Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: creative writing

  • Poetry and Prose: A Flower From Her Love – 12/09/19

    Poetry and Prose: A Flower From Her Love – 12/09/19

    He rarely buys me flowers. It isn’t because he lacks sentimentality. It’s because I know, that, while pretty, their company will only last for a short while. But when he does, their perfume will romance me, I will breathe in their intoxicating scent, I will feel their colours bloom before me, a wondrous presence I have been given. Still, I ache at their loss, when they inevitably die away, although I know, that unlike the flowers which graced my world for a few days, that his love for me remains. It is here to stay.

    This morning he steps into the kitchen with a cheeky, knowing expression on his face. His hands are behind his back, as though there is something obscured that he is so proud to hide from me. Something which he can’t wait to present, something exciting, perhaps. Something I’d love, with his intent so potent. I’m playful, my eyes dance, I know there’s something to expect from my love, something within his strong hands.

    “What do you have there, darling?” I ask. With a flourish, he draws his arms from his back, presenting to me, before my delighted face, a beautiful bloom for me to have. Its colouring and perfume, so wondrous to accept, to breathe in and view. I smile, jump up and down, grasp it within my hands then hold his firmly, too.

    “My darling, thank you so much, for being in my life.”

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


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  • Story: “See Ya!” – Simon the Sociable Sloth – 11/09/19

    Story: “See Ya!” – Simon the Sociable Sloth – 11/09/19

    “See ya!” called Simon the ever-sociable sloth to his visitors. “I hope you thoroughly enjoyed yourselves. I urge you to come again soon,” and with that, he bowed deeply, for he was so glad that they had attended. Simon wasn’t like most sloths, who were solitary and shy, hiding behind trees and their leaves. No, Simon was an extrovert, and he socialised as much as pleased. However, after the dinner guests had left, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was difficult for him to remain on top of all of the conversations, and be charming, and most of all avoiding appearing meek. Because inside he would be fighting the urge to flee the scene. He was only recently teaching himself how to be sociable, to be as keen for company as he could be.

    Sloths were known for sleeping the day away, so it suited Simon to have his social events at dinner time, with his friends with exuberant personalities, the dinners would be perfectly joyous and gay. Because, when he and his guests were all together, they ate, and laughed, and danced, and played after-dinner cards or board games. Everything was very merry, it was as though these types of dinner were planned perfectly, and their itineraries would be well thought out, and always ended in playing Uno, or on occasion, Monopoly. They would be entertained for hours, and sleepily they would leave only when the sunshine would show itself.

    But who were Simon’s friends, how did they stay up into the wee hours of the night with him? Surely they couldn’t be other sloths, because somewhat antisocial they were known for being. No, his friends were the owls, the wolves, the animals that hooted or howled at the moon, away from the sun, and how he loved their company, they were unique and loyal, and terribly great fun. It didn’t matter all that much that Willy the Wolf had tried to bite him one time. Simon understood that was part of his instinct, his urges, to seek out delicious meats to eat. In fact, Simon took it as a compliment, that he was considered a delicacy by Wolf, it made him tingle inside with confidence. What a strange thought process Simon had regarding his friend Willy the Wolf.

    One dinner, when Olivia the Owl and her family of six were present, along with Willy the Wolf and his new wife Mindy, Simon asked his guests to take their seats, because presently it was time for their tea. Carefully, for with his curved claws it was difficult to serve, Simon precariously balanced the first course – pumpkin soup – before his ravenous friendship herd. But the soup was secretly not to their liking. Willy and Mindy wanted the taste of meat! So too did Olivia and her troupe, they were hoping for servings of dead rats to be seen. After all, Simon knew of their delicacies and preferences, and they were unsure as to why he’d not catered to their specifications as he usually did.

    It was as though he could read their minds. In reality, he’d read their disappointed body language.

    “I’m trying a differing menu of sorts,” he said with a smile. With a flourish towards the kitchen, he explained, “I’m going to serve vegan for a while.”

