Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Month: August 2019

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

    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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  • Story: The Catfish and the Gem – 31/08/19

    Story: The Catfish and the Gem – 31/08/19

    There was a girl of nineteen years old, who had everything at her disposal, money and power flowing through her hands in her world. From the outside she was a type of a dictator, with her ordering around of others in her world, although inside she was warm and kind-hearted, she was a wonderful young girl. She needed to appear forceful and strong to those surrounding her, for they knew that it was a difficult task to be forever, fixed, in the world’s view. Her father was a great philanthropist, and did much for the world stage, and her exterior personality was the opposite of his personality to be viewed. Still, they enjoyed father-daughter time on the porch, with him in his rocking chair, and she perched precariously on her childhood rocking horse, and together they would share tales of their day, of what had been, together they smiled, giggled, commiserated, pondered on what the future day would bring.

    This girl, her name was Gemma, named aptly so because she was such a gem to her parents’ world, was a curious girl, although she’d been brought up in a wealthy world, she hadn’t had much opportunity to associate with boys, only other girls. This was because she had attended an all-girls boarding school for the entirety of her schooling life, only returning home during holidays to visit Mama and Papa, and little Rovie, her puppy who loved his exploring life. Because she had not been exposed to what the opposite sex was like, she felt somewhat unsure, perhaps inept, in dealing with them in real life. But she was an avid internet user, she enjoyed getting on the chat rooms and speaking with young and old, her favourite room was for Secret Billionaires, this title gave her a laugh and a half because often the users in the room were clearly catfishes wanting to earn some money to unfold.

    Their traits were fairly obvious: they’d only call out for older women or older men, because, presumably, these people were easier to trick into love, and fooling them into sharing their fortunes would be such a breeze. Another trait would be that the catfish would be very pushy in nature, wanting to exchange personal details so quickly, this could be viewable within the chatroom discourse, they didn’t give a damn if their motives were observed ever so freely. The talk of their being an illness in the family, of needing medicine, or money for continuing studies, other such things, these were the red flags, the warnings, that could be observable, too. The constant talk and chatter of how they loved the other, wanted to be with the other forever, that they just needed some time to get the money together, and would they help out? Because wasn’t that what love was all about? “Here’s my number for Western Union Transfer.”

    Gemma would giggle when she spotted a catfish in the room, it would amuse her to no end, all day, to view their silly little games that were always one and the same. Unsuccessful mostly, but saddened Gemma was when they hit a target, causing a potential future heartache, for someone who only wanted another to chat with. She always kept her mouth shut though, she didn’t interfere with the chase, there was no point policing these people, for, her wise words would go to waste. She had tried to expose several catfish in their time, but to no avail, she couldn’t help that the victims – two middle aged women and an elderly man – didn’t want to know of the truth, their endings were sad tales to unwind.

    So, Gemma had many online chat friends, mostly young men, her closest friends were Harry, George, Michael, Simon, and Steve, with her female friends being her close girls from her school, as well as acquaintances from the online world, they were Lucy, Abigail, and Maureen. They loved to have a general group chat online together, speaking of what it would be like, how great it would be if they all got together, had a pizza night and watched movies with great delight, and then outside, fell asleep looking at the stars, and rose warm from the risen sun. They enjoyed planning out activities they could do in reality, but in essence, these activities would never come to fruition with any ease. Because they all lived in different areas of the world, except for her girlfriends, and a couple of the online boys, their lives could potentially cross into Gemma’s real world.

    Her favourite boy to chat with was Bryce, she kept him secret from the others, he was her desired other, the one who she dreamed of spending her days with, a night of playful delights. Where they would sip cocoa, hold hands and gaze into each other’s eyes, searching for something that they had already known to be so, a love growing, building, each day, with the tapping of their fingers in the chat window, her heart did so grow. He was charming, witty, had great discourse, and knew how to flatter – she always blushed with his many compliments.

    He lived nearby to her, in the town over, but they had never crossed paths with each other, and before chatting, had never even heard of one another. This was rather strange, given that Gemma was well known, due to her father’s activities, and thus, her family name, but maybe Bryce led a sheltered life, and didn’t read any newspapers or magazines. She couldn’t, in essence, hold it against him that he didn’t know her name, that would be most arrogant to think that she should be perpetually heard of, known and seen. After all, she was simply a young girl, with a bossy exterior, who had a future bright and rich as could be. Simply speaking, this would be monetary, but she also was talented at many things.

    She dreamed of Bryce often, daydreamed of his online picture, he only had one, but she didn’t mind, he’d said that he had accidentally dropped his phone one evening out of the window of the car. He had tried to film the moving scene and suddenly slip! It came away from his hand, no longer there, a has been, and since then he had only been allowed by his parents to use a very old mobile phone with a terrible amount of pixels that it wasn’t worth him taking more pictures for Gemma to fondly own. She believed him, of course, for if it were a lie, what a terribly rubbish one it would be, a useless method of explanatory discourse.

    He didn’t have online social media accounts because he didn’t believe in following the trends, that wasn’t what Bryce was all about. He was about fluidity, anonymity, facelessness, freedom, he was an artist, his heart was overflowing, he wanted to capture the world in its essence and beauty, and Bryce said that Gemma was one of these, such a beautiful lovely thing. When she read these words, a smile flew upon her lips, a grinning, a delighting, a wondering at how he knew the words that she wanted to read. He seemed perfect to her, in every way, shape and manner, and she knew that soon, they would organise to meet each other.

    Yet when she brought up the idea, he seemed to shy away. He was happy to promise that one day they would meet, soon, one day, but she needed to be patient, he was going through some things, and thus, in his town he needed to stay. Although Gemma had the feeling that she should not ask, she did so reluctantly, and he replied that it was indeed better to not ask. A few minutes later though, Bryce seemed to crumble. He told her everything that was happening in his world. 

    His Auntie Lena was suffering from renal failure, they couldn’t afford the money for the thrice weekly visits to be worked on and monitored, they were trying to raise money online but to no avail, and it was terrible to have to ask others. He felt ashamed that he was begging others, mere strangers, to save her life, and this would be ongoing, the funding project would be continuing.

    Then, his father was suffering from major depression, every now and then he would attempt to take his life, and they only ever just caught him in the nick of time. His mother could barely cope with the responsibilities of being the sole earner, and looking after an ill partner, and caring for her sister Lena, her life was stressing her out.

