Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: fiction

  • Story example: Angela the World Travelling Kitty – 03/08/19

    Story example: Angela the World Travelling Kitty – 03/08/19

    World Traveller Angela had seen the world all over. Since her early retirement from being a librarian at the age of twenty five, she had been globetrotting bi-annually and enjoyed every moment of it, travel truly served and suited her. She loved to collect souvenirs from each country that she stepped paw in, and her recent favourite item was a straw hat worn while working in the rice fields. She had spray painted it golden to make it shine even more, the sheen drawing the attention of everyone she saw. She enjoyed being noticed for her unique fashion choices, for no one in her home country would wear such a hat that was so bright and alive. That being said, there were no rice fields in her country to be attended to, and for some reason, while wearing the hat, this made Angela feel rather sad and blue.

    On one trip back to Asia, she decided to visit the rice fields of Philippines and China, and she marvelled at their visual beauty, their well arranged inner structure. She watched the workers, wearing the same hats that she did, working arduously in the fields, their energy expenditure could clearly be seen. Angela wanted to join in, to assist them if she could, she asked, “Can I help, if I can?” With a slow movement one worker stood straightened and said, “Are you a mere kitten with not much power?” Shocked, aghast, at the worker’s forwardness, she shadowed her eyes from the brightened sun and said, “I may be a feline, but this doesn’t mean I have no labouring skills, give me a test, try my skills, the soon to be absorbed knowledge in my head.”

    Wary now, unsure, uncertain of himself, the worker thought and thought, wondering, what did he have to lose, aside from stressors affecting his health? For if he allowed this cat, a mere kitten, reign of performing his tasks, why wouldn’t this mean he could finally rest for a morning tea break, he had been waiting for it, here it would come, at long last! He would not be exploiting her, surely not, he was simply trying to gain a positive break for himself, this was the point in the spot, and hastily, hurriedly, he gave Angela the Cat a place, to work at for the rest of the day at a dutifully acceptable pace.

    She didn’t mind the work, and when she stopped here and there she was able to talk and share stories with others nearby to her. She slowly began to made friends, and she realised that this was a perfect place for a working holiday, a means of earning money, being less bored with having too much time on her usual holidays for her to enjoy. And during the nights and on the weekends, the city streets she could explore, the restaurants and the hideaways, why, with work and exploration now she would never be bored. She was so thankful that she had been afforded this change, to be offered a place of employment where she felt she fitted in at last, it was as though this was a new chapter in her life, a new page to view, here she was accepted, not outcast.

    Now Angela spends her time split from home and overseas and rice field work, although it was tiresome, backbreaking labour, she felt physically strengthened and found. While her time in the library was rewarding, it was somewhat isolating, she enjoyed the fields more for the physical aspect and means of permitted, yet reigned in socialising. She had found her place finally, at the age of thirty three.  

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

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  • Story example: Molly the Lioness and her Pilfered Berries – 02/08/19

    Story example: Molly the Lioness and her Pilfered Berries – 02/08/19

    Molly loved picking and eating berries before having her main meals.

    Molly the Lioness had a problem. A dark, deep secret that nobody knew of. She was addicted to picking the nearby farmer’s berries, scoffing them down close to her breakfasts, lunches and teas. She could not help herself, it was the natural colouring and fructose that tempted her, her growling appetite before her meals meant she must have a pre-breakfast, pre-lunch, or pre-dinner. And because these berries were seemingly available for free – not necessarily appropriate for munching by you and me – Molly the Lioness, so ravenous that she was, shovelled into her mouth the berries because, for her, their taste was positively assured.

    She loved the tartness of the blue ones, the pink-reddened ones had a somewhat mulberry tasting hue and tongue twisting effect too, and the yellow ones, why, what a delight! Honey flavour dripping down her pipes. She had almost been caught once by the farmer, how embarrassing was that day, with paws dripping with sweetened juices she frantically then ran away. His eyes had spotted her form, and with a Whoop! Holler! and a sound of a flugelhorn, he attempted to rush toward the culprit who was chasing his berries amongst their tiny thorns.

    Farmer was less than impressed, when he viewed the sticky mess, of the bushes where his berries should have laid, with sadness overwhelming him. His decision to return to the farm and moodily consume his whisky, drink after drink, he wondered to himself what could he do about this problem, what solution could commence when he would really start to think.