    “Vegan?” they all collectively gasped. “What about our need for protein, or red blood cells, their iron??” Mindy began bickering with her husband, forcing him to tell her why on earth she had allowed him to drag her here. Olivia and crew now were squawking among themselves, trying to work out how to politely leave this room. There was no politeness in this. Everyone could hear them, including a now despondent Simon. He had tried, really, he had, to make a positive change to his menu, for his community, and for the environment. He was happy enough to now only eat a strictly vegan menu, and he hadn’t known his friends would be so narrow-minded. He stalked over to the door and flung it open.

    “See ya!!!” he yelled, and pointed out the exit of the door.

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


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  • Story: The Jolly Little Toadstool – 10/09/19

    Story: The Jolly Little Toadstool – 10/09/19

    The Jolly Little Toastool

    Everybody loved the jolly little toadstool, for he was as jolly as could be. He lived in rough grass that surrounded him, and he was perpetually available for a spot of morning tea. Together with the blades of grass accompanying him and his other red toadstool friends nearby, they sipped the morning quaintly away, having nibbles of scones which were set out elaborately, catching to the eye. Jeff, the jolly little toadstool, was a master of all trades. In his spare time, he liked to uproot himself, and work on his opening his family’s ancient safe. Here within this closed off contraption existed something grand; he did not know exactly what it was, but his mother had smiled knowingly years prior, when he presented it with her gnarled hands.

    It was difficult for Jeff to attempt to open this contraption, simply due to the fact he had no arms or hands to assist with the opening action. But as he was a Master of all trades, we cannot be left disappointed, and the skills he’d learned for it to be saved were thus: he nibbled upon the combination lock! His tongue was so powerful, yet he’d feel the subtle clicks. There was nothing his tongue couldn’t do with this security dial. In fact, he’d tried many combinations, however, thus far, they were not the right mix. But as he turned the dial rapidly, hastily yet with great skill, he felt each combination drew him closer to the family’s treasure. The mere action of seeking the treasure was in itself a momentous thrill.

    But there were days when he’d not be bothered with the treasure, he’d wished for something else to do. Something to express his jolliness to others, something that allowed him to share his positive point of view. In the afternoons, Jeff had a secret activity. He loved to sing along to the children’s television shows in the afternoon, for the tunes were so upbeat and uplifting. Each bouncing syllable and smile from the presenters would make his heart warm, and wish he was a wee toadstool again. Being young had presented only enjoyment for him, and these were the memories that he wished with others he could share. So, he sung along daily, after entertaining at his tea party, after the serious work of attempting to open the combination lock. This soon became the highlight of his day, and I most definitely, most certainly and assuredly would allow him to proclaim, that he wanted to be a children’s show presenter, known for his tunes and smiles each day.

    But he felt stumped. How would he gain admission into this world? It seemed that it would be difficult to even be seen for an interview online. This type of employment seemed to be the sort that would attract many beings, and sadly, he felt, that there would be judgement upon him. He had never seen a presenter who was a toadstool such as himself, they were always people or animals, not fungi’s such as himself. It might not matter to them that he was an amusing, jolly character, nice guys finish last, they do say, and perhaps the same is said for those who were laughing and charming characters. Still, he would persist, in this mindset he would not exist, the depressing thoughts that he might not be good enough were not permitted to swim in his mind. Instead, he knew what to do! With a start he uprooted and collected himself, gathered all his toadstool friends, inviting them all for a cup of morning tea, where they could be of great assistance to him.

    He spelled out the problems and allowed them to express their views.

    “Surely you’ll not be avoided because you’re a mushroom!” one friend said, aghast. “You’d be given a look in because you’re different… Differences stand out.”

    “Yeah, I agree,” another friend decreed. “Your differences, your bubbliness, your jolliness, are so worthy of this world, they must be shared.”

    “How about your singing voice? What is it like?” Jeff broke into song and started singing a lilting lullaby. With the power of voice ringing in their ears, they all slowly became lethargic and fell asleep. With astonishment, the jolly toadstool knew how he would present his case, he would sing, instead of speak!

    Hurriedly, he pulled out his spare journal, which had many pages free to write in. He composed an upbeat pop song with a children’s slant on it, which was a call to the human resources department of the television stations. He sung loud, true and proud, his melody resounded, as he recorded himself on camera, for the unknown faces to view him, and become acquainted with the likes of him.

