“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.
Wigglebutt was an exceptionally happy bear. He loved to dig, and chase and run with animals and his fellow bears almost everywhere. Of his ecstatic nature he loved to express, through his wagging little tail and pouffy fluffy butt from left to right, great joy, of life he was always dutifully impressed. His cute little fluffy bear bottom was unique all of its own, no other bear’s bum could compare, no rounded shape or volume of hair, nothing to compare of their own!
One day, a polar bear approached him, with a sneer across his face. “Why are you the wrong colour, what’s that tan along your face?” With shock at the bear’s disdain he ran toward the nearest mirror, Wigglebutt had always thought of his visual differences a great asset to himself, from standing out from the others. His tan and white complexion caused a contrast among the polar bears and wood bears, who comfortably and lovingly lived together in a means and upon a land that with Earth could not compare. And never once had he been told that he was too different, or wrong, or some such, he was always embraced by the animal crowd, he was always deemed more than enough. Now this such and such had to put in his two cents worth, and activating insecurities inside Wigglebutt, it was unfair, and his words were unwanted, his opinion was undesirous, Wigglebutt had had enough!
Wigglebutt returned and pointed a finger into the mean polar bear’s chest.
“Who are you to say I’m different, why, perhaps you could not compare!” And then suddenly a thoughtful smile came across the nasty bear’s face, “Perhaps you are right, dear wrongly coloured animal, touché touché, your words are so nice.” His biting sarcasm hurt an innocent Wigglebutt to the core, he could not stand this verbal abuse and his tone anymore. With a broken sense of pride, he walked away, walked on by, and into his den he hid, uncaring for hiding his emotions now, proceeded to cry.
“My darling, what’s wrong?” his mother asked, rubbing his back. Wigglebutt simply shook his head left and right, with his wracked sobbing, he couldn’t enunciate the facts. She knew something untoward had happened, and when he was able to squeak out the words, “I have the wrong coloured fur!” she understood the moment in his life had come to explain where he truly was from.
With careful wording, she explained first that he was deeply loved, by herself and his father, Professor Earl Grey the Curl. He had a curly tail that was different to her and Wigglebutt, and he was not afraid of his visual difference at all.
“You see how Father is different,” she said gently. “Well, so too are you different from your father and I. You are much loved, and our precious, adored son, but you came from a world where there was too much for you to learn and for you to be unfairly used throughout your life. We rescued you from a meteorite, come from the Planet Earth, where you would have been worked, worked, worked, like a slave bear, into their earth. But someone who loved you, your owner, the letter inside your capsule said, that she was willingly sending you away so you wouldn’t end up overworked to death. You are not born of this world, nor myself, nor your father, but please, understand, we love you all the more stronger. We cherish your being, we cherish your life, each day we are thankful that you came into our lives.”
WIgglebutt stood stunned, barely wanting to understand this, his mother’s words of which she was rapidly and shakily speaking. This was why he was different, why he was not a pristine polar bear white like his parents, but this did not stop him from future life successes. There was nothing wrong with being different, in fact, unique was always in style, he stood out from the others, with his bobbing, cute little bum and tail. And he didn’t allow others’ negativity to ever again get him down, he would succeed at his life so wholly, he was meant to wear life’s crown.
On his eighteenth birthday, his mother and father proudly produced the capsule’s note from his former owner, the first of many sentences:
“Dear Georgie, you are my favourite corgi, with you, I send you away with love, to a better life yonder.” Thereafter followed deep explanation of why his life would be better away from Earth, elsewhere, safer, somewhere he could be filled with wonder. The mystery of his life was now solved: he was a Royal breed of canine, not an oddly coloured polar bear, now proudly certain, to everyone his truth could be told. He was the only known Corgi on this land to behold and wasn’t he so chuffed that he would no longer be a different unknown.
Jan Lotto Curls was a glorious girl. She was friendly, kind, and knew much of the world. From years of travelling, and lifetimes of studying, she was well above her peers in lifestyle, life and emotional understanding. Jan Lotto Curls had lived many lives, she had reincarnated almost every night, dreaming of being a different individual, entity or being, why, when she ‘became them’ at night in her dreams, she felt their knowledge was her calling.
So she absorbed what she could learn and knew that with this skill she was so very blessed, to be able procure beings’ intelligence. When the method was so uncertain, so unsure, she knew to appreciate the confounded method even more. For all she knew of commencing this learning process was to shut her eyes, relax, and think of nothing more. Then the creatures or people or things would come to her, in her mind’s eye they’d swim, into her eye they’d fill, right to the brim, and if she focused clearly, quite near enough, she could view their inner morals, their character, of which during their own living lives they did share.