    Firstly, he knew that the animal was a mammal, he could see the form running, so amber and agile. A head of luscious hair streaming from its head, but still, he could not view the entire animal in his mind’s eye, he had not enough details of it stored in his head. After all, it was merely a flash in a second, it was so very quick, jumping away from the berries that it so willingly would eat. Perhaps the Farmer would sacrifice and poison his prized berries, just to capture the culprit who seemed to be returning to them with great ease.

    And so his plan was so: to sprinkle a natural remedy: vinegar, chilli water and aniseed from the stars, and sprinkle this concoction beneath the brushy vines, within a week he would view which animal had been taking his source of deepened farm made wines.

    By week two, Molly had been poisoned so much that her belly ached and made her groan too, she could barely stumble to the vines of berries to have her fill. What she didn’t realise was that the fruits of the vine were what was making her violently paining and with time, she fainted by the bushes, much to the triumph of the Farmer in his knee high galoshes, clutching a bottle of his finest farm’s wine.

    “So, it is you,” he said more to himself, than Molly, for there was nobody else. “What should I do with this?” He looked into her barely open eyes. Suddenly his heart ached, he realised what he had done, why had he needed to poison a hungry animal, for following her nose to a meal, to cause her to delightedly, excitedly, to celebrate her soon to be fulfilled appetite, toward the solution run? Imagine if he had been poisoned for wanting to eat his own meals, to satiate his growling stomach, to have his fill, and he realised that these bushes of berries were not all that important, though they were the small source of his wine income, he knew that were not the farm’s most highest sought after component.

    And nursed Molly back to good health did the Farmer, he was there by her side, rehydrating her, feeding her, and he apologised a thousand times, for his errant behaviour, and wished nothing for her but goodness, and to be her now saviour. When she roused enough for her eyes to take their fill, of the man who was caring for her, her eyes filled to the brim, her feelings, emotions became warm then stilled, she did not understand why he was there, but she knew that she did most appreciate his care.

    From now on, the Farmer allows Molly upon his farm every day, to enjoy the tasty berries, free, on display, to be eaten by her, always. She loves that she is now catered for and does not have to run, slink and jump, just to get a free pre-meal into her hungry chops.

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

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  • Poem and Drawing: “Onward, loyal steed!” Henry the Toy Horse’s Flight – 02/08/19

    Poem and Drawing: “Onward, loyal steed!” Henry the Toy Horse’s Flight – 02/08/19

    It was one of Henry’s dreams to fly.

    “Onward and upward, loyal steed!” cried the rounded grey bat, dangling tasty cherries before the face of his best friend, Henry the Toy Horse, his plan to rise was just that.

    Henry did not have wings like the bat, but that didn’t stop his dream,

    He and Grey Bat were best friends and he wanted to rise like Grey Bat could, easily and fearlessly, just like him, Henry prayed and wished he could.

    Would the world part its textile tapestry reality and allow him to perform this flight, no matter how impossible it seemed, into the day and into the nights?

    The cherries encouraged him, oh, how they were both so sour and sticky sweet,

    With Grey Bat riding atop his back, flying upwards, he was required to rise some more with telepathic measures.

    What are telepathic measures, may you ask? It is when Henry would become linked with the mind of Grey Bat and be able to practice his activities and thoughts and special psychic powers.

    Therefore, if Grey Bat could fly, hypothetically could he, all he needed was to learn the mental weavings and knowledge available and able to be obtained so freely.

    “Come on, Henry, you can do this!” encouraged Grey Bat relentlessly. “Come on, rise up and above, make the most of this!”

    And with Henry’s head steaming, his mind trembling, an exterior of outwardly exacerbated internal thinking,

    He exhaled ever so deeply and then with some visual imagery, two feet off the ground he slowly rose, what a triumphant victory!

    Grey Bat whooped and hollered for many following days, as they rose and fell into the air as though of flying technique they knew it all, always.

    For what a great victory that was to be had, the telepathic measures proved so fresh and rad, perhaps they were the only beings in the land to use such a forthcoming measure, of pertinent knowledge to be shared.

    And fly and fly all the days and into the nights they did, for many years, then they introduced their growing families.