    “That. Was. Magnificent,” proclaimed and clapped his greatest fan, his closest friend named Dan. “They couldn’t turn away the likes of you. You are certainly amazing.” Jeff blushed red, feeling the warmth take to his complexion, as he modestly waved off Dan’s words himself. He couldn’t help though, at being quite chuffed, with the accompanying applause which now resounded from his tea friends. Perhaps his differences coupled with his talent would win him a place as a children’s television presenter, and he could place the combination lock work away for a while instead.

    Days passed, weeks passed, even months, they flew, since Jeff had sent off his recording to the stations. His heart ached at the potential that this silence meant unspoken rejections, and only he could be the one who would intuitively know. He felt saddened beyond belief, that he was reduced to the combination lock work. So, instead he picked up another job to fill the day, he went to work with a head mechanic, at Bits and Bobs. He liked the work enough, it was something to make him feel useful, but he didn’t feel blessed. He wanted to entertain children with song and dance. Educate them with new concepts, teaching them brand new things. Instead he was stuck in front of and underneath cars in a garage, lit so dimly.

    He supposed at least here he could freely sing. The other beings, Bob, the owner, two rabbits and a frog, secretly laughed at the method in which Jeff worked at Bits and Bobs, because, as he didn’t possess hands, he had to feel around the vehicles and take parts off and install them with his feisty teeth, of which he of course had great command. When he felt judged, he just sung and sung away. It wasn’t his fault he was born without any hands or arms to be seen, clutch with or sway. The songs he made up helped him through the day. He was even contemplating returning to working at home, to pass the time away. At least he wouldn’t be judged there. At least his heart wouldn’t ache.

    One day, as Jeff was surfing the internet with his voice-activated computer, he was retrieving his emails, and decided to check the junk folder. To his amazement, what did he see but five emails of acceptance from all five television stations of which he’d applied! He couldn’t believe his eyes, how on earth had his email re-categorised them? They were dated for various times sent in the last three months precisely. It appeared he had the pick of whichever station he desired; they were all so pleased to have heard from him! They loved his song, the fact that it appealed to children and a larger audience, and the fact that he was a toadstool with no limbs was actually quite interesting to them. The most excited email he responded to immediately, telling his computer exactly what he wanted to respond to it. He apologised for the great delay between the producer sending it – for the producer had been so impressed he bypassed the human resources man – because he had only presently read it. He arranged for a potential day that he could come in to meet him, and with immense jolliness he sent his email off, to be read the next day.

    “I’d like next Tuesday off work, please,” he requested from the owner of Bits and Bobs.

    “No can do, there are no days off,” he replied with a smirk. “Unless you want your whole life off work.” Jeff gritted his teeth. This interview meant the world to him. He knew he couldn’t disclose it though, that would ruin the chances of having this backup job to return to. Then in a flighty breath, he realised he’d had enough. Of the mocking from the other workers, and now this, from arrogant Bob.
    “Stuff your job,” he said, and packed up with his teeth all his tools. Stalking away from the ogling, wide-eyed workers, he knew he should have left this job sooner.

    “Don’t care crawl back, you worthless toadstool. There’s nothing more you can do!” Bob called out. Jeff shook his head feeling saddened. What an uncouth boss he had turned out to be. Jeff was better off without.

    The interview was a roaring success. He impressed the producer and owner, blew them away with his joyfulness and manner that was so infectious. He was hired on the spot, and he can be viewed each afternoon, with his co-host Angela, they teach and sing to children before the evening news. Each moment they sing in unison or harmony, their eyes sparkle, their hearts flow together, they knew they are making a difference with their work, they adore working with one another. They know their opportunity to teach the young is special and they are most grateful for their roles. Here Jeff the toadstool is accepted for who is he, not frowned upon for what he is lacking, for what he cannot do. Because, he is finally a Master of laughter and learning, of singing and dancing, and this means the entire world to him.

