Young Alan & Fleas

Young Alan was lost. Not in the school playground, but in his head. He wanted to play with the others but he couldn’t to be safe, they may play games too hectic for him. Not that hectic games are bad, simply is Young Alan able to play them. Like a recluse he decided to be by himself in the corner of the playground where he knew it would be serene.

The flying flea zeppelin was floating across the playground to find certain child victims to deploy their troops into. It was a new battle strategy that would help them be able to conquer all the hair on the earth and find the flea fauna within each wig. While floating over the playground they spotted a young lad pacing back and fourth in the corner of the playground. He had a lot of hair the perfect astute camp for the fleas.

Young Alan stopped his busy pacing back and fourth as he felt a stinging incursion in his bushes of hair. It started itch, which soon became a burning irritate in Young Alan’s hair, that he had trouble locating it due to there being so much bush. Without paying attention to where he was going, Young Alan walked aimlessly through the playground, trying to sooth the itching by furiously scratching it. ‘CRASH’! Young Alan had accidently walked into a group of kids playing a not too, but almost hectic game. Young Alan try to apologies and make his way back to the corner of the playground, but was stopped when one kid ask if he wanted to join in the game. Young Alan is not allowed to ever say no. The large group of kids played their game and Young Alan had so much fun. So much, that the fleas were able to spread there forces into the hairs of all the other kids.

Bean

Bean was as listless child, now a listless teen, nothing excited her and she said so little.  She was never proud of anything and her family never felt appreciated for the few great things they did. 

At Christmas Bean never tried to be happy with the others. She acted more frivoled to the Christmas spirit by usually remaining quiet. When the turkey finally arrived Bean’s mother demanded that she would stop being so quiet and be social to her family. Bean did not obey what was demanded, instead she smiled to herself. Bean stood up and walked to the kitchen, to collect something. The family silently watching her go, until eventually getting attracted by their food again. On reentering, she cast an unnerving spirit that made everyone feel dismal. Nobody could eat right or celebrate a happy Christmas, instead all were quiet under the uncomfortable way of Bean. Her parents wailed in fear for Bean to stop acting so, so, they simply didn’t know how she was acting. It went one for one hour, until something horrific was to the entire family. Despite of Bean’s awareness to her promiscuity, her parents as well as Bean were never heard from again.  Their house has never been entered nor has anyone every left it ever since.

Mr. Speck

Mr. Speck, what a story that man was. He was our supposed art teacher; supposed because I always thought art was a free expressive medium that can be taken in anyway, just dependent how audiences saw your art differently than you did. Mr. Speck seems less expressive and more sensitive, as well as unanimous. The final example I can think of was the day I quite art.

I had my glass piece ready for the opening day, or at least ready for the Mr. Speck inspection. Once it was my turn, Mr. Speck bend far over while I heard the trill noises squeaking from his back. He finally rouse up after two minutes of checking, and his perturbing glare of dominance told me his opinion was going to be told with incensed. Though he wasn’t screaming he was loudly explain the small ‘motes’ in my piece that made it a huge blunder apparently. I ignored him while keeping my eyes on him, what ‘motes’ was he on about? I’m sure he did explain but I couldn’t hear him over the grunts of annoyance I played in my head. I felt wistful, about where I was now, and I found that if I wanted to prevent attracting someone like Mr. Speck, perhaps choose to do something I’m good at. I always enjoyed exploring myself in a not artistic way, and perhaps Mr. Speck, has made me realize this. I quitted art with little regret.

Once Part of the Candy Cult

That’s Kim, and no she not a model for any ridiculous clothes that no one in the right mind would wear, she is actually profaning to a cult, which is something no one in the right mind would do. Kim was entrapped in the Candy Cult not in a scary dominating way rather a shy personal way; she would feel bad if she left it. Day in, day out she would wear the ridiculous candy coloured clothes, and pray her allegiance to LokaLo the god of something, Kim could never figure out. Life could be boring and other times stress inducing which isn’t positive but you’re less bored when you are stressed. However, on her final day Kim felt excited for once, and I could never understand why.