    All of Henry’s horsey sons and daughters were able to take flight, and how proud their Godfather Grey Bat was to see this, it was so pleasantly nice.

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

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  • Story example: Wigglebutt the Polar Bear With Questionably Coloured Hair – 01/08/19

    Story example: Wigglebutt the Polar Bear With Questionably Coloured Hair – 01/08/19

    Wigglebutt was an exceptionally happy bear. He loved to dig, and chase and run with animals and his fellow bears almost everywhere. Of his ecstatic nature he loved to express, through his wagging little tail and pouffy fluffy butt from left to right, great joy, of life he was always dutifully impressed. His cute little fluffy bear bottom was unique all of its own, no other bear’s bum could compare, no rounded shape or volume of hair, nothing to compare of their own!

    One day, a polar bear approached him, with a sneer across his face. “Why are you the wrong colour, what’s that tan along your face?” With shock at the bear’s disdain he ran toward the nearest mirror, Wigglebutt had always thought of his visual differences a great asset to himself, from standing out from the others. His tan and white complexion caused a contrast among the polar bears and wood bears, who comfortably and lovingly lived together in a means and upon a land that with Earth could not compare. And never once had he been told that he was too different, or wrong, or some such, he was always embraced by the animal crowd, he was always deemed more than enough. Now this such and such had to put in his two cents worth, and activating insecurities inside Wigglebutt, it was unfair, and his words were unwanted, his opinion was undesirous, Wigglebutt had had enough!

    Wigglebutt returned and pointed a finger into the mean polar bear’s chest.

    “Who are you to say I’m different, why, perhaps you could not compare!” And then suddenly a thoughtful smile came across the nasty bear’s face, “Perhaps you are right, dear wrongly coloured animal, touché touché, your words are so nice.” His biting sarcasm hurt an innocent Wigglebutt to the core, he could not stand this verbal abuse and his tone anymore. With a broken sense of pride, he walked away, walked on by, and into his den he hid, uncaring for hiding his emotions now, proceeded to cry.

    “My darling, what’s wrong?” his mother asked, rubbing his back. Wigglebutt simply shook his head left and right, with his wracked sobbing, he couldn’t enunciate the facts. She knew something untoward had happened, and when he was able to squeak out the words, “I have the wrong coloured fur!” she understood the moment in his life had come to explain where he truly was from.

    With careful wording, she explained first that he was deeply loved, by herself and his father, Professor Earl Grey the Curl. He had a curly tail that was different to her and Wigglebutt, and he was not afraid of his visual difference at all.

    “You see how Father is different,” she said gently. “Well, so too are you different from your father and I. You are much loved, and our precious, adored son, but you came from a world where there was too much for you to learn and for you to be unfairly used throughout your life. We rescued you from a meteorite, come from the Planet Earth, where you would have been worked, worked, worked, like a slave bear, into their earth. But someone who loved you, your owner, the letter inside your capsule said, that she was willingly sending you away so you wouldn’t end up overworked to death. You are not born of this world, nor myself, nor your father, but please, understand, we love you all the more stronger. We cherish your being, we cherish your life, each day we are thankful that you came into our lives.”

    WIgglebutt stood stunned, barely wanting to understand this, his mother’s words of which she was rapidly and shakily speaking. This was why he was different, why he was not a pristine polar bear white like his parents, but this did not stop him from future life successes. There was nothing wrong with being different, in fact, unique was always in style, he stood out from the others, with his bobbing, cute little bum and tail. And he didn’t allow others’ negativity to ever again get him down, he would succeed at his life so wholly, he was meant to wear life’s crown.

    On his eighteenth birthday, his mother and father proudly produced the capsule’s note from his former owner, the first of many sentences:

    “Dear Georgie, you are my favourite corgi, with you, I send you away with love, to a better life yonder.” Thereafter followed deep explanation of why his life would be better away from Earth, elsewhere, safer, somewhere he could be filled with wonder. The mystery of his life was now solved: he was a Royal breed of canine, not an oddly coloured polar bear, now proudly certain, to everyone his truth could be told. He was the only known Corgi on this land to behold and wasn’t he so chuffed that he would no longer be a different unknown.