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


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  • Story: A Resplendent Stag At His Own Stag Do – 04/09/19

    Story: A Resplendent Stag At His Own Stag Do – 04/09/19

    There was a lucky stag, who was marrying the most wonderful deer in the world, tonight was his stag do, tonight would be when he celebrated at the same time but a different place to the girls. Usually the night would be filled with heavy drinking, antler fighting, wide eyed ogling, but this wasn’t what he wanted for himself, he didn’t want to sin. Besides, this stag wasn’t interested in drinking excessively, waking up feeling horrid, pains a-plenty, what he was interested in was projecting a special sense of beauty. He had always held a fond feeling, a soft spot, for the sublime and the visually appealing, and his stag friends knew that this was how he wished to celebrate, to project an aesthetically pleasing viewing.

    Now, in a quiet corner of the forest they approached him, sombre, with a cascading wreath and male veil all of his own, placing the creation from Nature upon his antlers, his face, around his head, his crown. Upon their tippy toes they adorned him, made him shine resplendent from afar, the flowers, the buds, the leaves, brightening this special stag-star. One friend walked slowly with a full-length elaborately decorated mirror, presenting his stag friend with the visual version of who he presently was. With great delight and a widened smile, he threw his head back and grinned, admiring himself from left to right, all for a while did he.

    “What a beauty I have become,” he breathed, so astonished. “Who made this crown for me, my veil, the maker I wish to know them!” Never before had he seen such an intricate crown made for anyone else, let alone him, and he was the King of collecting nature made crowns and other such things. In fact, at home he had stowed in the closet secretly from his future wife the amount of three times twelve, and she would never discover his collection because it was hidden incredibly well. But this crown veil took the cake, it was weaved so specially for him, the flowers and buds so dainty as they’d been plucked, preserved, tamed, and strangely he felt like what a goddess must feel like, a beautiful version of a nature queen. Because this veil was not manly, it appealed to the feminine inside, and this was the part of himself that he liked to be in touch with, it was a gentler part of his insides. He could be a manly stag, making noises to draw attention, fighting with other antlers of strong stag men, but when it came to general life, this stag preferred to be gentle and loving, and not so over protective and wild.

    “It was Mrs. Simbalina!” one of his stag friends announced. “She was the one who created this for you, she must have known of your character quite well?”

    “Bring her forth to me!” he roared in a manner quite proudly, as he preened and viewed himself again in the mirror, my, it was a glorious scene to behold. He became lost in absorbing the beauty that he usually only felt within, now it was as though Mrs. Simbalina’s creation had drawn out his beautiful inner truth and sense of visual beauty which was now available to be seen. It wasn’t as if he classed himself as unattractive usually, but this crown and veil made him feel quite chuffed, so pleased. Soon, the maker mouse was brought to him.

    “Mrs. Simbalina! May I please pay my dues, you have brought the beauty out from within me, look at this wondrous view!” And with a flourish he turned his head this way and that, and groomed the flowing buds of premature roses, until, unfortunately, he accidentally pruned them from their holds, and that was that. Oh, how his heart ached, he threw his head back and produced a guttural wail, what had he done, he had planned to use this veil at the altar, with his lover before him, her eyes captured upon his face, surrounded by this magic veil before her unveiling.

    “What have I done?” he cried, tears wept from each inner corner of his eyes.

    “Do not fret, Brett,” she said to the stag. “I can make you another instead.” Instantly his eyes dried up as though a puddle would were it placed within a parched desert. He thanked her profusely, and allowed her to leave, of her craft to get on with it. And within two hours she had returned with the most resplendent veil and crown you could ever hope to see, amazing at her life’s work was Mrs. Simbalina, so talented was she.

    When Brett and his love’s special day came, they were both wearing their own version of veils, and surprisingly they were made by a craftswoman one and the same. Each one brought out a particular characteristic from the other; the feminine from Brett, brought out the stronger part in his other. As though the veils reflected the way that they were already intertwined in life, they held hands, joined their lives, and their truth was there to be witnessed, held together with love and affection that was wholly meant. And Mrs. Simbalina was secretly taken on by the Stag and his staff as a craftswoman of immense talent and secretive means to alter another’s life course, though her skills would never be openly spoken of, only held within careful silence from east to west, from south to north. Why? It was safer that way, because Mrs. Simbalina had to be carefully guarded due to her ability to exceptionally alter and cause.

    © 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: 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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  • 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: 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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