Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: art

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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  • Story: Naughty Little Eraser – 03/09/19

    Story: Naughty Little Eraser – 03/09/19

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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  • Story: 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: 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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