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

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  • Story example: Jan Lotto Curls and the Spirit World – 01/08/19

    Story example: Jan Lotto Curls and the Spirit World – 01/08/19

    In her dreams, Jan transformed every night.

    Jan Lotto Curls was a glorious girl. She was friendly, kind, and knew much of the world. From years of travelling, and lifetimes of studying, she was well above her peers in lifestyle, life and emotional understanding. Jan Lotto Curls had lived many lives, she had reincarnated almost every night, dreaming of being a different individual, entity or being, why, when she ‘became them’ at night in her dreams, she felt their knowledge was her calling.

    So she absorbed what she could learn and knew that with this skill she was so very blessed, to be able procure beings’ intelligence. When the method was so uncertain, so unsure, she knew to appreciate the confounded method even more. For all she knew of commencing this learning process was to shut her eyes, relax, and think of nothing more. Then the creatures or people or things would come to her, in her mind’s eye they’d swim, into her eye they’d fill, right to the brim, and if she focused clearly, quite near enough, she could view their inner morals, their character, of which during their own living lives they did share.

    Soon, Jan Lotto Curls became well known to the spirit world, for her eager attachments to the passing, fleeting spirits of their world. She did have a distinctive look to be seen, pale complexion, and about her face and upon her head flaming red curls, coiled and healthily gleaming. Thus, it was not hard for the spirits to notice her worldly view, and they understood that she meant no harm, was only, in and of their former lives, passing through, and what their understanding meant to their world, was that she was a curious, intelligent, talented and growing girl. But they prayed she would only retrieve good spirits, for there were many lurking for a specific release date, but currently hiding away.

    One night, Jan Lotto Curls was exhausted, and she did not feel like connecting with another spirit, another beautiful soul. She simply wished to fall into sleep, tumbling, tumbling, into the black hole of unconsciousness down she would go. But because she was so exhausted, so very, very tired, her protective guards were not up and as she tumbled she collected something dark on the way on her rolling slumber. It was frightening to experience that feeling, the latching onto her very being, the shuddering that was felt and also to be seen, the crunch  as something began gnawing, chewing, biting.

    Terrified beyond belief, she tried to swim to the surface of consciousness but she was being held beneath too deeply. She floundered this way and that, frantic arms splashing in the dark murky water of the depths of her distress, and now she heard a booming, low cackling, she shuddered to herself, how could this spirit have make itself aware? To her, she needed to escape as quickly as she possibly could, of this darkened insipid world she needed to disappear, and so she would.

    She most felt the spirit tugging at her left leg and right foot, she kicked and kicked and kicked, she needn’t have a closer look, because who would want to view a captor that sounded so dangerously frightening and menacing, she knew the image would be either equally or more than frightening. She slapped his wet face – she assumed it was his face – with her backhand, then gouged his eyes and finally she was free. She kicked to the surface, gladly, so swimmingly, eager to escape, to silence this warped thought of a dream.

    And when she reached the fresh air of consciousness she gasped, so lucky she felt she was to be out of there, that down below, that from now on she vowed not to dance with the spirits anymore, to not consort with the spirit world. After all, she had learned much, more than enough, from spirits who were geniuses, writers, engineers, scientists, artists and so on and so forth, she did not need her mind exploding with so many thoughts and understandings of topics presented from spirits such as these. Instead, she would enjoy her nightly sleep, no longer calling upon spirits to alter herself into becoming them for a night so freely, transformation of this method is so special indeed, but she had best leave it in her past and simply enjoy her pleasant nightly dreams.

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

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  • Story example: Brushy the Makeup Brush Makeup Artist – 31/07/19

    Story example: Brushy the Makeup Brush Makeup Artist – 31/07/19

    Brushy the Brush was on a unique path of self discovery.

    Brushy was a makeup artist like no other, she liked to provide her customers the ultimate powder. From her kit she would extract a mixture of bronzer and blusher and at that, she would dump her head into them, clean for a second, then rubbing herself excessively into the pigmented colour, she was ready to gently splat. Now saturated with pink and brown, a dusting onto the palette by her hand, then onto their faces for contouring and highlighting together to be had.