Soon, Jan Lotto Curls became well known to the spirit world, for her eager attachments to the passing, fleeting spirits of their world. She did have a distinctive look to be seen, pale complexion, and about her face and upon her head flaming red curls, coiled and healthily gleaming. Thus, it was not hard for the spirits to notice her worldly view, and they understood that she meant no harm, was only, in and of their former lives, passing through, and what their understanding meant to their world, was that she was a curious, intelligent, talented and growing girl. But they prayed she would only retrieve good spirits, for there were many lurking for a specific release date, but currently hiding away.
One night, Jan Lotto Curls was exhausted, and she did not feel like connecting with another spirit, another beautiful soul. She simply wished to fall into sleep, tumbling, tumbling, into the black hole of unconsciousness down she would go. But because she was so exhausted, so very, very tired, her protective guards were not up and as she tumbled she collected something dark on the way on her rolling slumber. It was frightening to experience that feeling, the latching onto her very being, the shuddering that was felt and also to be seen, the crunch as something began gnawing, chewing, biting.
Terrified beyond belief, she tried to swim to the surface of consciousness but she was being held beneath too deeply. She floundered this way and that, frantic arms splashing in the dark murky water of the depths of her distress, and now she heard a booming, low cackling, she shuddered to herself, how could this spirit have make itself aware? To her, she needed to escape as quickly as she possibly could, of this darkened insipid world she needed to disappear, and so she would.
She most felt the spirit tugging at her left leg and right foot, she kicked and kicked and kicked, she needn’t have a closer look, because who would want to view a captor that sounded so dangerously frightening and menacing, she knew the image would be either equally or more than frightening. She slapped his wet face – she assumed it was his face – with her backhand, then gouged his eyes and finally she was free. She kicked to the surface, gladly, so swimmingly, eager to escape, to silence this warped thought of a dream.
And when she reached the fresh air of consciousness she gasped, so lucky she felt she was to be out of there, that down below, that from now on she vowed not to dance with the spirits anymore, to not consort with the spirit world. After all, she had learned much, more than enough, from spirits who were geniuses, writers, engineers, scientists, artists and so on and so forth, she did not need her mind exploding with so many thoughts and understandings of topics presented from spirits such as these. Instead, she would enjoy her nightly sleep, no longer calling upon spirits to alter herself into becoming them for a night so freely, transformation of this method is so special indeed, but she had best leave it in her past and simply enjoy her pleasant nightly dreams.
Brushy the Brush was on a unique path of self discovery.
Brushy was a makeup artist like no other, she liked to provide her customers the ultimate powder. From her kit she would extract a mixture of bronzer and blusher and at that, she would dump her head into them, clean for a second, then rubbing herself excessively into the pigmented colour, she was ready to gently splat. Now saturated with pink and brown, a dusting onto the palette by her hand, then onto their faces for contouring and highlighting together to be had.
One might find it cute, unique, that a makeup artist was an actual makeup brush, but one must take into consideration her prior history, of her struggles which were so very rough. The discrimination toward her at beauty school, the confusion she tolerated from those who were mere fools, they did not understand her dream to be an actual application queen, her dreams she understood and knew she would succeed. In the best of her situations, in life she would pursue, her dream of contouring faces, using wild makeup colours, lining eyes with fierce cat eye liner, touching up with a dropping of luminescent powder, what say you to her dreams of becoming an ultimate beauty application queen of quiet power?
From her outer world she kept these dreams to herself, secretly, she understood they were not for anyone else, to know or be made privy of just yet, for it was better to appear to coast on autopilot and then in the future surprise everybody with her victory and bests. Besides, she was laughed at often for being a brush, often she’d hear, “Why don’t you stick to your actual life task?” At a comment such as this she would grin reluctantly and grit her teeth, doing her best to keep silent she would walk away and seethe. It was difficult not to react to such ignorant comments made to her when they did not know the facts.
For, since the age of two she had been practising applying makeup to her dollies, Baby and Boo, and then she progressed to the difficult task of defining her hairy face with contouring colours and adding pretty pastel eye shadow shapes and marks. The day that she finally succeeded at a full face application she wanted to weep with pride, instead she held herself together – as much as a luxurious brush could – and pulled her mother into her bedroom, to view a close up of her face, the victory that was inside.
From the outer appearance, she had shimmering black noir shadings with steel highlights, then gazing deeper into the brush head, she had light, brightened, pink and purple and gold eyes shadow, and silvery cat liner eyes. And finally, the piece de resistance was observing her face highlighted and shaded, creating an illusion of a human shaped oblique face for visual consumption.