    And here was young Bryce, in the middle of this hurricane, accepting the overwhelming emotions and pain that was what his life was currently about. In turn, Bryce now revealed that he suffered terrible anxiety at leaving the house at the best of times, in his late schooling years it had been so bad that he’d needed to be home schooled. Bryce was on the brink of a psychological melt-down, he could feel this happening to him, it was saddening to read, she really felt for him.

    Gemma knew that she could offer him help in the form of donation money, but she didn’t think that this was what he was currently seeking. What he wanted from her was implicit understanding. Besides, he knew that she was wealthy, if he wanted her assistance all he had to do was ask her, she would kindly and willingly provide plenty.

    With shock and sadness, Gemma had read his words, disbelieving at first, but then the reality started sinking in. How difficult it would be to be in Bryce’s shoes, in his world, when everything around him was crumbling? The instability of his life was quite obvious, and the ailing mental health of his immediate family was a struggle to absorbed by herself, she felt such pity for him, and what he was going through. She wanted to reach through the computer screen and hug him tightly, until he understood, until he knew, that she felt so deeply for him now, so much closer for sharing the intimate details of his life, it was appreciated, too. She wanted him to know she didn’t think badly of him at, despite what he was next to say.

    “I’ll bet you don’t want to be involved with someone like me,” he typed, the tone was definitely sorrowfully. “I’ll understand if you want to leave me alone, I wouldn’t want to talk to someone with problems like me?”

    “Not at all!” Gemma typed chirpily, bubbly, for she knew she needed to be upbeat for him. “This doesn’t change at all the way I think of you, in fact, I now feel closer to you instead.” He flashed five smiley faces upon the screen, it was their secret code, five was their favourite number, and his happiness was there to be known. They began to talk more frequently as he began to confide in her more often, then came the worst week, where he promised he would finally speak with her on the phone, and then when she rang, there was nobody there to speak.

    It just rang and rang, the call then cancelling itself, she didn’t know what to do, she had been looking forward to it for many hours. He wasn’t available online either, which was odd, but she returned to her day tasks of pretending to dictate to others what they should do in their daily grind, though inside she could feel a breaking of her love. For she had grown so close to Bryce with every single confided word he shared, she felt a part of his life, nothing was too much to take on, she knew she must continue to dare. To dare to be the best support she could be, Lord knew he didn’t have any others, let alone many, and whenever she heard the message alert, she opened it, there and willing, to listen to what Bryce would say, whatever the content was, of sorts.    

    Suddenly, her phone rang, private number. Curious this was, she never received blocked numbers. Yet she jumped up with a shock, grabbed the phone and answered, heavy breathing was obvious, within her she knew that it had to be Bryce, how could it not? But then a laughing in the background, growing louder and louder and louder: “We’ve got your number, we’ve got your details!” Her face contorted, she didn’t understand.

    “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

    “Ha ha,” they muttered, and then a click, no more. She placed the phone on the mantlepiece and desperately returned to the computer, needing to speak to Bryce now, he surely must be home.

    “Check your bank account,” a text message proclaimed as it arrived. With trembling fingers, she signed into the app, with dismay in her chest, and despair in her eyes. As she watched the numbers drop from millions into cents, she wondered who could be so cruel to have done this to her, what did this mean, what was meant? Had Bryce betrayed her? Hers was after all, a very secure private number, and she hadn’t given it out to anyone who didn’t need it, in fact, only a few people held it. It seemed mighty strange that mere days after swapping numbers that this would happen, and now her fortune was dwindling, now, gone, completely away, and she had no one to talk with about it, to confide, of who or where, or what to say. Another text message arrived, and she dreaded to think what it enclosed.

    “You’ve been catfished by the Almightiest of Catfish, the one and only Ghost. Nice knowing ya,” it rounded off, with five smiley faces, and now she understood, it was known. Aside from monetary, she knew not of “Bryce’s” other motives, whoever he really was, but it was with great sadness that she knew this would affect her ability to trust. What was the point in caring for others when it could all be a sham? She threw her laptop upon the concrete, smashing it into pieces, of her online life, she no longer gave a damn. She would live in the real world, she wold educate others of what can happen when you least expect it, and by goodness would she share her embarrassing story so others wouldn’t have to experience other versions of it. And when her father would ask about the activities of her days, how did they unfold? She would share, with great seriousness, that she had educated potential victims and made them learned of the dangers of the online world.

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


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  • Story: Gran’s Wise Words – 30/08/19

    Story: Gran’s Wise Words – 30/08/19

    “Sometimes, in life, you have to cut some people off,” explained Gran, as we sat by the hearth of the warm winter’s fire. “I know it will hurt you, and the discomfort of the paining will be present probably for quite some time, but don’t ignore that yearning. For the sorrow that accumulates from the loss of that friendship, which needed to be ended, for whatever reason or reasons, you will experience it deeply, you will know it. Acknowledge and cherish your fond memories with that person or persons but know, inherently in your bones made you feel that this is right path to take, that it is so, they should be forgotten.”

    “But what about if they attempt to make amends, to come running back to my arms?” I asked. “Surely I should think of forgiveness, allow them another chance?” Gran shook her head sadly and replied, “No, darling, no, these people have continually let you down in recent times, they’ve forgotten your worth, your liveliness, your place in their lives, only thinking of more important others, you don’t want to be a second fleeting choice. Everyone around you is building up, or has built up their lives, and it just so happens that you are no longer privy, no longer permissible, or worthy, to view what is in their lives now, their interiors, their insides. And don’t feel disappointed or saddened, this is simply a method of their thoughtless abandonment, and cannot be helped, others’ actions you cannot control.” I sat there, stroking my chin, thinking to myself, how wise is Gran, how much of the world she must have experienced and seen, because but minutes before I was sobbing into my cupped hands, wondering why it was that I was being cast aside by certain people in my life, who no longer seemed to care.

     “These people, your former friends – for that is what they’ve gone and labelled themselves as – may have been there for you in great times of distress. When your heart and mind were aching, needing support in many forms, they were there. They held your hand, they guided you, cared for you, but it was not one sided, so too were you there for them, too. You provided a capacity all of your own, maybe different in nature to their support but you were always there, willing to listen, of your positive intents the others had known.

    But with time some friendships wear away, grow thin, like overworn fabric they become thinner and thinner still until you can view the weft, you can see the structure, and with gaps in places, the result is a saddening picture. Still, you can try to use this, this barren group of threads, but soon there will be a tear here, a tear there, then falling apart between your fingers will the weaves as you sadly stare. That’s much like a friendship falling apart, if I do say so myself, but really, try to cease your concerns, lessen your care, protect your heart.”