    One might find it cute, unique, that a makeup artist was an actual makeup brush, but one must take into consideration her prior history, of her struggles which were so very rough. The discrimination toward her at beauty school, the confusion she tolerated from those who were mere fools, they did not understand her dream to be an actual application queen, her dreams she understood and knew she would succeed.  In the best of her situations, in life she would pursue, her dream of contouring faces, using wild makeup colours, lining eyes with fierce cat eye liner, touching up with a dropping of luminescent powder, what say you to her dreams of becoming an ultimate beauty application queen of quiet power?

    From her outer world she kept these dreams to herself, secretly, she understood they were not for anyone else, to know or be made privy of just yet, for it was better to appear to coast on autopilot and then in the future surprise everybody with her victory and bests. Besides, she was laughed at often for being a brush, often she’d hear, “Why don’t you stick to your actual life task?” At a comment such as this she would grin reluctantly and grit her teeth, doing her best to keep silent she would walk away and seethe. It was difficult not to react to such ignorant comments made to her when they did not know the facts.  

    For, since the age of two she had been practising applying makeup to her dollies, Baby and Boo, and then she progressed to the difficult task of defining her hairy face with contouring colours and adding pretty pastel eye shadow shapes and marks. The day that she finally succeeded at a full face application she wanted to weep with pride, instead she held herself together – as much as a luxurious brush could – and pulled her mother into her bedroom, to view a close up of her face, the victory that was inside.

    From the outer appearance, she had shimmering black noir shadings with steel highlights, then gazing deeper into the brush head, she had light, brightened, pink and purple and gold eyes shadow, and silvery cat liner eyes. And finally, the piece de resistance was observing her face highlighted and shaded, creating an illusion of a human shaped oblique face for visual consumption.

    Now that she had graduated college, with the highest marks and best portfolio within her year, not only her class, she knew she was now ready to make it on her own, her reputation would grow at last. No longer was she a mere student, absorbing new knowledge each day, she was an actual graduate, with a piece of paper to show for her hard work, over the many months, years and days. And slowly, then quicker, rapidly, more, with the word of mouth spreading throughout the online world of her work, and her special techniques and unique makeup application skills, as well as the novelty factor of being able to provide a full face of beautiful makeup by an object which was meant to only have one role to fill.

    All of a sudden, a worried future client arrived hours early, knocking at her door.

    “Brushy, Brushy, I need your assistance, please open your door!” Brushy heard the panic in her voice, there was certainly something remiss, she flung open her front door with great gusto and allowed the future client within.

    “What is the matter?” she asked. “I wasn’t expecting you for several more hours,”
     and with a saddened face the client explained, “I need a new disguise, from my partner who is running backwards and forwards outside, muttering that I have filled his life with lies.” She went on to explain that the partner was most frantic, and somewhat, perhaps manic and psychotic, for her had been off his medication for two whole weeks, the stabilisers and antipsychotics were required for him to live positively and coherently, without losing his cool at home or on the streets.

    “Why don’t you help him?” Brushy asked, aghast. “If you love him, help save him, from his troubling thoughts which might last. Do not run away, but I will help you today, if you alter your plan, and provide assistance to this poor man.”

    And so the client agreed to help him, after she would receive the new makeup disguise, for Brushy was skilled at special effects makeup application also, and this meant essentially she was providing her client a new face mask. And then together, once complete, they snuck out onto the streets, quietly and gently approached the man who looked at them deep with fright and prepared to violently scream.

    “Honey, honey, it’s me,” she called. “I needed this disguise to come nearer to you. Please, darling, come with me, your doctor or the hospital we need to see.”

    Brushy tagged along, to ensure that he received the medical assistance he had likely needed for those two weeks, they must have felt so long, and into care he would go, his medication reinstated, observations in tow. And after a year Brushy heard a frantic knocking on her door again, she flung it open with trepidation and there stood that very man!

    “Brushy, I wanted to thank you, for what you did that night,” he said, eyes genuinely glistening with hope and pride. “Sometimes of my medical condition I lose control, and you assisted me to correcting my life. For now I am engaged to my love, your intervention helped us build, become more, cherish our love, and now I look after my health the best I can, always, for now my love and I have a daughter on the way.”

    With tears glistening in her one, single eye, Brushy leaped forth and leaned her brushy head on his shoulder and proceeded to cry. It was this moment that she knew, that she had made a true difference in the life of a client, and wasn’t this a great moment of her life truths to be held up and vividly viewed upon, so beautifully brightened?