Now that she had graduated college, with the highest marks and best portfolio within her year, not only her class, she knew she was now ready to make it on her own, her reputation would grow at last. No longer was she a mere student, absorbing new knowledge each day, she was an actual graduate, with a piece of paper to show for her hard work, over the many months, years and days. And slowly, then quicker, rapidly, more, with the word of mouth spreading throughout the online world of her work, and her special techniques and unique makeup application skills, as well as the novelty factor of being able to provide a full face of beautiful makeup by an object which was meant to only have one role to fill.
All of a sudden, a worried future client arrived hours early, knocking at her door.
“Brushy, Brushy, I need your assistance, please open your door!” Brushy heard the panic in her voice, there was certainly something remiss, she flung open her front door with great gusto and allowed the future client within.
“What is the matter?” she asked. “I wasn’t expecting you for several more hours,” and with a saddened face the client explained, “I need a new disguise, from my partner who is running backwards and forwards outside, muttering that I have filled his life with lies.” She went on to explain that the partner was most frantic, and somewhat, perhaps manic and psychotic, for her had been off his medication for two whole weeks, the stabilisers and antipsychotics were required for him to live positively and coherently, without losing his cool at home or on the streets.
“Why don’t you help him?” Brushy asked, aghast. “If you love him, help save him, from his troubling thoughts which might last. Do not run away, but I will help you today, if you alter your plan, and provide assistance to this poor man.”
And so the client agreed to help him, after she would receive the new makeup disguise, for Brushy was skilled at special effects makeup application also, and this meant essentially she was providing her client a new face mask. And then together, once complete, they snuck out onto the streets, quietly and gently approached the man who looked at them deep with fright and prepared to violently scream.
“Honey, honey, it’s me,” she called. “I needed this disguise to come nearer to you. Please, darling, come with me, your doctor or the hospital we need to see.”
Brushy tagged along, to ensure that he received the medical assistance he had likely needed for those two weeks, they must have felt so long, and into care he would go, his medication reinstated, observations in tow. And after a year Brushy heard a frantic knocking on her door again, she flung it open with trepidation and there stood that very man!
“Brushy, I wanted to thank you, for what you did that night,” he said, eyes genuinely glistening with hope and pride. “Sometimes of my medical condition I lose control, and you assisted me to correcting my life. For now I am engaged to my love, your intervention helped us build, become more, cherish our love, and now I look after my health the best I can, always, for now my love and I have a daughter on the way.”
With tears glistening in her one, single eye, Brushy leaped forth and leaned her brushy head on his shoulder and proceeded to cry. It was this moment that she knew, that she had made a true difference in the life of a client, and wasn’t this a great moment of her life truths to be held up and vividly viewed upon, so beautifully brightened?
One forced foot in front of the other, she trudged through the sticky affray, of the seaweed clinging to her calves and knees and ankles, on this otherwise fine and calming day. From the outside of her world, things appeared safe and sound, but on the interior, and within her screaming mind she would find there was no end to the curious crowds. Peer into the glass separating she and them they would, so dutifully, knowingly and freely, without any understanding of her paining anguish and agony, of being bound by her once land dwelling feet.
Why was she here, how had she arrived here, who was so cruel they would capture a land dwelling individual and place her within a rectangular, tiny vessel, for all the world to see, why she suffered so freely? For it was not the simple physical paining that caused her to groan, it was the mental pain of being all on her own, with only fish for company and sea rocks and squid, all the occupants which could quietly exist. With her, she needed verbal stimulation, and emotional context, and someone to feel her warmth, and of their love she could experience that emotion again, for how could one coexist simply with barnacles, crustaceans and fish by her side? She had left so many others in her previous world behind.
This woman’s tale was utterly miserable, could there be a shining light? To witness, to daydream about, something which could save her from the Inside. But no one from her former life knew whereabouts she gone and what she had become, and trudge all morning, noon and night did she, waiting for a hero to come. The curious crowd always pointed and would speak, of how interesting it was to watch her scene. Of the sadness which covered her expression, so clearly overwhelming, was there not anything positive worthy of me saying?
Sadly, it was not the case, it were as though she were a mermaid trapped on the land above, but reversed, she had been plunged deep within this aquarium by a nasty man who thought so little of humans, apparently unworthy of respect nor love. He believed anything was up for capture, as long as it could breathe underwater, but how could this be? She was a woman of the earth, the land, not the sea, and indeed, he solved that problem with a click of his fingers, one, two and then three! He was handy with contraptions; he created for her a breathing apparatus, quite like what divers used, except this last for centuries and ages. She was forever doomed to a life beneath the water, not even afforded residence into the cool, calming sea, but a facade of that world, perfect for viewers such as you and I to permanently see.
