Poem and Drawing: “Onward, loyal steed!” Henry the Toy Horse’s Flight – 02/08/19

It was one of Henry’s dreams to fly.

“Onward and upward, loyal steed!” cried the rounded grey bat, dangling tasty cherries before the face of his best friend, Henry the Toy Horse, his plan to rise was just that.

Henry did not have wings like the bat, but that didn’t stop his dream,

He and Grey Bat were best friends and he wanted to rise like Grey Bat could, easily and fearlessly, just like him, Henry prayed and wished he could.

Would the world part its textile tapestry reality and allow him to perform this flight, no matter how impossible it seemed, into the day and into the nights?

The cherries encouraged him, oh, how they were both so sour and sticky sweet,

With Grey Bat riding atop his back, flying upwards, he was required to rise some more with telepathic measures.

What are telepathic measures, may you ask? It is when Henry would become linked with the mind of Grey Bat and be able to practice his activities and thoughts and special psychic powers.

Therefore, if Grey Bat could fly, hypothetically could he, all he needed was to learn the mental weavings and knowledge available and able to be obtained so freely.

“Come on, Henry, you can do this!” encouraged Grey Bat relentlessly. “Come on, rise up and above, make the most of this!”

And with Henry’s head steaming, his mind trembling, an exterior of outwardly exacerbated internal thinking,

He exhaled ever so deeply and then with some visual imagery, two feet off the ground he slowly rose, what a triumphant victory!

Grey Bat whooped and hollered for many following days, as they rose and fell into the air as though of flying technique they knew it all, always.

For what a great victory that was to be had, the telepathic measures proved so fresh and rad, perhaps they were the only beings in the land to use such a forthcoming measure, of pertinent knowledge to be shared.

And fly and fly all the days and into the nights they did, for many years, then they introduced their growing families.

All of Henry’s horsey sons and daughters were able to take flight, and how proud their Godfather Grey Bat was to see this, it was so pleasantly nice.

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

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Poem and Drawing: The Lying Leader – 31/07/19

The Leader projected his lies on stage, each and every single day.

He stood to attention as he lied,

His disrespectful morning salute,

An utterance of how perfect the world could be,

He never expelled the truth.

Instead he preferred,

To distance himself from truthful Others,

So of his intentions,

He could impress many others.

For the moment of truth for him is,

Obscuring the totality of life,

Pretending as though everything were perfect,

To his followers he did not allow self made opinions or expressions or for them to freely decide.

What was he the leader of?

Is it really that relevant to know of? Because,

In every little corner of the world,

There lurked a tongue twisting liar with a serpent sharp tongue wrapped around a perfectly formed pearl.

Sometimes in life we need to hear an untruth,

To bolster our confidence,

To allow us a positive view,

Of ourselves we sometimes must also tell a lie,

But what does silence mean when it permeates the atmospheric skies?

I do not take forced silences well,

They are simply a lie of omission,

What can we expect from a leader who continually lies to the world and himself,

A positive predeliction.

And so this type of world leader regresses slightly then presses forth,

Creating understanding of the realm of his projected world,

His followers blindly scurry behind him, eating up his words,

Like desperate field mice they are within his neck of the convoluted woods.

What does it take to silence an untruth?

What will it take to cause a firmer view?

Of correct understanding, a positive landing,

Into a land of genuine nature and a solid knowledge to share.

For this liar’s land was far too serious,

I could hear a grumbling now in the crowd,

The people had begun to suspect and know some more, not enough,

But of the truth they must now know.

A roar above the previous silence,

A devilish wave of due diligence,

And away were his followers, from him they escaped,

Into the land of the freer world, where they could think openly and be able to contemplate.

We don’t take to liars kindly,

We are glad this leader has now gone,

Been overthrown in the pursuit of true knowledge,

The new world has been known to become.

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

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Poem and Drawing: Ecstatic Jumping Jellybean – 30/07/19

She was more than happy with her life.

She was an ecstatic jumping jellybean, the happiest bean the world had seen.

She liked to jump in and out of people’s way, causing reckless commotions throughout the day.

Oh, how it made her sing and then laugh, merriment spurting from her sweetened mouth,

And then when it came to laying down for rest during the night, her body was horizontally tested, and her mind and body were slowly going south for hours to remain.

What existed within Jellybean’s dreams?

Why, the prettiest, glorious stories to be ever viewed, heard, then mentally seen!

She created mental images from her daily events, from the moments when she jumped here, there and everywhere.

The shock, the horror, and the joy, upon people’s faces and within their eyes,

When she intercepted their paths, of course it amused her, these mental images were set to last.

