Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: fiction

  • Story: The Imaginative Little Caterpillar – 09/08/19

    Story: The Imaginative Little Caterpillar – 09/08/19

    The Imaginative Little Caterpillar could transform into things! With the power of his mind he could draw forth his convoluted dreams. He’d always wanted to be a pink park ranger, or a charismatic carpenter, or an amazingly awesome astronaut who could explore here and there, or a ferocious fire-breathing fireman, these he could all transform into without a worry, concern or care.

    As he gazed into the mirror after his transformation into a kazoo playing pet kangaroo, he swung his hips this way and that, thinking to himself, “Well! How did I do!” But these transformations only lasted for the day, the moment he placed his head upon his partially ripped cocoon, he lost the idea of how to transform into this or that being or person that night, he wished for an idea, another convoluted dream to come to him soon.

    Why were his dreams deemed convoluted when they were simply dreams to alter, to change, the imaginative little caterpillar into another’s different life stage? They were deemed as such because he knew not how the transformations occurred, but to him they were much, much, much more special than simply lying and crawling in the dirt. He did not wish to live that life, to crawl and scrabble in the dirt and sand, he was far too intelligent to allow the dirt to command. It stuck upon him, made him yucky and gross, his transformation dreams were what excited him the most.

    Then one morning he felt a great urge to wrap himself, rather than becoming someone else. He attached himself to a twig then slowly, slowly he wrapped himself with silken threads that covered his body so large. And there he hung for eighteen days precisely, being patient, strong minded, and calming, waiting and wondering what on earth would happen when he was able to expel himself from this kind of a body nest, a tight wrapping.

    Then the moment arrived, he felt it right to of this world be reborn, to come again alive, and as he separated from the cocoon, he felt extra long legs stretch, and observing to his right and his left, an enormously beautiful wingspan in his sight! Oh, how his heart filled to the brim, at looking at what would now carry him, flying him around the world, above the earth, such a pleasant means of transportation, no longer rolling in the dirt.

    No more did this Newborn Butterfly need to transform into other people or forms, when what had been awaiting within him, the power inside, to transform him into the unique form he needed was one of special great worth. He was now pleased, he was delighted, he was so happy deep inside, that for the next three days he flew about the place with no method to his madness, no place to sit and decide. What move to make, where to further go, and for the last day of his exploration, he laid down and from him, something small, a short burst, decided to go. His last breath of life, after his excited exploring last few days, the life of a butterfly was short, but wasn’t it so beautiful to have experienced those days anyway.

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

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  • Story: The Tenacious Little Bumblebee Who Found His Dancing Way – 09/08/19

    Story: The Tenacious Little Bumblebee Who Found His Dancing Way – 09/08/19

    There was a little bumblebee as cute as cute could be, he travelled far and wide so of the world’s pollen he could see. He collected it, and shaped it, and made it into liquid gold, he was tenacious, he was determined, he was everything good that could be shown of and told.

    Tenacious Bee was a fan of most things, which were upbeat, lovely and jiving, one example of this was he was an enormous fan of Latin dancing. The Cha-Cha, he’d cha-cha-cha away, as he collected his pollen for the day, the Rumba, the Tango, of how these dances with their rhythmic meters made him feel alive! The only problem was, he knew there was something missing from his dance. A lady friend, a bee of this land, to couple up with him, to grasp his hands, to tap. tap, dance!

    Still, he did not allow this to bother him, he could go happily on his way, for he was a persevering bee and he had much to dance for and much to say. He was the local member of his Hive and of this committee that he was part of, they spoke every month of which new dances to embrace and love. This month’s new introduced dance was the Jive, its movements made all the gathering bees come alive.

    The point of assigning a monthly dance to the pollen collecting crew was to create joyous melodies and workers through and through. To create resilient insects who could work tirelessly all day, distracted by their monthly dance to keep the blues away. So the Hive took to dancing the Jive, in the month of August, its strength was potent, the equation of rhythm, music and dance was a most desirable way to  recommence the happiness process.