With no friends to save her, she even stopped trudging in the temperature controlled water. What was the point, when there was no emotions or excitement to feel, not even of impending danger?
All of a sudden, one morning, a man rushed from behind the crowd.
“Sharon, Sharon! I will save you!” and he thrust his thick elbow into the glass before everyone, causing a collective gasp, and an accumulative, “Woowwwwww…” The water exploded forth, the glass shattered everywhere to be seen: coral, mussels, molluscs, seaweed, all an aquarium owner’s both nightmare and dream. All for the picking, for those who wished to glean.
To Sharon, the trapped Land Dweller’s surprise, she recognised her best friend Scott from the land of the Outside. He had changed so much, gained much weight, grown a thick beard, but still she couldn’t believe she hadn’t recognised him immediately, but then again, she had had much to fear. A striking human he was, he had missed her ever so much, he had caught wind of her entrapment from yonder gossip amongst the fields.
And here her saviour was, hugging her with such protective kindness and a warm embrace, she felt so loved, safe and reassured, by his presence, and she knew by his side she would never leave. He had saved her from a life of paining, agonising and utmost loneliness indeed. She felt so overwhelmingly grateful that all she could do was limply hug him back. Later she would express truly how much she missed him and her former life with words spoken, uttered, sung, and actions made after the fact. She knew he understood how much she appreciated him, and his saving of her, and while the aquarium owner would never be brought to justice for capturing and never intending to release her, Scott and Sharon would live together, their friendship growing stronger, then into love each day, a little by little, a little more.
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.
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.
“Would you care for some ice cream?” asked the Luminescent Bug. I looked at her offered hand, whilst her eyes implored, she seemed genuine, appeared not to be an oddity offering strangers treats, of this I was seemingly assured. But here she was, a bug with legs coming out of her segments in strange manners indeed, offering a multicoloured ice cream to apparently the first person she had seen. Little Old Me, why how I did enjoy ice cream, but I wasn’t so sure about accepting an offer from a buggy entity, although she did seem pretty at ease. If she were a danger, surely she would be giving herself away with negative body language, but in short, I was suspicious.
“You try it first,” I said to her, providing an innocent smile. She shrugged at me, perhaps more to herself, and with a great, widened smile, flicked out her tongue at the ice cream, absorbing the sweet delicate taste explosion, shutting her eyes and delighting in it for a while. I watched her carefully, for any sign of poisoning or absorption, there was nothing, she was in the clear, in fact, she went back for another licking session. But by now I had had enough, I wanted some of that ice cream for myself, she’d had her share, it was now my turn to touch. To caress that waffle cone with gentle elegance, a lifting to the mouth, a due diligence, and a splattering into my face is what the ice cream would experience, a smooshing become, yum, yum, yum, thank you dear Luminescent Bug for giving me a turn.
Soon a hoard of ants suddenly appeared, began following me, they must be sniffing the cream remnants on my lips which hadn’t disappeared, which had been unintentionally saved. They would not be permitted, I was not after bull ant stings! Just because they wanted my lips’ meagre offerings. This was all the fault of the Bug, I now realised, she was the one who lured me to shove the ice cream into my mouth, deep inside, and to have left small sticky parts across my lips, why the blame is upon she, and it is not remiss, where had she gone to hide?
I looked around wildly for the Bug, to blame, and blame, and yell at her, and with each turn and step I made, the stupid ants would be within my shadow despite my screaming at them which could be clearly heard. The Bug was quite obviously sneaky, she had planned and plotted this outcome, and with a sickening twist, there would be disciplining for her. She would be subjected to her little bull ant friends, they could converse with her, come to a diplomatic reasoning instead, instead of them biting her, or reaching for my lips, she could source out more ice cream and caused them all to be prettily pleased.
However, no matter how far and wide I called her name, with my unwanted group of bugs following me, along the dusty planes, I could not discover her, the ice cream criminal as she was now secretly known, we must discover her by the end of the day, and that we did, close to my home. She was digging into someone’s freezer for more ice cream, I am very sad to say. Not only had she set in place her plans upon an innocent person such as myself, she now felt the need to thieve the creamy goodness from somebody else, from them calculatedly take it away. It was a sad moment to view, but at least she had something to provide to the starving ants who’d come from far off to eat, over eat, and rest, then to no longer move.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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