“WHY, JOLLYBEAN, WHY ARE YOU ASLEEP?” A booming voice entered her dreams.

“JOLLY, JOLLY, JOLLY!” and she heard a loud guffaw, she certainly wasn’t peacefully sleeping anymore.

It was her half brother Fred, the Green Grotesque Jellybean who had fallen and bumped his head,

He now sported a great bump in his forehead and in his crown, a mere look at the dints would make one cry, “Yeeeeouch!”

“You’re always sleeping or scaring,” Fred chided. “Why don’t you do something productive?”

“What, like fall and hit my head?” Jollybean, also known as Jellybean said, and then she regretted it, why did she need to be cruel with what she said?

Fred’s saddened, long face pained her to view, she decided to cheer him up, in the best way she could.

“Let’s go scaring, come, it will be great fun!” and reluctantly, then slowly smilingly Fred agreed, and then the decision was made, the activity agreed upon.

And a gloriously fine day together they had did they, pursuing peoples and other individuals, keeping their own wits at bay.

That Fred clear forgot the nasty comment Jollybean had made, and he hugged her tightly for the great and wondrously hilarious day.

Nowadays they perform their scaring twice weekly as a way of maintaining their sibling bond,

They’ve grown closer and closer and greatly enjoy the moments together just because,

They were not essentially that different, despite Frank’s propensity for clumsiness,

And Jollybean’s habit of making life a light-hearted laughing mockery and sometimes a downright mess.

Because when they were together, their lives were always blessed.

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

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Story example: Broseph the Car – 30/07/19

Broseph was one of a kind.

Cars rushing everywhere, no time to stop and think, for the cars are on autopilot in my world, they don’t even need to eat or drink. They are known as artificial intelligence, and wouldn’t you know this, that the human race is slowly becoming superseded, by robots and machines that cost barely anything to be programmed.

Broseph the Bottle Blue Car was different to these inventions, he was of the old type of car, which responded to their driver’s manual movements and voice inflections from near and far. In fact, Broseph was incredibly sensitive to the sound of his owner’s voice that he often misinterpreted his earnest tone as being harsh, and this often caused him to weep, or at least shed a tear from one eye.

It was not his fault that he was overly sensitive, for Broseph had not always been like this. It happened during lunchtime one day, by the pond, where there were other cars and men, three friends, two cars. Curious, Broseph ambled along up to them, as he loved to make new friends, but they shooed him away: “Go, you fool!” and this ruined Broseph’s day. His feelings were incredibly hurt, he did not know why he had been dismissed, although he did recall the men looking suspect and acting cagey, perhaps something about them was remiss? Broseph shrugged to himself and went along his merry way. He could find many friends for himself in the future who would wish to stay.

Being on the highway frightened Broseph. The artificial intelligence cars were far too fast, far too skilled, far too dangerous to handle when he was simply an old, rundown vehicle, he could not reach top speeds steadily when his fluids often dangerously dribbled. Several panels on himself were dinted due to accidents completely of his own fault, they occurred when he and his owner driver did not get along together whilst they were conducting their driving work. Again, it was not his fault, he simply panicked in the moment, his anxiety rose the moment he reached a speed of sixty.

He often wondered to himself why his owner did not trade him in, perhaps it was nostalgia for his past, the memories of what occurred within, the setting looked after with much care and trust. After all, Broseph was from the 1960’s, where one would have had so much freedom and enjoyment, of living without stringent commitment, and many moments of this Broseph would have seen them.

One dreary afternoon, Broseph was on the main highway, travelling to assist his owner to obtain some weekly food, when all of a sudden: BAM! An artificial intelligence vehicle came directly into the right side of his driver, the one and only nostalgic man. The damage was done, there was a side mirror hanging by a mere thread, oh, how the pain throbbed in his side, Broseph wished for anything but this agony instead. The rider in the car obviously instructed the offending car to continue along its way, for during accidents, the AI was overridden to accept orders from humans who sat, ready, at bay.

But the question of the matter is: why was there even an accident; surely the artificial intelligence was fool proof, that was why they were on the road to replacing us, but the fact of the matter is that there is still a failing point, even if one percent it were. And while the tow truck pulled Broseph onto itself, while he squealed with deep ceded anguish that everyone who heard could feel and almost see, he decided to imagine the images, colourful flowers and outfits that were experienced from the 1960’s. She’s got a ticket to riiiiide, he sung to himself, trying to self soothe, she’s got a ticket to riiiiide, and behind his closed eye lids he viewed the glory of the flower days, wonderful, spectacular through and through.

