before him, her eyes captured upon his face, surrounded by this magic veil before her unveiling.

“What have I done?” he cried, tears wept from each inner corner of his eyes.

“Do not fret, Brett,” she said to the stag. “I can make you another instead.” Instantly his eyes dried up as though a puddle would were it placed within a parched desert. He thanked her profusely, and allowed her to leave, of her craft to get on with it. And within two hours she had returned with the most resplendent veil and crown you could ever hope to see, amazing at her life’s work was Mrs. Simbalina, so talented was she.

When Brett and his love’s special day came, they were both wearing their own version of veils, and surprisingly they were made by a craftswoman one and the same. Each one brought out a particular characteristic from the other; the feminine from Brett, brought out the stronger part in his other. As though the veils reflected the way that they were already intertwined in life, they held hands, joined their lives, and their truth was there to be witnessed, held together with love and affection that was wholly meant. And Mrs. Simbalina was secretly taken on by the Stag and his staff as a craftswoman of immense talent and secretive means to alter another’s life course, though her skills would never be openly spoken of, only held within careful silence from east to west, from south to north. Why? It was safer that way, because Mrs. Simbalina had to be carefully guarded due to her ability to exceptionally alter and cause.

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


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Story: Love Without Self Punishment – 03/09/19

With her eyes closed, she felt serene and free. Acceptance swirled within her like a welcoming mist, a self-love that had taken many years to grow, for herself to believe. Standing there with her curvaceous figure clad only in a bikini, she knew that years prior she wouldn’t have been comfortable in this size of clothing, wouldn’t dare to be seen. Now she felt a sense of quiet confidence. An accepting of who she was, what her image had become, so different from who she had once been. Unlike the yesterdays where she would shy away, embarrassed by a single stomach roll popping through her clothes, she had learned over time to simply appreciate and love herself. She had not always been so kind to herself, so many precious years had been wasted, pure happiness missed, completely wasted in the process.

She’d lived through years of feeling pressured to conform to society’s norms, to be toned and thin, wear revealing, tight clothes, they were not only the pressures of society but a decision she had also thrown upon herself. She’d control and obsessively count her calories, exercise excessively, measure the deficits, plan out every meal to each macro and calorie, all for the need to be beautiful to herself and all, because she knew of the attention she’d draw, and she essentially wanted to be seen. She had been invisible for too long in her life up until now, a quiet girl, a wallflower of a woman, barely noticed by the world.

But there came a time when she couldn’t control her world any longer, everything became far too difficult, she felt her mentality being somewhat snowed under. Her disordered thoughts and life became too tiring and too physically exhausting to keep up the effort and the pretenses, thus she allowed herself, reluctantly, to slip, and this did cause her much distress. But she couldn’t continue without risking breaking herself, in this life she had been abusing herself, and she knew that it was only a matter of time before her body broke internally, for the doctors with their worried expressions to shake their heads sadly.

Then came the slow weight gains, then faster as she binged to subconsciously make up for the restrictions, and faster still her body would grow until she had regained to her original size, original weight, and then some more as well. She was dismayed, heartbroken because of all her prior control and hard work, there was nothing anymore to show for it, her memories she might as well throw unwanted, useless into the welcoming dirt. Her photos which she’d taken of herself over time were like a collage, a catalogue of attractive to not, in her eyes, she couldn’t accept herself, because this shape, this new form, was something she wished to be rid of. She couldn’t muster the energy to recommence with the tactics of shrinking again though, her secrets, her techniques, it was as though they were meant to be leaving her, this was the correct thing to do, it must be so.

So, she carefully learned to love food again, she learned to enjoy every single bite. Not hating herself for wanting more, and reaching for the second serve, her body needed the vitamins, the sustenance, the help, to be healthy and alive. And no matter how many kilograms she was gaining and would gain, she understood that this was simply the course of Nature, and to not fixate upon the negatives, but the positives, such as improved health and happiness, this she would again and again. Sure, she was now classed as medically overweight but aside from a health factor what did this matter? As long as she had learned to be happy within herself, that was the feeling that mattered the most. It was a welcoming interior picture.