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

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  • Poem and Drawing: The Lying Leader – 31/07/19

    Poem and Drawing: The Lying Leader – 31/07/19

    The Leader projected his lies on stage, each and every single day.

    He stood to attention as he lied,

    His disrespectful morning salute,

    An utterance of how perfect the world could be,

    He never expelled the truth.

    Instead he preferred,

    To distance himself from truthful Others,

    So of his intentions,

    He could impress many others.

    For the moment of truth for him is,

    Obscuring the totality of life,

    Pretending as though everything were perfect,

    To his followers he did not allow self made opinions or expressions or for them to freely decide.

    What was he the leader of?

    Is it really that relevant to know of? Because,

    In every little corner of the world,

    There lurked a tongue twisting liar with a serpent sharp tongue wrapped around a perfectly formed pearl.

    Sometimes in life we need to hear an untruth,

    To bolster our confidence,

    To allow us a positive view,

    Of ourselves we sometimes must also tell a lie,

    But what does silence mean when it permeates the atmospheric skies?

    I do not take forced silences well,

    They are simply a lie of omission,

    What can we expect from a leader who continually lies to the world and himself,

    A positive predeliction.

    And so this type of world leader regresses slightly then presses forth,

    Creating understanding of the realm of his projected world,

    His followers blindly scurry behind him, eating up his words,

    Like desperate field mice they are within his neck of the convoluted woods.

    What does it take to silence an untruth?

    What will it take to cause a firmer view?

    Of correct understanding, a positive landing,

    Into a land of genuine nature and a solid knowledge to share.

    For this liar’s land was far too serious,

    I could hear a grumbling now in the crowd,

    The people had begun to suspect and know some more, not enough,

    But of the truth they must now know.

    A roar above the previous silence,

    A devilish wave of due diligence,

    And away were his followers, from him they escaped,

    Into the land of the freer world, where they could think openly and be able to contemplate.

    We don’t take to liars kindly,

    We are glad this leader has now gone,

    Been overthrown in the pursuit of true knowledge,

    The new world has been known to become.

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

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  • Story example: Life in the Aquarium: A Trapped Land Dweller’s Nightmare – 30/07/19

    Story example: Life in the Aquarium: A Trapped Land Dweller’s Nightmare – 30/07/19

    One forced foot in front of the other, she trudged through the sticky affray, of the seaweed clinging to her calves and knees and ankles, on this otherwise fine and calming day. From the outside of her world, things appeared safe and sound, but on the interior, and within her screaming mind she would find there was no end to the curious crowds. Peer into the glass separating she and them they would, so dutifully, knowingly and freely, without any understanding of her paining anguish and agony, of being bound by her once land dwelling feet.

    Why was she here, how had she arrived here, who was so cruel they would capture a land dwelling individual and place her within a rectangular, tiny vessel, for all the world to see, why she suffered so freely? For it was not the simple physical paining that caused her to groan, it was the mental pain of being all on her own, with only fish for company and sea rocks and squid, all the occupants which could quietly exist. With her, she needed verbal stimulation, and emotional context, and someone to feel her warmth, and of their love she could experience that emotion again, for how could one coexist simply with barnacles, crustaceans and fish by her side? She had left so many others in her previous world behind.

    This woman’s tale was utterly miserable, could there be a shining light? To witness, to daydream about, something which could save her from the Inside. But no one from her former life knew whereabouts she gone and what she had become, and trudge all morning, noon and night did she, waiting for a hero to come. The curious crowd always pointed and would speak, of how interesting it was to watch her scene. Of the sadness which covered her expression, so clearly overwhelming, was there not anything positive worthy of me saying?

    Sadly, it was not the case, it were as though she were a mermaid trapped on the land above, but reversed, she had been plunged deep within this aquarium by a nasty man who thought so little of humans, apparently unworthy of respect nor love. He believed anything was up for capture, as long as it could breathe underwater, but how could this be? She was a woman of the earth, the land, not the sea, and indeed, he solved that problem with a click of his fingers, one, two and then three! He was handy with contraptions; he created for her a breathing apparatus, quite like what divers used, except this last for centuries and ages. She was forever doomed to a life beneath the water, not even afforded residence into the cool, calming sea, but a facade of that world, perfect for viewers such as you and I to permanently see.