    My bottom lip began to waver as I remembered a certain memory, of us sitting by a lake by the pond, as I consumed my skinny vanilla latte so freely. And with the other sitting by my side, we chatted about many things, this was my friend, so close to me, now far away, I’m ignored so obviously. What point was there in listening to the strings of my heart when they were aching, to think about my friend or friends when they were never contacting or calling, we have grown apart, I’ve been cast aside on the shelf, and there was nothing to do that would repair it to how we used to be, clever together, and birds of a feather. Now we were worlds apart, and I resented this, greatly so, it made me angered, and suddenly hot tears began to flow. I thrashed around, punching the carpet with my bare fists, hurting myself in the process, but Gran grabbed me and begged me to think.

    “Do not hurt yourself, do not allow them, in their absence, to hurt you. There’s nothing further you can do, you’ve contacted them with no reply, not even a simply goodbye, a formal adieu. You weren’t even afforded the respect to have the friendships ended because, it’s easier for someone just to drift away, and think, ‘Well, we just grew apart, we’re all busy, blah, blah, just because.’”

    I ceased my sobbing and became stronger, firmer, sat up straighter and made my eyes bright and alert.

    “You are right, you have always been. This is my test, to be strong and not to feel hurt. I can allow myself to over feel, I allow myself to be affected negatively, but now I really must deal, these facts are blatant and true, they don’t want me as a friend, and neither do I want them, too. It’s good that I know how they feel, portrayed by their silences, fleeting methods of contact, or simply nothing for months, nothing at all. At least I know where I stand, and I choose to stand away from them, I will feel good this day and every day. They will not dampen my spirits or will.”

    And so I pulled out my photo albums, going through the pages one by one, removing them from my visual memories, until they were neither here nor there, there wasn’t a remaining image, not a single one. In my heart and in my mind I decided to wipe the pains away, and lock the happy memories away, hide them behind a cast iron door where I couldn’t view them easily again, doing what they had done to me, easily casted me aside.

    “You’ve done well, my darling,” my gran said, her hand rubbing my back, ever so calming. “You’ll know soon that you’ve made the right decision.”

    “I already know so this second of the day. My will along with your know-how, has helped me greatly today.”

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


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  • Story: Graham the Muscle Man – 30/08/19

    Story: Graham the Muscle Man – 30/08/19

    Graham the Muscle Man adored impressing the ladies.  Whether it was through his bulging, well defined physique, or his suave manner, when he murmured his sweet nothings to them, in a manner of eloquent speech, or his fetching red swimmers, known as red budgie smugglers, Graham was able to draw positive female attention wherever he went, women flocked to him, their feet pounding on the pavement.

    Graham spent a large portion of his life at gym. To him, looking good was very important to him. It was nothing to do with having a healthy body and a healthy life; it was all a means to satisfy his desire to be viewed of as a delectable prize. You see, Graham was somewhat in love with his image and himself, his loving understanding of his life, unintelligent words about him would not suffice, for he knew he was clever, wise, attractive, well built, and most of all, kind.

    Although he would always draw these women in, by standing on the beach, or in a park, subtle flexing his muscles so they could be greatly seen, he was also rather fond of impressing in the evening, the very dark mean streets. He always remained hydrated so he could take advantage of vascularity, when one’s superficial veins were so well hydrated that the muscles appeared to be further bulging. This meant more attention to his immodest self, this was what he wanted to be experience more and more then – with a shriek a group of women down the street called out, “There he is! Graham has been sighted, Graham of you I have seen!” The women rushed down from the brush and car park, and upon the sand they did now land. With a secret smirk, Graham knew he was famous to these women, that he was somehow well known to them.

    “Can I have a hug??” one lady begged. “I don’t even care that I’ll get your fake tan upon me shirt and pants, I can change when I get home, I’d rather wear these stained with your vivacious shade of yours!”

    “Why, of course,” he replied, now very modest. He needed to keep up a sense of pretence. Respectable and knowledgeable were separate things, but being narcissistic and in love with oneself was frowned upon by society, even though this is the way that most of us are operating, or at least how society itself is currently being portrayed, our visual media upbringing. It was as though it is a free for all, look after all features of your appearance: cosmetic, invasive, clothing short, sharp, snappy, the perfect job, life, pet, children, that everything is something to aspire to, can’t we always be happy with what we have, with what we already knew?

    She grabbed him tightly, wrapped her clammy mitts upon his back. “I’m sorry for sweating, it’s a nervous reaction. I want to get it looked at,” she said, trailing off. “One of my best friends told me I’d never meet a man with my excessive sweating problem, yet here I am with you!” He noticed she wore  a brooch-pin with his face upon it with a large decorative button. He smiled at her dedication.

    The other three women from the group, also giddy, wanted a hug, and a firm squeeze of his biceps, and potentially another all over look, because they knew they would never meet such an attractive man again, especially not one who graced the cover of many romance books. For Graham was a model, he enjoyed being on covers of much loved novels, read by many a woman and men, but mostly daydreaming women who loved the sense of escapism. Romance covers allowed him to meet other women and impress them with his well sculpted physique, and commence conversation with them in the hopes that once comfortable they’d like to grab something to eat. But the current view of the situation is this: they only wanted to be friends, for they felt that Graham was romantically interested in men, not women, and this was how their thought processes went. These thoughts were obviously incorrect, and incredibly remiss.

    Just because he was a giggling gossip, a man who loved to look after his body, look utterly fantastic, what did it matter if he highlighted his effeminate, pixie-like features with a thin face of makeup, besides, he knew that inside he would find The One eventually though, his search need not be pressured or drastic. But if most of these women automatically assumed he wasn’t interested in them, how was he meant to find a lady of his own, on his own volition? It was like he was going through a sort of enforced human condition, where he had to prove himself to them, that he would be a willing member of a relationship, a loving participant.

    But for now, he would draw the attentions and eyes of the women all around, perhaps he would change his attire, remove the makeup, smile more and lesser of his contemplative momentary frowns, and now that he was joyous always, he was able to draw the ongoing attentions of females in every way, something which he had wondered if he was able to do, be, or even say. With each random meeting, he knew love was closer to finding to him its way.