Because for the first time in years she could enjoy a glass of regular Coca Cola, not fearing that one sip that may lead to another and another, and she could eat a slice of pizza without concern or care, and she could dress herself in a bikini and parade around the shop where she was trying it on there. There was no sign of her wanting to hide within the change room, calling over her friend to view her while she was still enclosed in it, a closet view, she was able to stand outside, look in the communal mirror from which she used to, when previously gaining, shy away from and hide, and now she closed her eyes again, breathed in and out, a deep sighing. How far she’d come from those years of great starvation.

Never again would she punish her body, she would feed it whatever it so desired, she would provide it anything she wanted, without a single shred of guilt to be had. There was nothing to be self-conscious of, no matter whether her curved, bulging stomach was on show, in fact, this was a form of wondrous beauty in itself. In this bikini, her thick thighs and curvaceous hips were displayed, rather than hidden within a one-piece instead. And she somehow liked it this way, understanding in her heart that she must accept this was her body’s way of making her love what it had become, and to not alter herself again with any sense of unhealthy methods or desires or needs or wants. She didn’t care that her arms were now thicker, that her thighs rubbed against each other when she walked, pressing firmly together, that her chins were more prominent, because inner beauty was what she should prize the most.

And appreciate herself for her interior that she did, no more worrying about what others would think of her, how she’d be viewed, judged or seen. She loved every part of herself, even her two wonky side teeth, and that was the end of the tale for this little former wallflower who had finally bloomed so delightfully.

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

 


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Story: Naughty Little Eraser – 03/09/19

Naughty little Eraser, wiping away Pencil’s truths, she thought that she could get away with it, now view what dear Innocent Pencil can do! She’ll wreak revenge with the swiftest of skill, the irony at repeatedly poking at soft Eraser with another pencil is not lost upon us, the most agile of throws and pokes Pencil has at her will to fulfil. For, all those notes she wrote, those truths which she’d unfurl, detail, unfold, nasty little Eraser thought it clever to make them more invisible, completely untold. And all those words of wept sorrow, dreams of the future, proper tomorrows, were essentially lost, and now, Pencil was taking control. She’d not allow this other to win this scene, to flee away with her erasing skills intact, no, this was a certain fact she did not wish to see. Instead, she hoped that Eraser would walk away unable to rub away another’s words ever again, she would be broken into little rubbery pieces, feeling less wholesome and more powerless instead. This was how Pencil felt when she discovered her Journal completely rubbed out, simply due to Eraser’s jealousy, at the fact that she paired with Journal rather than Eraser when they all first met.

And throw and poke and poke and throw did Pencil to the little defenseless Eraser, wishing that she could punish her, make her feel emotional pain and such, then Pencil suddenly realised her method of revenge was one of madness, and she was being physically crueler than Eraser had been emotionally, and this method of attack should now be unheard of, ceased in itself instead, never again to be practiced nor seen. But she could not stop, she was compelled, to continue on attacking, her anger would not be quelled, it was rising as she recalled all of her precious wiped away words, their phrasings now never again to be read of or heard. Her masterpieces of daily entries, disintegrated, compelled by Eraser’s former chagrin, her winding words, her sonnets, her soliloquies, were gone, gone, gone, blown away with pieces of rubbed eraser in the wind.

And now there was a little pile of mess, tiny erasers in blocks of two and three, grouped in saddening heaps, plain for the world to see. Pencil grinned with notable satisfaction, at her ability to perform this process, because even though Eraser was in pieces, she wasn’t completely harmed, she was still living. Because when one separates an eraser into differing sections, they simply rejuvenate and become another eraser person, so essentially Pencil had helped their cause, though really, they were far too small to make any difference in others’ important written words.

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


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Story: The Secret Mozzie Healer – 02/09/19

“She slurped blood here, she sourced blood from there, she took advantage of healing their injuries with great concern and care.”

McBuzzy McBuzz’s role in life was as a brave fighter pilot, she would attack the enemy with rapidity and due diligence. When she was not reigning bullets and bombs down upon the deserving rouge nations, she was honoured to transport her fellow servicemen and women. However, she was addicted to the metallic taste of blood, the iron platelets slipping down her throat, it made her want to gleefully rub her stomach, and find others to drain from. When she was in mid-air, she’d often place the jet on autopilot, so she could visit and speak with the injured soldiers, to see if she could benefit. Some would be asleep, some would be moaning with great pain, their injuries were healing, not quickly enough though, they needed more love and attention. McBuzzy McBuzz was able to feel their pain, empathise with them, and understand what they wanted and in return what she could gain, and in a transfer so very easy, she sucked the pain dry from their blood, a secret tactic that she had learned when she was just a little wee insect bub.