    With no friends to save her, she even stopped trudging in the temperature controlled water. What was the point, when there was no emotions or excitement to feel, not even of impending danger?

    All of a sudden, one morning, a man rushed from behind the crowd.

    “Sharon, Sharon! I will save you!” and he thrust his thick elbow into the glass before everyone, causing a collective gasp, and an accumulative, “Woowwwwww…” The water exploded forth, the glass shattered everywhere to be seen: coral, mussels, molluscs, seaweed, all an aquarium owner’s both nightmare and dream. All for the picking, for those who wished to glean.

    To Sharon, the trapped Land Dweller’s surprise, she recognised her best friend Scott from the land of the Outside. He had changed so much, gained much weight, grown a thick beard, but still she couldn’t believe she hadn’t recognised him immediately, but then again, she had had much to fear. A striking human he was, he had missed her ever so much, he had caught wind of her entrapment from yonder gossip amongst the fields.

    And here her saviour was, hugging her with such protective kindness and a warm embrace, she felt so loved, safe and reassured, by his presence, and she knew by his side she would never leave. He had saved her from a life of paining, agonising and utmost loneliness indeed. She felt so overwhelmingly grateful that all she could do was limply hug him back. Later she would express truly how much she missed him and her former life with words spoken, uttered, sung, and actions made after the fact. She knew he understood how much she appreciated him, and his saving of her, and while the aquarium owner would never be brought to justice for capturing and never intending to release her, Scott and Sharon would live together, their friendship growing stronger, then into love each day, a little by little, a little more.

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

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  • Poem and Watercolour: Baby Balloon Goes for a Stroll – 29/07/19

    Poem and Watercolour: Baby Balloon Goes for a Stroll – 29/07/19

    Baby Balloon and Mama Martha on their walk.

    Baby Balloon was excited,

    She was soon to go on her walk,

    With her adoptive mother, Mama Martha,

    When they walked, they loved to sightsee and talk.

    Normally, with most balloons,

    One would expect to view them to be floating like a miniature moon,

    But Baby Balloon had not yet learned that skill,

    She was confined to walking on her tippy toes and resting on her calloused heels.

    She performed so much walking that her heels were thickened with the roughened skin,

    But it did prove how proactive she was at moving about the world which begged to be explored and seen.

    On her tippy toes, over a fence, she could see slightly, a couple inches more of the scene,

    When she rested on her heels, she wondered where on earth that world had gone,

    Where her eyes had just been.

    “How much longer will it take?” she begged Mama Martha. “Until I can soar high above, much higher than the others?”

    She wondered how much longer she must wait to learn,

    The baby balloon’s equivalent of human walking from crawling,

    She was already three years old, should she be concerned?

    Was Baby Balloon of stunted development, is this something to sigh of and quietly self soothe?

    Would she forever be walking,

    An oddity soon to be featured on the Nightly News?

    Saddened at the conversation, in which Mama Martha had simply reassured her,

    Baby Balloon and Mama set out on their walk.  

    “Look at this tree, now that shrub,

    And now look! A sparrow and a lark!”

    Then suddenly a whooooosh of cold autumn air lifted Baby Balloon clean off the path,

    And rise and rise above, dear Martha she did,

    “Mama – look! I’m flying at last!”

    It did not matter that the flight was artificial,

     That she was not making use of any newly learned or acquired skills,

    For she was so delighted with herself,

    This feeling of excitement and euphoria had the potential to make one delightfully thrilled.

    But now she was dropped carefully back down to earth,

    “Mama, I think I can do it,” she whispered, and with a deep inhale, exhale of a breath and then a pause,

    She lifted herself clean from the ground, you see,

    With the assistance of certain circumstances we can truly learn to improve and be.

    Baby Balloon flew everywhere now, but sometimes allowed Mama Martha to walk her,

    A form of nostalgia.

    A beautiful Balloon story in the making,

    One day she would become an unpaid teacher of the community,

    Sharing her knowledge of flight,

    Allowing the youngsters to rise sooner than naturally possible,

    Into their days and winding nights.

    And smile upon her future students would she with greatness, pride and might.  

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

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