    On the beach one day, he decided to roll and roll in the sand. He didn’t care that he was covered with tanning oil and lotion that would cause the grains to stick upon him in every way, not a thin layer, but thickly instead. He giggled to himself as he felt himself being coated as though a piece of crumbed chicken, laughing and laughing, he could feel his mood lifting. Why should it matter how many women he could and would and had impressed, there was nothing malleable to take from those experiences except that he was attractive and well wanted. It spoke of nothing of his character, zero point to his personality, and then he realised that what truly mattered was that he be himself, not worry about the superficial, there was nothing further left to ponder. Over loving yourself can be a terrible disease.

    So, he returned to the gym, asked for a week and a half off from membership payments, then at work, handed in his notice of resignation. He had always hated this job, and now he absolutely loathed it, so despite being told never to quit until one had a newer position, he wanted to be free of obligation, so he made the decision, the choice, to become available to what life would determine.
    “Throw at me what you will!” he dared the gusting breeze, the sun filtering through the trees, the clouds moving so slowly yet very, very freely. He enrolled in a yoga and meditation retreat, where they were not allowed to speak for ten days – the length of the retreat – and were only permitted to speak on the inside as though permanently introspective.

    Here Graham found himself, his centre, his core, of who and what he truly was. He was not a showy being only intent of showing his body off. There was more to him than others viewed and this was important to be known, this information was never meant to be suppressed or misused, but he wanted to keep it carefully tucked away, upon a hidden message, stored at home. He didn’t want his true vulnerabilities to be shown, that he was an ostentatious man actually disguising a gentleness unknown to the women.

    Now he operated in a manner so very modest, he was dressed well, his skin was scrubbed clean of fake tan, and his hair styled appropriately for the age group of 28-35, Graham was now an improved and less showy man. Now he was free to life his life, and perhaps, in a strange occurrence, he would meet his future wife. Who knows? Sometimes pigs could fly.

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


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  • Creative Nonfiction: Today’s Thoughts and Mood: A Truthful Account – 29/08/19

    Creative Nonfiction: Today’s Thoughts and Mood: A Truthful Account – 29/08/19

    I think it’s time that I write how I feel today, a truthful account, that I will put to my name. Everything seems hopeless, I feel as though I’m nothing, not worthy of anything positive, to be written down, nothing joyous or amazing. Nothing can cheer me, it seems as though today’s sharply crested waves have a purpose, a method, a direction in which they’d like to dangerously steer me, the rocky cliff seems their chosen way. My emotions overwhelm as though thick ponderous clouds, blocking any view of sunlight that could ever be discerned, to be found. A murky suppressant internally and I feel as though I’m about to break, I can’t snap myself out of this misery, I’m so miserable, why? Oh, for goodness’s sake!

    I shouldn’t need a reason to feel this way, not when I’m usually so buoyant, happy-go-lucky, on my usual positive days, where I’d listen to others, have myself listened to in return, smiles, laughter, snide witty comments, and now of myself, you’re beginning to learn. But there are some of you who don’t need to hear of the personality behind the words, my subtle gearing, my choice smile as I witness something hilarious or absurd. However, today is one of my worse days, and I haven’t experienced anything of the like in a very long while, this ill-tempered mood seems intent on hanging around, without being useful, no fun, no method or style of any visible or felt enjoyment for now let alone for a long while.

    It’s like I am sinking into a bog, a quagmire, of heavily thickened emotions that are dragging me under, and little loose arms and greedy hands are grasping at handfuls of my hair, pulling me down, pulling me towards them, over there. Where I can easily sob with my mood, enveloped in this thick, ill fitting stew, that envelopes my body, sucks it right in with ease, as though it feels like I’m decidedly yummy. That this pit, this cesspool, is filled with darkened, painful emotions, and having myself sucked in, the vast pit now sucks me dry, of anything positive or hopeful, now nothing positive is lurking. I can only sit here, arms folded, mud right to my neck, a scowl of sadness upon my face, when will my forced positive thoughts begin to start working?

    I know I am bad company to others, feeling like this, I know I am useless, so to speak, at bringing the prior happiness out from within me, I simply wish to be myself again, but how to reach that peak? Everything seems a downer, a drainer, a weight upon my shoulders, every little thing has stacked upon one another to create a mountain of heavy, immovable, impassable things. My path of least resistance is to simply remain saddened, I know that if I wanted to, I could try to forget my worries and my pains, and become, although forced, but decidedly more gladdened.

    Whatever happened to being grateful for the things in the world that are positive for us? I cannot, will not, allow myself, to think of this path, although I know that later it will be a must. Otherwise, I will remain in this bog, sinking, sinking, into my ill thoughts and paining dreams, wondering why it is me that is the one suffering, what have I done wrong, nothing! I wish to be positively seen, not viewed of as a negative being.

    So, here ends this account, of my trying day, I’m sure others are suffering far more, but I cannot make any comment without having heard of their trying times, an encouraging, loving comment I will most certainly one day throw your way. But understand that my account was simply a means to an end, a method of catharsis, a type of expulsion, I hope that you understood my ailing, and that perhaps you’ll provide me a comforting smile or thought one day, perhaps these thoughts are worth further exploring.

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


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  • Story: A Saddening Tale: This Way To Loveville – 29/08/19

    Story: A Saddening Tale: This Way To Loveville – 29/08/19

    Red-Sweetheart was blissfully ignorant, he thought their love tale was pleasantly unfurling, accompanied by joyous chords of major keys, independently bright, no sense of dissonance. There was no sense of unrectifiable yearning. Little did he know that his Fuchsia-Loveheart was secretly wearying of their love story, wishing she could escape the moment he passed her in the street, where he was off to his general company meeting after their lunchtime spent wining and tiresomely – for Fuchsia-Loveheart, of course – dining.

    Why was she so sick and tired of her man, who provided her love, footed the many bills for them, always reached for her metaphorical hand – for their limbs were implied, they were there to lend a helping hand, a willing guide – but together their hearts were meant to beat together, content, and subtly amplified. Fuchsia-Loveheart had had enough of his bland personality, he was boring, he was useless, all did was talk about his company’s dreams. How he wished to expand into other cities, other countries, and continents in fact, he never once asked her if this was the life she wanted for them.

    She knew there would much travelling, in and out of town, living out of a shoebox, or luggage case, nowhere to really call home, and this was not something which she aspired for, despite the money which would come rolling in. She knew her bore of a lover would simply listen haphazardly whilst she complained of this in the evenings, as he sipped his gin slowly, then slower again.