When she performed this action, often the soldiers’ eyes would widen, upright, stiffen, they would sit, their wings now glimmering and golden. “By goodness, what have you done?” they would asked, astounded, looking around with great numbness. “I feel perfectly fine now, and you only drained me of blood as I know it!” McBuzzy felt utterly pleased, a smile coming to her face, a crafty expression that, if it were to be witnessed, would not have gone to waste, because her actions allowed her to gain and the others to lose, and wasn’t this a perfect thing for them to experience and for others to view? It just so happened that McBuzzy would then return to the cockpit, to guide the jet down towards the runway, to deliver the cured servicemen to be used again in the trenches and pits.

Because this was the real reason why she had been raised to have this talent, her wartime family knew that it would come in handy, to have her cure men and women who might otherwise be of no further use to the military, during dangerous world events. If one could make right the injuries sustained, over and over, why, it was as though these soldiers and their skills were being healed again to be used in the battlefield seemingly forever. Then the country would never run out of its manpower, for there would always be McBuzzy the fighter pilot and secret healer to make certain that their soldiers were in tip top shape to continue fighting for the country’s rights, but what would happen if McBuzzy was in trouble, who would heal or save her?

There was no use in accommodating or entertaining such a thought, because this mozzie was able to look after herself. She could remove blood from any being, and never receive a negative transmission or a disease, not a thing. She also had the skill of purifying all received blood, it was like if one were given a murky solution, and they could separate the water from the mud. McBuzzy was such a top secret government individual that she needed to be on the lookout often, to protect herself the most, because she knew that due to her skill set, if others found out they might make use of her, take her away, suddenly kidnap: and put her to ill use.

However, aside from the government officials and herself, no one knew of her skill at all, let alone little, let alone the most. Even the soldiers who she cured couldn’t remember the procedure, for as soon as she left the interior of the jet, she emitted a natural gas that wiped the memories from their minds, no longer would they be saved. But there were beginning to be whispers, rumblings, of a certain talented mosquito, who resided in the war-torn countries as a pilot, and soon the bounty hunters were beginning their tracking, their know-hows.

The soldiers in the plane today didn’t look like the usual characters. Some had keen looks in their eyes, some were nervously darting around, some highly fidgeting. They didn’t have the war-torn expressions paining in their eyeballs, the way that the other, front line soldiers did, this group of soldiers seemed odd, as though they hadn’t experienced any negative war activity. They simply appeared either eager or nervous, for someone, or something. McBuzzy couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she knew something was amiss.

She approached the most nervous looking soldier and asked if he wanted to feel calm.

“Yes… y…yes, of course,” he stammered, barely able to look her in her eyes,  let alone being comfortable with her touching his shaking arm.

“Allow me to rid yourself of your illness, of it I will suck you dry,” she whispered, and she plunged her feeder into his jugular vein, where there would be the most blood flow. He suddenly snapped to, he felt overwhelmingly awake, so refreshed he was amazed! Her talent, her skill, were something certainly to be captured and saved.

“How, what, why?” he asked, needing to understand what had just occurred.

“Never you mind,” she said with a smile, and moved onto the other male mosquitoes in the herd. She cured all five members, they were dutifully pleased, at how clever she was with blood-letting, and her ability to allow them to be free, of the minutia, of the delicateness of illnesses that they didn’t even believe they’d had, and now that they had received her treatment, they didn’t feel like taking her away for their rogue nations, to be analysed, stripped of her talent, and cast away without a care. Besides, she presently emitted her signature gassy scent, and there went their memories of the moments, that was that.

The plane full of bounty hunters presently forgot all about their mission.

McBuzzy slowly gained a huge following, online and in real life, because gradually, slowly but surely, she had allowed the healed others to continue on without having their memories wiped. She felt it was somehow important that they knew that she would be taking credit for the procedures she had performed and how she’d made their lives better as they would soon understand and know it. Because if she healed everyone the world over and they didn’t know who was behind it, wasn’t that slightly pointless, too selflessly altruistic? She also wanted to share her techniques with others, so she started a healing school, where she went through the biology of what her body was capable of, what it had been taught to do. There she taught adaptable techniques of how other mosquitoes could source blood while saving ill fated members of the world, it was incredibly holistic yet medical too.