At the hospital, when he was about to be put under, for minor panel damage surgery, one breath, two breaths, three breaths, four, and out he was like a light, perfect for that paining night. And awaken did he with certainly less agony, but he wondered where he was, it was all new to him. His eyes slowly focused and he laid them upon his owner, his caring driver, who had been there for the past four and a half hours. 
“You alright, mate?” he enquired, giving a panel a quick rub. “You’ve been asleep for hours,” he added, smilingly.

“Yes, thanks, feeling much better,” he replied, and went back to sleep.

This is why we cannot rely on artificial machines to take our place. While with ourselves there is more room for error, the intelligence does not have any setting to be reprogrammed, they could be like robotic demonic soldiers. If they take our place, what we meant to do as a human race, why, temporarily they may make our lives easier but in the long run? I do not envisage much fun. Internally I view a dystopia, where we are expected to worship and work for vile, cruel machines, who never take no for answer, do not allow us time, not even a second to ponder.

Who wants to be around machines which need to be programmed, that while they can perform the work of a human, they cannot feel emotions, empathy, happiness, all these things may be forgotten, as we slowly make ourselves into artificial intelligence ourselves, with frequent and newer upgrades, an alteration of our health. Who knows, perhaps one day we will become like the future Them, only operating on codes and scripts that other skilled, talented coders have written. I hope this day we never see, for if so, you, myself, Broseph and his driver, may soon be completely forgotten.

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

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Poem and Watercolour: Baby Balloon Goes for a Stroll – 29/07/19

Baby Balloon and Mama Martha on their walk.

Baby Balloon was excited,

She was soon to go on her walk,

With her adoptive mother, Mama Martha,

When they walked, they loved to sightsee and talk.

Normally, with most balloons,

One would expect to view them to be floating like a miniature moon,

But Baby Balloon had not yet learned that skill,

She was confined to walking on her tippy toes and resting on her calloused heels.

She performed so much walking that her heels were thickened with the roughened skin,

But it did prove how proactive she was at moving about the world which begged to be explored and seen.

On her tippy toes, over a fence, she could see slightly, a couple inches more of the scene,

When she rested on her heels, she wondered where on earth that world had gone,

Where her eyes had just been.

“How much longer will it take?” she begged Mama Martha. “Until I can soar high above, much higher than the others?”

She wondered how much longer she must wait to learn,

The baby balloon’s equivalent of human walking from crawling,

She was already three years old, should she be concerned?

Was Baby Balloon of stunted development, is this something to sigh of and quietly self soothe?

Would she forever be walking,

An oddity soon to be featured on the Nightly News?

Saddened at the conversation, in which Mama Martha had simply reassured her,

Baby Balloon and Mama set out on their walk.  

“Look at this tree, now that shrub,

And now look! A sparrow and a lark!”

Then suddenly a whooooosh of cold autumn air lifted Baby Balloon clean off the path,

And rise and rise above, dear Martha she did,

“Mama – look! I’m flying at last!”

It did not matter that the flight was artificial,

 That she was not making use of any newly learned or acquired skills,

For she was so delighted with herself,

This feeling of excitement and euphoria had the potential to make one delightfully thrilled.

But now she was dropped carefully back down to earth,

“Mama, I think I can do it,” she whispered, and with a deep inhale, exhale of a breath and then a pause,

She lifted herself clean from the ground, you see,

With the assistance of certain circumstances we can truly learn to improve and be.

Baby Balloon flew everywhere now, but sometimes allowed Mama Martha to walk her,

A form of nostalgia.

A beautiful Balloon story in the making,

One day she would become an unpaid teacher of the community,

Sharing her knowledge of flight,

Allowing the youngsters to rise sooner than naturally possible,

Into their days and winding nights.

And smile upon her future students would she with greatness, pride and might.  

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

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Story example: Leo the Astutely Observant Monkey – 28/07/19

Leo the Monkey had much to say about this world. He was vocal, he was damning, but oh boy, wasn’t he utterly disarming? With his short, cute stature, and scurrying little legs, one could not be blamed for siding with the opinions of Leo more than absolutely less, accepted wholeheartedly instead.

What Leo was most passionate about was using windmills as turbines, to create free, electrical energy for his jungle city, why, if they survived on that, wouldn’t the future of the world alter from dire to exceptionally happier and incredibly pretty? Another topic he was fond of spouting and educating to others at length, was his ability to straighten one single head hair each time with the warm air from his nostrils, of this none other held a skill to compare. And a third trick he was prone to sharing was leaping into the sky and performing skipping ropes with his arms held together, arching around and around, with Leo the Monkey his opinions and actions were not always of a serious tone.