While the Candy Cult was enjoying lunch time that was always held after a session of prayer, Kim saw it, or something. Something ineffable that lightened up her otherwise ordinary dull day. I believe she saw it in the flowerpot standing by the Candy Cult Center’s only window. While scrutinizing it she couldn’t help but be completely perplexed: Why was it there? How did nobody else notice it? What should she do with it? On further inspection Kim realized something astounding, something that was just right for her and always had been, something that will force her to abscond with pride out of the dreaded and boring Candy Cult. I still have no clue what she saw, but she left the cult on that day, which I guess is the only important thing.

The Clovermoyd & the Machete Man

In a desert far away from where you live, stands my bar, a humble establishment named the Clovermoyd. It’s never gets crowded in here but I do serve many unhappy or confused travelers. I don’t care who ever the person is as long as they don’t cause trouble, this is a bar of peace and tranquility. It is also the only place when man can see the possible only virgin Mary descendant, the Clovermoyd. The Clovermoyd to me seems like a mystical figure and is my most frequent customer. She is usually around when a weary traveler appears uncertain about what he is doing, which this bar receives many of. She is a magnanimous figure who will speak to the traveler who seems in distress and put him back on the right path at the end of his drink. One of my favourite patients was the man who entered my bar with a machete; as I said I’d rather not serve customer out to cause trouble.

“You’re not out to cause trouble with that are you sir?” I asked while pointing at the machete the man had laid out in front of him on my bar. “Relax, just give me your finest,” he answered. Already I found him rude, but from his voice I could tell he was in distress, perhaps a frighten person that tries to be tough looking by holding a machete. I knew without a doubt that this was a perfect patient for the Clovermoyd, as despite not knowing how or why she does it, I’ve gotten use to her arrival at moments like these. The Clovermoyd entered the bar and sauntered her way next to the machete man.

As usual, she asked for the same drink as the troubled man, so I served her my ‘finest’ just like the machete man had asked for. The Clovermoyd started to talk to the machete man, who at first acted inviolable to her wanting to be ignored. She did not stand down. “Where have you come from my son?” she asks. “None of your god damn business!” “Why aren’t you there now my son?” she tried again, “Shut up, and stop calling me that.” At first she seemed to be going nowhere but I knew her ways, the man would have to give in at some point. The machete man started to clench his sword threatening to hurt the Clovermoyd, yet she did not stop, and he would not hurt her. “You don’t have to carry that, you can defeat me by telling me who you are?” questions like these lowered the machete man’s anger. His hand was no longer reaching his machete, as Clovermoyd continued to mollify him. Eventually, and thankfully he started to cry, the Clovermoyd had done it again. For a long time the man came back to his senses and was no longer distressed. In fact the moment he left my bar, the machete was left behind. The Clovermoyd asked me to hide it somewhere safe in the back. Never have I been in a place other than my own bar where such an sincerity is present.

Wilder's Wildgin Factory

Wilder hand done it, the squared minded fool. After the arrival of the mass bundles of iron bars, Wilder planned to close down the factory and encase it inside a giant metal gate so nobody could enter and steal the remaining bottles of  Wildgin, the factory’s primary production. Every worker went peevish over Wilder; destroying so many jobs for an unknown cause. He claims it to be for a frugal reason, only I, as well as everyone, can’t understand why such a substance as Wildgin needs to be spared for economical reasons, as ethnically it shouldn’t be drunken anyway.

However, Wilder listen to no one, ignored all protests, and seemingly hid himself deep inside the fortified factory, like Frankenstein hiding his own creation and experiments far away from civilisation.

I have a new job now, though I do miss the Wildgin factory. I still wonder what Wilder is up to in there, if he is still in there. He may be wandering alone in the factory hallways, possibly crying out to his echo trying to create a very own friend? Has he decided to drink himself to death with all of the Wildgin left inside? Has he become avaricious and create the worlds biggest brothel, with all the thousands he has? Whatever he is doing, I believe he feels raptured. He never seemed ashamed or sad when he closed the factory, he might be at his happiest now after we workers never truly understood him. One day the factory shall be broken into, and then the anonymous remains of Wilder’s legacy shall be found, ending his tale for good.