Soon, there were mosquitoes everywhere, sucking the world dry all over, yet the point of this, the wisdom of the matter, was that they were saving others, not simply satiating their thirst for blood, they worked together. And with the cure being made obvious now, there was no need for warring, for fighting, for capturing other countries for their resources or wealth, no more need to fight for world power, domination, and such, when everyone could coexist peacefully together. It was amazing how from one little mozzie that peace could begin, occur in a special manner, a wondrous style, for her as a great being, and of McBuzzy McBuzz she would be known of as the world’s greatest healer, of her name they would all righteously sing.

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


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Story: The Most Easily Startled Shark You Would Ever Meet – 01/09/19

Spike was an easily startled shark, everything he saw caused him a sense of horror to be seen, he jumped at the sight of anything, even a malformed coral piece lurking deep within the sea. The shadowy darkness of a cavern would make him tremble just so, the privacy for him was no sense or heaven to want, need of or know. Better that he stayed away, glided off, swum away, into fresher waters before he bumped into a fish hook plied with a slimy worm which refused to be still, to stay, and the notion that he could be caught by a nasty human terrified him this day.

The worm upon the hook swayed, swayed this way and that, grinning to Spike seemingly, murmuring that it would be okay, to eat him, to taste, how delicious he would be, why, he only needed to have just a little taste, and then freedom from the sea Spike would be knowing, this was a fact! Because Spike disliked being in the depths, he wanted to free of the sights and scenes of the sea’s frightening views, and if that meant he had to throw himself out of the sea, that was what he was prepared to do. But now that Worm was presenting another way to escape this world, Spike was beginning to grow less suspicious, perhaps the hook would take him upward in a method that was safe to be known. He didn’t have to bite into it, cause the hook to puncture his mouth, his precious face, he could perhaps link himself onto it with his tail or his fins, that would hurt less, and would allow him a view like nothing else. 

As he would rise from the deep, he envisaged himself dangling with ease, looking down upon the shrinking seascape feeling so very pleased. He would see the passing whales, spouting out water from their blowholes, schools of fish in the pristine water so clever, swarming together, so fit. The image itself seemed to make Spike happy, it was a method of escaping, to be taken away, to a better place, where, once lifted high enough, he could detach himself and throw himself on land, then a new life he would find. It all made perfect sense to him, thus he then hooked his tail to the hook, not before having devoured the worm though, the living form of protein he knew would be wise to take from the hook.  

With a shake and a tug, he alerted to the humans up above that he was ready to be lifted up. Slowly they allowed his ascent, permitting him the view around the sea and above, just as he had thought, the views were just as he’d understood and were what the worm had explained to him, what he’d meant, and soon he was hanging from above a trawling ship, where large fish rested upon their deck such as huge specimens of marlin and tuna.

“MY!” called the fishermen. “WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT??” A collective gasp as they view Spike the frightened shark as he approached them with an apparent gruesome intent. His teeth were bared wide with fright, although the humans misconstrued this as threatening, he swung this way and that, trying to free himself onto land, from the firm hook that was keeping him from escaping. It was not going along as planned, he wanted to be free of these gawking, threatening men, who surely only wanted to eat him later, moments before in which he’d surely be suffering.

Around and around Spike swung, he was barely avoiding the men with their grappling hands and violent bats. He didn’t know precisely what they wanted to do with them, but it seemed as though they wanted to hit him many times, this seemed an obvious fact. He wriggled about and wriggled some more, and slipped from the hook, onto the deck the humans were grinning, their desires almost assured. He slid this way to escape them, and then slid to the end of the ship some more, until he was heavy enough to weigh them down, a forty five degree angle the ship was now at large.

Spike knew that to get to the nearby land he would need to pop back into the sea, but he was reluctant to do so, because he had been so eager to leave. What if he couldn’t escape the sea again so easily, without the fisherman’s hook leverage, essentially he would have to bounce from here to there, with a type of cushioning to please. So instead he grabbed two humans, the ones who seemed most intent on having him of this world leave, and he sat upon them, allowing them to be buoyant, life saving devices for them now to be. They were frightened, startled beyond belief, at being attached to Spike, but he smiled to himself, grinned inside, and said, “Well, that’s what happens when you try to make me into oil, meat and hide!” They shook vigorously, their eyes widened and startled, their words begging for him to free them, but he wouldn’t, after all, he needed them, to escape their hunting world.