While playing loop-de-loop with his arms as Leo in the jungle was ambling, whistling to himself, whilst thinking the effects on global warming by humans were incredibly damning, he bumped into Jodi the Baboon, his favourite coloured butt friend, he high fived her in greetings excitedly, his mood was now focused, joyous, less angry and sad.

“Jodi, how have you been?” he implored. “How is your lovely husband, your shared life?” Once Leo was away from his thoughts, he was able to focus on others as a means to listen attentively and of their words he’d bounce back and reassure.

“Oh, you know,” she said, with a flippant, dismissive gesture, “Peter is well, Peter.” She chuckled nervously, and looked to the ground. Something about this situation was making Leo the Monkey uneasy, he wasn’t quite sure what the problem was with Peter, but he suspected it was not a picture that would be painted prettily. He was known in the jungle for being loud and domineering, what occurred behind closed doors with Jodi, when no one was there for the viewing?

“Please, come for a cup of tea one day,” Leo implored. “You’re most welcome on any given day.” And with the reassurance that this invite was the case, it was correct, genuine and true, Jodi and Leo went on their merry ways. But Jodi never appeared, he never once saw her at his door, it was though she had vanished from the jungle for many days, hidden quietly away. Weeks later, he spotted her at the Money Tree General Store, where she was trying to surreptitiously nurse a bruise around her eye that was concealed with heavy makeup, it was still as obvious as a thumb that was inflamed, throbbing and sore.

It was then that Leo pledged to alter Jodi’s situation, she knew that Peter, her husband, was a fond follower of his ideas behind wind turbines and their use as a positive result and situation. It did not help though, that he was a slimy character, and weaseled his way out of responsibility for things he shouldn’t be allowed to.

The very next day, Leo turned up at Jodi and Peter’s door unannounced.

“Yoo hoo!” he knocked and called out. In his hand he held a platter of cucumber and grubby bug sandwiches, they would please Peter, most certainly indeed. With a feeling of ominous wariness, the door slowly creaked open, behind it was meek, frightened Jodi, poor baboon lady, he wanted to hug here right there and then. But he knew that Peter would not approve, despite the fact that he and his wife’s relationship was only platonic, they were certainly only dear close friends, no point causing Peter jealousy and anger if he could help it. At his request, Leo was shown into Peter’s private study room, where he was sucking and puffing on a baboon cigar.

“My dear friend, how are you?” Peter asked, surprise within his shiny, beady eyes. “I’ve not seen you since your last seminar! It was great, by the way,” he added, as though his approval was a classified secret.

“Thank you,” Leo replied stiffly. He loathed having to be fake, so disingenuous. He was here for a reason though, to discover why Jodi was so skittish, was Peter maltreating the baboon who was now his queen, and years before his precious princess? Yet direct the hour long meeting and conversation did he toward feelings, emotions, understandings of life and how to treated your loved one, a beloved wife, it was no use: all Peter wanted to do was speak of turbines. With a shake of his head, Leo decided to draw the attention and concentration of Peter into one straight, obvious line.

“Do you mistreat your wife, my friend, dear Jodi?” he spurted out. “Enough of this talk of windmills being constructed in the nearby city. What I want to know is: why the black eye? The sudden meekness? Her shaking, trembling, frightened looks like she’s about to cry?” Peter dismissed Leo’s accusation, and sent him on his way that day, from now on there would be no future interaction, Leo would have to perform his own actions in order for Jodi to be saved.

Leo pressed and pressed Jodi until she cracked, raw nerves of steel altered, after the fact, and gushing forth with all the information of abuse, share did she, it made Leo cry and whimper, at the emotional abuse she was required to experience daily. What kind of world was this when a baboon could not trust her lover, to love and cherish her, accept her wonder? Years of hidden suffering, obvious signs that she was about to crack, and all it took to distinguish the behaviour from hidden existence was a friend who only  meant for her goodness and a desirable life to boot, to be had.

So he convinced her, how courageous she would be, if of this Peter, questionable, rude abusive character, that she should up and leave him. Together, her and Monkey  Leo could start a new life, in a far reaching corner of the jungle universe, they’d recommence with style. And as for the evil one that she would leave behind, why, he could have many years to assess his behaviour and of this deeply contemplate. He would be alone forever, until the dawn of the world’s new time.

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

If anyone in Australia needs to speak about their issues with someone confidentially, the number for Lifeline is 13 11 14, Beyond Blue is 1300 224 636, and Kids Help Line 1800 55 1800.

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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: 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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