    How could he be so selfish, thinking of only what would benefit the company, rather than appeasing the company of her, who he had chosen for his life, as his wife? Did he not think he needed to understand that there was more to life than becoming wealthy and famous, everywhere recognised where he was seen? All he seemed interested in was the superficial, it did not matter to her how much attention she was paid, for all she felt that Red-Sweetheart wanted from her was the ability to be seen with her, and essentially have the tabloids spread of them, a happy couple they apparently made. It could not be anything further from the truth, the sensations within made her squirm again and again. However, this ill thinking about Red-Sweetheart was incorrect, it was only part of Fuchsia-Loveheart’s thinking processes, inextricably unfounded upon their relationship’s open pages.

    One evening, he came home from work at a quarter to two in the morning, she had been waiting up for him furiously muttering to herself, and now he would receive her verbose manner of speaking.

    “How dare you keep me up, ignore my many calls! What were you doing, did you have a great time, which of your receptionist girls did you enthral?” Dumbfounded, he could not belief this method of reverse flattery, where he was being accused of something that had not even occurred recently, let alone this morning or evening. He was a loyal husband, this was something he prized himself on, he would never again cheat on his beautiful wife, his leading lady, his strong, firm hearted woman, and he struggled to pick his dropped jaw from the floor as he proceeded to defend himself.

    “But no, my darling, I have brought something for you!” From behind his back, he pulled out a long arrow pointing to the right of the room, toward the exit, the doorway leading to the corridor of the hotel in which they owned and lived, and with a glorious smile, he announced, “This way to Loveville, you will never want to leave!” It was his ridiculous smile and grin that made Fuchsia-Loveheart explode with laughter, how could he think that outside they would enjoy themselves any more or less than the tiring times she experienced with her other? There was no romance left in their marriage, at least not from her perspective, but dutifully, she decided to give permission to his thoughts, to give his option a decent thinking.

    “Okay, then, Red,” she said dubiously, and with a flourish of his hand toward the door, then grabbing her metaphorical hand, she allowed herself to be led, out to the corridor, up to the lift, then to the highest floor, the roof, where he had arranged a four course meal, with three waiters, and what appeared to be a closed off enclosure with a four poster bed.

    “No way, no how,” Fuchsia-Loveheart said, furiously shaking her head. “There will be no romance of this sort, ever to enter our bed again.” Because she never really trusted him, since that night she caught him kissing that ugly blue hearted being, that thing, as she called it, who allowed and knew that he was cheating on Fuchsia-Loveheart by kissing him. She had a hidden agenda, the blue hued being who hated Fuchsia-Loveheart for being so wealthy due to her marriage, that she had seemingly decided to split them apart, but then, in that moment, a strange sense of jealousy had arisen, and she knew, at least for the sake of her lifestyle, that the marriage would be worth saving.

    So now that we are aware of the shallowness of the Fuchsia-Loveheart, should we empathise more with the Red Sweetheart, who was trying to keep his marriage together, not allow it to fall apart? But how can we do so, when he had, for some reason, fallen prey to his lustful thoughts, or the seductive movements of the blue hued being, it seems that in each situation it takes two to tango, and that in both senses, each heart was partially guilty?

    However, Fuchsia-Loveheart allowed herself to be wined and dined on that rooftop, it was an activity she knew how to behave within quite well, after all, it occurred basically every weekend and second weeknight, eating out somewhere special was not all that special to her at all. Yet her husband, Red, did the best that he could; he tried to be charming, well versed, complimenting her, everything that a wise man and heart should, but by the end of the evening, Fuchsia-Loveheart was widely yawning, she’d had enough of this forced form of entertaining and there was nothing that she wanted more than to be in that four poster bed sleeping.

    She followed the arrow to Loveville, that she did, and would, and into the comforting, high threaded Egyptian count cotton sheets, she buried herself within, knowing that of her husband, now of his presence she could do without. She spread herself sideways along the mattress, to ensure that there was very little room for him, only for her, and snoring in a falsified manner, she made certain that now he would leave. Despondent, he had tried so hard for her tonight, to impress her, wooing her once more by the candle light. He had made not one mention, breathed not one word about his work nor his plans, and still, she didn’t want to lie there with him, even for gentle cuddles, it seemed that for him, she no longer and never would give a damn.

    So, he laid upon the ground next to the bed, curling up beneath her feet, at least she was close to him in this manner, and then he began an emotional dream. Where she still loved him, trusted him, wanted him for her own, and then the sadness overwhelmed him, he simply wanted to return to the room that he called home. He crept quietly and carefully away, returning to the room where they usually stayed, and he slept on her side of the bed, breathing in her intoxicating scent that was perfumed everywhere on the area that she always laid.

    He knew he could escape this unhappy marriage but he knew that it was also his fault, he should have never allowed that blue hued being to throw her lips upon him, my, what an unsightly trollop she was, a materialistic trout! He knew that she had only wanted him for his money, and he supposed that that was something he was used to, but at least from his wife he received some consistency, he would never ever leave him, from this marriage she would never voluntarily be removed. Besides, she seemed to like him at least on a superficial label, and that was better than having nobody to love, or hold, or talk to, or know just so.

    He accepted that this was his life, and together their relationship would sadly, never grow. At least they were famous, or at least well known of in this world, and of their sham marriage, an unsteady family life could be grown.

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


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  • Story: Mariabella the Ice Cream Indulging Cow – 29/08/19

    Story: Mariabella the Ice Cream Indulging Cow – 29/08/19

    Mariabella was a clever little cow. She loved, loved, loved the taste of ice cream from Mister Stan from down the road. The reason why she was clever was because she was always able to swindle cones of soft serve from Mister Stan simply by causing him some guilt. Mister Stan was married to the great Missus Eaglemont, who refused to take on his surname as she preferred hers so much more – she felt it had a nicer ring to it – and she was the stronger of the two, she was emotionally bolder and physically built, but she enjoyed bolstering him up to feel the same.

    Mister Stan and Missus Eaglemont would provide the animals various varieties of ice cream throughout their day, but Mister Stan was unfortunately unable to do anything more than give his cones away. When Mariabella projected her cutesy faces at him,  he would provide her a soft serve with sprinkles, she’d lick it up, then wink at him, then grin! His heart would properly be melted indeed.