Splash, he re-entered his previous world, and bounce up and down, he did, with delight, the humans realised that they could also survive here, as long as their heads were kept above water, they would be able to remain alive. He swum towards the bank, the shore where he would live quietly and well, and once he’d used the humans for his benefits, he detached from them, waved them off, and said his fond farewells.

“Thanks for capturing me, I captured you in turn,” he said with a snide smile. “I am no longer frightened of you, this place, or my former world.” He was a shark of great bravery, for his travels he had learned, that there was nothing to be scared of, at least not in his new world. There were no brightly coloured corals to hurt himself upon, there were no murky caverns to explore and discover undesirables inside waiting to be known, and now upon land the only thing Spike needed to be worried of was remaining hydrated and having enough air to breathe in and out with precious appreciation and grateful love. He had overcome his fears, just by entering our reality, our world. Sometimes leaving behind what we do not wish to face can allow us to explore other exciting realms.

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


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Story: Carmella the Witch-In-Training and the Sparkling Night Sky – 01/09/19

The sky appeared, to her, so very dull and grey. With her wand presented, she shut her eyes, winced them closed tightly, her thoughts, whatever they might be, didn’t, by any means, come carelessly. Carefully, she wound the wand around and around, circling the dull sky, until brightness abounded. From the tip of the wooden device she expelled a cloud of softened material, a bubble, if you will, of her good intent and will. Now the skies were a beautiful light blue, with the night tapestries of stars laid out, a confusing juxtaposed view to behold, yet still, it was wondrous to be seen. Of her handiwork she knew, that before her training, she’d never have had the opportunity to perform this, and her mind and eyes would be ailing, at observing the plainness that was there to have been seen, although now that she was more skilled, she was able to alter certain things in the reality that she lived in.

Satisfied with her handiwork, she mentally prepared the stars, in differential arrangements, newer representations, that had more meaning to her. But the stars refused to move, so obstinately they wouldn’t, couldn’t, nothing at all to do, they wouldn’t be rearranged by a mere witch-in-training, they knew that their own organisations were perfect in themselves, and their constellations were worth saving.

Still, Carmella, witch-in-training, attempted to mold the stars with her mind. She didn’t realise that what she was doing was sacrilegious, these stars and their formations had been there since the dawn of time. Whether the Big Bang or God, they were placed here, by someone or something, for a reason, and to alter them really proved a certain sense of worldly treason. It was one thing to alter the colour and shade and hue of the skies, but an entirely different matter when one meddles with something that should not be altered, nor compromised. Carmella pointed her wand at the stars, in particular now, Gemini, and shrieked her most potent magical word, “Kamenlatra!!!” It was meant to be the ultimate spell to be cast, when others didn’t cause anything, not even a movement in stagnant dust motes. The world shuddered for a moment, a warping sound, take that as you will, and then Gemini was reversed and rearranged, Carmella grinned deeply still!

“Just wait until Sharon hears about this!” she giggled to herself. She understood that what she had done was entirely amazing, yet incredibly remiss. One of the first rules of being an Earth Witch was not to harm Mother Earth, yet here she was, celebrating her alteration of the Earth’s precious arrangement, the precocious twins of Gemini were now no longer at large. The world now seemed unbalanced, as though there were no childish laughs to be had, a breaking of the link between child-like wonder and still a sense of growing maturity, the atmosphere around now felt hollow, less than whole. It was an aching sensation in the pit of the stomach of everyone, a paining, a longing, and they didn’t understand this was so because someone had thoughtlessly rearranged something, two beings that had been perfect, just so. The world was now akimbo.

Carmella skipped to school that day. She’d had a wonderful night retraining the rest of the Zodiac to be different where they hung in the sky and where they laid. Their new, brighter repositioning caused brightness in her eyes, a clear sense of delight, why, she was now the Master, she had the ability to alter the source of the stars’ dying light. She would arrive in a few minutes to Route Sixteen, where her training school, Sharon’s Witchity School For Clever Girls was situated out of the way.

“Miss Sharon, Miss Sharon!” Carmella called to her, even before she’d reached the door. “Did you see what I’ve done? Have a look then look some more!” Miss Sharon swept into the room with her cape flourishing as she moved. Her beady little bespectacled eyes narrowed, as she sniffed out a sense of recklessness and stupidity within the room. Looking for the source of these, she could only lay her eyes upon her student Carmella, who was never, at all, stupid nor reckless, never had she been known to be these things.

“What are you speaking of, dear child?” she implored the excited being. Barely able to stand still, Carmella’s heart and sense of pride were abounding. “Look tonight, at the stars, at what I have done! I altered the constellations, each and every one.” Proudly, with her chest thrown forth, she grinned widely, she couldn’t help it, of course. What a silly little being that Carmella was being, didn’t she realise that what she had done would disrupt the lives of every single living being? For the stars told their stories, their ways and movements within the world, affecting how we operated, sharing secrets of life that were able to be unfurled. They spoke of courage, of lightness, of brightness and wisdom, beauty in the beholders, and now they were warped, strangely made versions of them.

“There is no reason to wait tonight to view the stars,” her teacher replied, and with a whoosh of her wand, she altered from day to night, and suddenly, feeling faint, she realised that this child was essentially at large. She’d be wanted by the Witch police for this, how could she think that this was the correct thing to do, of common sense, its target had sorely missed, Miss Sharon felt a wash of murky feeling, a deep, insidious blue. She pointed her wand at the stars to rectify the process but there was nothing, no change, because, Carmella had accidentally locked, with her magic skills, a secret code to never be entered, because even she did not know what it was. She’d scrambled the directions to rearrange and essentially added a coding that wouldn’t be remembered, unless one were startled enough or amazed.

“Right,” Miss Sharon said after getting over feeling horrified. “We must do something about this, before others will have the chance to notice this.” But Carmella didn’t understand what they could do, even her grand teacher Miss Sharon could not alter the method made to never be undone by their hands. Her teacher knew what she had to do, and she pulled out a large roll of blank paper, with markers, fine liners, Posca pens, and coloured pencils, too.

“Let’s get to work,” she said firmly, very seriously. Miss Sharon quickly switched the sky from night back to day, to allow them time to alter the mistakes that Carmella that previous night had made.

And so they drew the night sky from heart, tracing and plotting out the patterns, dotting the now darkened paper skies with flicks of brightness, correct, no longer ill wandering stars. They depicted the upper world as best as they knew, bold and lovely, it was something wondrous to view. Carmella grew more and more excited as time went on, for their creation was taking shape, and she realised now that her errors of the night could be undone. She shouldn’t feel bad anymore, because they were going to somehow rectify her process. And once completed, they laid the depiction of the sky up high, it was something perfect in itself to witness. With a certain technique to her movements, sharp, swift, yet with gracefulness to it, Miss Sharon weaved their sky to the altered one behind. With a quick, emboldened cutting of the stitches, she felt perfection in this replication as they knew it, others wouldn’t realise the duplication because Miss Sharon had made theirs a reality as the world would soon know it.

When night time befell, the whole world was in amazement and awe. They couldn’t understand how this had happened, how much brighter their nightscape world above had become, had it been by divine hands or simply the work of the stars? And when it came to whether Carmella had to face up to her star altering deeds to the Witch police, I’ll tell you this, she was incredibly lucky to have Miss Sharon as her teacher, because with the authorities she smoothed over her student’s behaviour with ease. She was a silver tongue as well, very skilled indeed.

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


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Story: Patrick the Pelican With a Tickle in His Throat – 31/08/19

Patrick the Pelican never bothered to chew. A huge mouthful of fish swallowed, gone, that was how he rolled, that was what he would do. Why would anyone bother with the activity of chewing when he could swallow many fish while even thinking? Sometimes he warned by his other, non-pelican friends that he must chew, otherwise he might choke instead! Patrick always laughed them off, after all he gotten by for thirteen long years of his life, without any cause or incidence, he ate each day with no strife.

But what would he do if a little wayward fish became stuck in the back of his throat? He would surely cough, cough, cough, until it became less of a blockage, and flew from his beak from the inside out! It would be no drama, he thought, if this were to occur, because he had a great gag reflex, he used to practice swallowing swords. Patrick was a skilled sword swallower, he was known for his amazing skill through the wharf and in the busy pub a little down south, where he used to showcase his talent on Friday nights after school, this was actually how he gained his fame and his wealth. So, there was nothing to be concerned about, nothing to worry, a little stray fish? Why, nothing to do with it, no need to fret, he didn’t need to think of the consequences carefully, for there would be none, and Patrick knew he could always eat, voraciously or even daintily. It wouldn’t even matter, there’d never be a choking.