    “Don’t give her anymore, she’s lactose intolerant!” his wife would snap. “Don’t you understand?” But with a smile and a chew, Mariabella mooed and mooed, and once his wife toddled off, he became less independent and more malleable. This cow would manipulate Mister Stan into providing her with more and more soft serve, reluctantly provided by his unwilling hand, and then he would painfully watch her moan with satiated pleasure but later groan, from her lactose intolerance in her stomach, near her bulging udder.

    How highly ironic that this cow was lactose intolerant! That the product that she natuarally created could cause her so much strife! The moans, aches, the gassiness, and the stomach pains that which occured shortly after the ice cream consumption were ridiculously unreasonable, but she couldn’t give up her addiction. She knew that Mister Stan was her ‘Provider’, that she was using him, despite the admonishments from his stern wife, the ‘Other’, yet she couldn’t give up her feelings of desire, for this milky goodness, a treat like no other.

    It was as though she was compelled to slurp the sweetness, always beg for it, to ferociously eat, that she couldn’t stop herself, she was like a drunken mess, slurping rum from an almost empty bottle in the mean, darkened streets. And the desperation that she felt upon awakening, when she knew that the ice cream was far away, that it was only lunchtime that Mister Stan would be serving, she understood that she needed to relinquish this dairy product for something that made her feel great goodness, not overwhelming sickness.

    Although it was not her fault that she was lactose intolerant, she was completely avoiding responsibility for taking care of her illness, and it was with this knowledge that Missus Eaglemont finally had enough, she put her foot down, and told her husband, “No more! That cow will have none!”

    Mariabella had been ill throughout her infancy also, because she insisted on being fed by her mother, from the three working teats of her udder, sharing it with her siblings, also of three, with their great greedy rivalry just so, plain for all to see. They often took the teat more frequently than she, sucking for hours, until she was desperate, parched and hungry, and only a few droplets would be left for her, she could not understand why they would steal from her. Weren’t they meant to share, be considerate of each other’s needs? But even the few droplets made her sick, and she hadn’t even known why, her mother would never realise this, or even understand to speak, because lactose intolerance in cows really wasn’t a ‘thing’.

    It had never been heard of before, and it was only with information overheard from the rabbits from the nearby warren down the hill that Mariabella was educated of the reason why lactose, milk, ice cream, made her ill. It was very simple, but she didn’t wish to accept it, it was something of which she did not wish to deal. The creamy soft serve was so sweet and delicious upon her lips, her wavering tongue, slurping here, there, upon the crispy cone, what a treat!

    She would never give up her ice cream, even if Mister Stan stopped offering, she would find another way to satiate her needs! Besides, she knew there was another ice creamery down the street. It would be her next stop, that very night, when all the animals on the farm were asleep. She would enter the premises quietly, and see what treats there were, the makings of finery, the making of her dreams.

    But she fell asleep that night, a deep slumber, and she was unable to rouse herself, when she had set the alarm to be beeping on and on. Instead, she hit snooze automatically, over and over again, and when she woke in the morning, she realised the error of her plan! She had unintentionally foiled her plan from even coming to fruition, simply because she was too sleepy to allow herself to be woken by the alarm. “Tomorrow, tomorrow,” she told herself, as she loudly slurped the soft serve from the offered cone from Mister Stan outside her favourite tree, this area she called her home.

    And when she arrived the next night at the ice creamery, she knew she wanted to remain here, it was where she felt most alive. Choc mint, strawberry, apple berry, boysenberry, chocolate, caramel, pink lemonade, mango! All the flavours she’d never been exposed to, of such a rich brightness that she was lulled into a haze, and to the side of the regular ice cream, was a section of tubs with different, interesting names. She couldn’t read them, they were in some other language, strange to her eyes, undecipherable to her tongue, but when she gingerly tasted a few flavours, she realised there was no immediate ache in her tum!

    To her great joy and amazement, she understood one word – gelato – she had heard of this before, from the rabbits, it was such a hopeful and an amazing word. Gelato had no dairy, these treats were utterly safe for her, and with a delight in her eye, a spring in her step, she realised there was no need to go! She would relocate to this farm, visit her friends in the other farm during the day, but return here for her morning, afternoon and evening treats, no need was there for Mister Stan to be admonished or guilt tripped, because here Mariabella could freely eat without dismay. All she needed was to create positive ties with the staff members here, because this was where she wanted to be. Her life would no longer be filled with happiness followed by deep aching and sorrow, a reluctance to accept that ice cream held no positives for her, only an uncomfortable mellow, but now she was free to do as pleased, she’d found her gelato land, a place of her abounding dreams.

    Mister Stan and Missus Eaglemont were more than grateful that she’d solved the conundrum of her case, because they felt terrible every time she had grown sick, the joy of their ice cream had essentially gone to waste. Now they could attend to all the other animals on the farm, and allow Mariabella the happiness of being able to seek her own sense of freedom elsewhere, but still remain in contact with her friends, the other animals, and of this, everyone was wonderfully and duly amazed.

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


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  • Story: “It’s Not My Size!!!” – 27/08/19

    Story: “It’s Not My Size!!!” – 27/08/19

    “It’s not my size!!!” the joey shrieked. Her voice could be heard for miles, for thousands of feet. “I…DON’T…WANT…IT!” she enunciated, while for each syllable she stomped her feet, she was the most ungrateful marsupial the land had ever seen. She threw off the over-sized fuchsia sweater, and with definite difficulty she scurried over to her mother, and then hid inside the only warmth providing ‘garment’ that she could ever desire, the one and only pouch of her loving, accepting mother. For only a mother could love an animal so brat-like, she had been catered to far too often, during her young life her whims would never be cast aside by Mother or Father, never forgotten. Instead she received everything that she wished for, the worst time her father anticipated would be when she wanted to own her own car. But she was only five months old and that time was far off, and Mother had felt that, today, a spot of shopping would go down well. But in the sweater shop, where Mother was known to bound in, bounce around, quickly select something flattering and form fitting for herself, this time, the assistants would have a mission ahead of themselves.

    Joey was picky, she wanted everything this way, her way, that way, and she wasn’t careful to hold her tone, whether snappy, selfish, or snide, she didn’t care at all, she had unfortunately not been taught manners, she was simply a terror to behold. Mother had thought it would be rather fetching if Joey were to have an oversized sweater, it would be cute, sloppy, and a play on words: Sloppy Joe! She thought Joey would appreciate this particular two toned jumper, with her favourite colours, fuchsia and amber. But no, when the assistants placed it over her head, the spoilt joey shrieked for them to get it off immediately, it was stuck around her head, and her arms would not reach, the sleeves were far too long, what idiocy was this??? she shrieked further, as she hopped up and down the change room corridors, when she didn’t wish to belong. She was a whirlwind of the utmost destruction now, she wanted to destroy everything in the store, bounding around and ruining the displays, teaching them all a thing or two about how to treat a privileged animal who should be wearing her own elaborate, exquisite crown.