One day, Patrick decided to go for a swim. He felt the ocean had a lot to offer him this afternoon, and he wanted to fill his beak to the brim. Normally he desired catching them while diving from the sky, but today he felt a little languid, a little lazy, and he thought he’d give a different method a try. Besides, he could swim and smile and view the unsuspecting fishies all the while, and pick them off, one by one, until his beak was filled with tasty delights, all of them would be his to swallow and have his stomach then positively churn. But one little fishy stood out to him, she was pink and yellow in colour, flaming with elaborate fins and eyes widened with stoic disaster.

“Please, dear Patrick, please stay away from me, I’m too beautiful to be eaten so freely!” Patrick narrowed his eyes and grinned a crafty smile. “No fish is too beautiful to stop it being tasty to me all the while.” And so into his mouth she popped, gone right there, as if she hadn’t existed at all, and with a strange sensation inside, his mouth began to suddenly seem to crawl. What was going on, he wondered, what was that slimy yet creeping sensation that he’d never experienced? Surely it wasn’t that irksome fish, taking her sweet revenge. Instead he tried to ignore the feeling, moved on to other horizons and fishies, and gathering them he continued to do so, well into the evening. Tonight would be a great haul, and he would swallow them all when he was pleased with how full his beak was feeling.

Still, he felt discomfort, now his skin beneath his feathers began to crawl.  From inside his beak, a certain screaming:- “I told you not eat me at all!” Then he felt a type of repeated electric shocking from behind his tongue, near to his throat, he suddenly felt the irresistible need to swallow this sensation away, that doing so would solve it, by taking it down. And so he tried, awfully hard, it was with great strife that he attempted to do so, but nothing would rid him of this horrid form of fishy life. It was like she was going to punish him forever, for simply needing to swallow, to eat her.  It was all a part of life, part of the food chain, why couldn’t she realise this, and just give up, and lie there, instead of fighting, not being tame? Fish were meant to be eaten, that was one of their many roles. It just so happened that this insolent fishie was not accepting, or being aware of the role that she was likely expected to play the most.

Patrick rolled around, trying to dislodge her from the back of his throat where she was somehow causing him the shocks. He then turned upside down then righted himself, and still, she persisted, remaining at large. Finally, he had had enough, he needed to be rid of her, if she would go down, then by goodness he would then spit her out, this was how he would get rid of her. Patrick forced out all the fishes that he had procured, that he had acquired, they all flew from him mouth like a tidal wave of living others, expulsion at its finest, how saddened was he, to have lost his large meal, and then out popped Yellow Fish with her dazzling areas of Pinkie!

“Thank you, dear Patrick, for doing what was right,” she snapped. “Although I knew if I didn’t tickle your throat so, I would have died this very night.  All my extended brothers and sisters will all thank me on the morrow, but you, dear Pelican, of your selfishness, you deserve much sorrow.” And off she swam, swinging her hips so haughtily, head held high, her nose set in a manner so snooty. Never again would Patrick fish near these waters, instead he would visit the high tides elsewhere, and stay away from this sea’s sons and daughters. For fear of coming across a variety like her again, he wanted to simply live a quiet life where he wasn’t made to suffer to his need to eat again and again. It was better this way, that he found some place fresh and new. It was probably that, better still, that he decided to swear himself off eating fishies too.

It seemed wise to become a vegetarian, his mother was one, after all, he did enjoy looking at and taking little tiny bites of her prepared meals, during the years he had still lived at home. One day he would encounter the yellow and pink fish again, and approach her would he with a certain tenderness, and share his wild stories, of his greatest encounters, of fetching and making himself elaborate and downright delicious vegetarian dinners. Perhaps they would become friends, he could only hope for this, because she had taught him a very important lesson with her behaviour and the way she had spoken to him. Think of others, not just as beings, as edible things, but as individuals who have a mind of their own and so too feelings. He was a peculiar pelican for going against the carnivore grain, but boy, wasn’t he happier with his life now, just the same.

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


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