    There were two options here presented, of how dear Joey had reacted, which one do you think rings of truth? The more subdued reality, or the angered emotion of her truth? Sadly, I must inform you that it was the latter that was the correct unfolding.

    “But, darrrrling,” her mother purred. “Come here, stop being destructive,” she said. “Hop into my pouch, where you can rest and hide.” Confused, Joey shook her head, stunned to come to reality herself, she thought she had already done so, she thought she was already nestled in, just so. With widened eyes she looked around, “What on earth, what have I done?” Her mind was a whirlwind, she tried to fixate her memories upon what had just unfolded, and then with a start, she understood she needed to ask her mum.

    “What is going on with me?” she wailed. “I don’t know where to begin, how to think, where to start!”

    “It’s okay,” her mother said, patting her little furry head. “Let us go to the cafe, I’ll explain to you there.” And slowly they hopped away, right after paying the register girl some money to fix the results of Joey’s one-kangaroo affray, and with a hop and a jump, they landed at Coffee O’Smiley’s, and this is what her mother had to say.

    “My darling, you experience a wiping sensation of your memories. What occurs, only to you, is that you think you are performing an action, when in reality, it is another type of a move. You can be in two realities, one in truth, and the other in your mind, and the terrifying thing is that you don’t know always, even though the reality is to snap alert, to reveal what had occurred outside, and inside.” Joey didn’t seem to completely understand, though she did know that she was somehow disadvantaged, not everyone had a disorder such as this, whatever it was called it was the opposite of blind bliss. Why couldn’t she be like everyone else who had one thought pattern, one world? This was why she was such a spoiled rotten girl. Her family knew that she was different, and paining at this reality, that their poor daughter would often be suffering, they provided her with everything materialistic that she wanted, and endless food, treats, all the while, to provide her with something worth remembering.

    Because if she had all these things at her disposal, at her whim, then maybe she would construct some happy memories to experience. Even if she didn’t, then surely she could tell, that once having come to, she would realise she was utterly loved by her parents, themselves. However, nothing could make up for this fact, that she was split in her realities, one leading forth, the other delving inside, confusion, never coming back, and it was with great sadness that Joey realised, her life now, was going to be hell, always. She wouldn’t remember what she had done, there would be times she’d think she performed the right actions, but then it was not right, it was wrong, and she’d be stunned. She decided to isolate herself from the world, and write, write, write, of her truths, as they unfurled.

    Her style of writing proved very unique, she snapped back and forth from the present, the apparent future, the persuasive inner dreams, and it was with her own version of charming haikus and soliloquy, other forms of poetry, reams of it, she slept surrounded by piles of paper, churned from her dreams. I’d like to say something came of her writing, something beautiful was formed, created, but you’d have to see for yourselves, to view her scrawled notes, and read the empathy and touching sentimentality for yourselves.

    What measure of success is there when the ability to write is present, when the desire to share one’s innermost thoughts succinctly, clearly, is the ultimate goal, to touch other’s hearts as they read your words, why, Joey learned of this desire and made it her truth, she had carefully learned, she knew what to do. With her life now focused, she didn’t spend time dwelling on her illness. It didn’t matter anyway, as long as she could project and promote a sense of inner wellness. Then surely through her art she would become well, and if not, at least she had nurtured her talent, and had expressed it in a manner she knew so well.

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


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  • Story: The Satisfied Jogger – 27/08/19

    Story: The Satisfied Jogger – 27/08/19

    Jogging deeply satisfied her. It gave her a sense of achievement, of reaching her goals. Each morning she would train, beginning slowly, and then speed up, feet upon the pavement pounding, now rapidly sprinting, for that high, endorphins flowing, and now back to a jog, her heart rate would slow, a quaint, deep patterning of heavy thuds.

    She came from a family of lethargic, slothful beings, her family didn’t see what the point in exercise she understood of, what she was doing, all they wanted to do was laze about being couch potatoes and watch television, while further laying around, eating on the couch or in the bed, calling upon her to attend when they wanted more to eat, drink, or of something else to call or send. It was as though she was their servant, unwilling, yet she performed their tasks, she knew that if she didn’t, they wouldn’t allow her to go for her morning jog. It was the only thing which calmed her, made her feel as though she had time to attend to herself, a mental switching off, a reaching for a goal. And the saddening thing was that if she wasn’t permitted her jog in the morning, her heart would slow to a faint disappointed crawl. It was interesting how her physical nature was affected by them all.

    Because, the jog was the only thing looked forward to, she wasn’t allowed to go to college, or spend time studying worldly issues in her room. It was as if her slovenly family were punishing her for being so different from them, why, sometimes in the quiet interludes of their madness she wondered whether she had been adopted from another family instead. There was nothing similar of them to see, nothing visual, personality wise, psychological, characteristic to be found, her mother and father, not worth mentioning more than they had given up on a healthy, useful life, instead now the scourge of one another, and her two sisters and brother, they just sat idiotically staring at their favourite television show of a great family of comical badgers.

    In her bare room, she sat counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until she was allowed to go out into the sun. She was suited up in her tracksuit pants, her turtleneck, and her grey runners that would allow her to be nimble, light-footed amidst her hour of fun, and with deep satisfaction she watched the second hand count down, and she called out, “Mama, Papa, you know the drill! I am going out!” Before they could shriek for more food – beef jerky and Cheetos were at the moment their favourite foods – she rushed through the doorway, she could not get out of there sooner! The escape was one of the greatest feelings which she relished, the wind in her hair as she jogged methodically, consistently, as she demonstrated her fitness prowess upon the hour.

    She often spoke to herself under her breath on her jogs and her runs, wondering what she should do, how she could escape essentially her hell on earth. She never came up with a conclusion, an answer, a systematic reason, but what she did detail were symptoms of the illness. The illness that her family surely had that she did not, the gene of laziness and entitlement, more often than not. Never once did they offer her anything useful, to lift a finger, perhaps a helping hand, all they did was take, ask, take, and this they did all day and evening long, wanting to only gain. It was so unfair that she was basically their slave, that they didn’t have anything positive to provide her, except the brief morning run escape, a single moment, one day, again, then the next day would be the same.

    What made them think that this was enough, what happened to mental stimuli? Being made to sign away their lives, this was what they were trying to avoid. For their secret was not that they were inherently lazy, no, this was obvious in itself, but the reason they were forcing her to be their slave was because of their immense hidden wealth. Their secret plan was to work her to the bone, until she had enough, took off, left the family home, then they wouldn’t be obliged to leave her name upon their will as their main beneficiary when they would inevitably die.

    By law, in their small country, they were required to have as their beneficiary their closest living, next of kin. If they left the family premises, the next of kin would be written in. Because of their poor eating habits and lifestyle choices, they knew their passing would occur sooner rather than later, and they needed their more skilled daughter to fly, fly away. They felt her undeserving of the wealth, for she was selfish, leaving them each morning, apparently to take care of her mental and physical health. It was not on; it simply just would not fly.

    One morning, she was running past the lake nearby to her home. Spotted at the surface were two white ducks, each one on their lonesome. With a smile, she called out and waved to them, jolly tunes she sung to them quite freely, “Oh, Ducky, oh, Ducky, where have you been? What have you done, and what have you seen?” And then suddenly they took off with a great frightening scene. Her heart lifted, her lips curled into a warm pout, and she thought to herself, “Why can’t I do that, this? Why can’t they go without?” They didn’t truly need her, they were simply accustomed to being lazy, and now she realised that freedom wasn’t a dream. With a sprint, she pushed forth, her arms flying like one of those freedom seeking ducks, and basically, generally speaking, she deserted her family that day, never to return, there was nothing further left for me to say.  

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


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  • Story: Memories of the Niceties of a Narwhal – 26/08/19

    Story: Memories of the Niceties of a Narwhal – 26/08/19

    I once knew a narwhal; he was debonair, gentle and kind. He travelled from the wide open seas to visit me, he loved to pop in for lunch or afternoon tea. His favourite meals were salad sandwiches, which we would laden with many condiments, it made them all so tasty, and devour two or three would Narwhal, the whole lot of them.

    While this narwhal was dedicated to visiting me, he was chasing a certain dream, a certain understanding, and a certain figurative being. He didn’t know who I truly was, deep inside, a broken, shattered little being. But he was drawn to this, to me, somehow he could sense this, with his strong sense of empathy, and perhaps he and I weren’t so different, beneath the surface of his grin, did there lurk a paining so wild and free?

    I knew from several conversations that Narwhal’s home life was troubled, he had a sister of the age of thirteen who was going through some monumental changes. The crowd in which she associated herself with were curs and thieves, and every Saturday and Friday evenings she would invite them around to her house, and there they’d plan their future missions with craftiness and ease. Narwhal’s parents disliked their daughter’s friends being in their part of the sea, where they resided somewhat quietly, murmuring thoughts shared over pots of steaming tea, and when the evening arrived, boy, how they were gritting their teeth and were apprehensive, because for their daughter and her friends, what constituted fun was nothing but illegalities and running entirely amok.

    Maybe Narwhal escaped this situation by seeing me, he didn’t have anything else to occupy him, except the idea and company of being near and with me. We often sent each other seaweed letters, in which he would sign off his love. This made me uncomfortable but I decided not to say anything, for fear of breaking his heart. Because I knew what it was like to be broken too, smashed into pieces, for feeling something for another being that was not reciprocated by them, an overwhelming feeling of being blue. And if it meant playing along, to allow Narwhal to feel warm and tingly, and then some, I was willing to do so, if it meant he would feel happier about himself, I knew it should be so.

     And then the strangest thing: the more time I spent with Narwhal, the more that I began falling for the debonair being that he was, with his sparkling personality, his gentle sense of camaraderie, his notion of what was right and wrong, and how to share in his love that was projected so longingly. I had once only thought of him as a friend, and now, my feelings for this special whale were growing, outright blossoming instead.

    Slowly, with growing trust, he began to share with me his inner thoughts and feelings, and my, weren’t they so touching, so beautiful and ponderous, his utterances made my heart become a-fluttering. And then his tales of sadness, of how he longed for a better life, for opportunities to become more than he was, something with substance, more serious, less fun. I was sorrowful at hearing these words, and carefully, gently, would pull him into a hug. This narwhal was a being of whom I was slowly falling in love.

    But how could we make it work? He was a sea creature, and I lived here on earth! He could survive for only a few hours upon land with the breathing apparatus on his back, but how could we make a life for ourselves when we were so very clearly different? I couldn’t live beneath the sea, and so too he could not easily breathe the air above land for me. It was a perplexing notion, and it really made me think, but the most I could do was suppress these thoughts, they made our relationship far too much, so serious to think. So it seemed that all we could do would indulge in sandwich visits, and hanging out for a few hours, reading books to one another in my bedroom. We would sit together, so cosy, as I read our favourite novels and magazines. Then would come the saddening time for the end of his visit, and wave me off would he with his little fin, and my heart would ache, oh, how I wished he would come sooner next time, for his next visit again.

    One day, I was waiting for Narwhal, he had promised he was going to visit last week, yet I had seen nor heard of anything from him, not a seaweed correspondence to read of nor speak. Usually he was prompt with his letters and responses, he always signed them off with three kisses and two hugs, but now I felt he had drifted away, why? I did not know, perhaps the reason was simply, “just because”. There could be any amount of reasons as to why he had decided to remain in the sea, to no longer visit his favourite human, little old repaired me, for his quiet love had changed me, made me whole again and of this I did know, that Narwhal, my dearest friend, was never again going to show. I could feel it in my bones, a few days ago I had felt the breaking of a type of an emotional cord, as though we were now on own, separated, nothing keeping us together anymore.

    The memories we had were precious, and I would keep them in my mind and heart always, but what happened to Narwhal, had he deserted me or been taken, harpooned, or even stolen from the ocean by humans to be tamed? I didn’t want to put a potential label to his apparent desertion, even the thought of his wide brown eyes and smiling face hurt myself so badly I wished we were one and the same. However, it was meant to be this way, I supposed, how could a human girl live with a whale, and the utmost despairing thing about it was, we had fallen for each other, and helped repair the broken parts of one another. Through acceptance and friendship, and emotional moments and times of quiet healing, Narwhal and I were in our own places of solitude and dreaming. Though never again would we meet, I would always recall my pleasant, gentle, debonair Narwhal with the fondest of dreams.

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


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