    One morning, while Jiving away, something caught Tenacious Bumblebee’s eye. A female form, long, thin, nothing there to cause a detracting from his wandering sight. She was most beautiful with her elongated, pointed form, was this the Queen bee, he wondered, of his dances did she wish to learn? Slowly, slowly, she made eye contact, a knowing wistful look within her eyes; it was as though she were beckoning him, with the emotions tumultuously intact, held inside. The seductive look, perfect for introducing the tango, one, two, three, one, two, three, she lunged forth, clasped his legs and began to dance Bumblebee’s dream.

    “But Queen Bee, why are you so far from the hive?” he asked with astonishment. She smiled and quietly said not to worry the pretty mind he had inside. To enjoy the dance, he finally had a partner, she knew he had been quietly calling out with great ardour.

    “But, how did you know?” he asked. “I’d not breathed a word of my desire, of my unrest.”

    “Queen’s do know, Queens know best,” she replied knowingly.

    After their dancing, she welcomed him back into the hive, where he could view her chamber, and the living larvae inside. “These are my young children,” she said, and wasn’t she so very proud? “Perhaps I’ll make more of them, with someone I love, this I will allow.”

    And rest now did the Queen, she was tired from the lengthy dance, after all, she barely moved these days, she had so much responsibility to take care of in her life. However, she was most gladdened to have found a dancing partner, who could come and go as he pleased, and who she knew would never leave her entirely alone, for he was known for persisting in his pursuit of love, ardour and personal power.

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

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  • Story: Dismayed Donkey – 08/08/19

    Story: Dismayed Donkey – 08/08/19

    He was dismayed to discover even more labour.

    Donkey was as sad as sad could be. For the past two years he had been working night and day at the quarry, transporting boulders up and down the mountain tops, navigating nasty, dangerous rocky paths and shelves with surprising ease. His back ached from the hard labour each and every day, he barely had an  hour or two to rest until he had to rise again. The slave drivers of the quarry cared not for Donkey and his friends, for their health there was no concern, for, if one were to falter –  goodness! From exhaustion topple and then, it would be the end for them, off to the glue factory, where they’d be recycled into something which to them was utterly foreign.

    Although Donkey had a strict and firm work ethic, he still needed time to wind down, and become himself again. Even if that meant a more morose, dismayed Donkey, this was the way he was, this was his personality. He tried to find the good in things, but often could not do so, and when this occurred he changed his mind set, and tried to become more gungho. It did not work though, not at all.  

    With his friends working the quarry, they decided to arrange a strike, to be operated at 1000 hours, not a second before or a second too late. The sounding of the kazoos from their lips would alert all that they were now in command, no more slave drivers to force their hand, work long hours when of their workers health they did not give a damn.

    Donkey arrived for his evening shift, promptly, as he was known to do, and worked the eight hours, grumbling through and through. Tonight the bags of rocks were far too heavy, overloaded with sprawling boulders and pebbles which flowed onto the mountain so freely, making his nerves wavering, his hooves unsteady. He scorned the slave driver assigned to him, who whipped at him and beat him, yelling at him freely.

    Oh, how the shame, there was so much dismay for Donkey to have, to experience this ownership from a man who was not even a true decent man. And when it came for the strike Donkey looked down and saw an enormous bag of boulders and pebbles, just innocently waiting there to be viewed. With an air of a smirk about him, the slave driver presented the bag with a flourish of his hand, as though to say,

    “Take that, we know of your plans, perform this task or I’ll strike you instead.”

    Donkey’s back was breaking, his eyes were tearfully watering, he wanted nothing more than to return to the stable and rest. He could no longer be bothered with this strike, it had been discovered, this was not at all nice, and being punished was he for wanting to put up somewhat of a fight. He didn’t have time for this, not at all, he needed to rest after that last bag of rocks, he needed to relax for the night. And all the more painful this trip up the mountain was, for the bag of rocks wasn’t equally weighted on both sides, perhaps this was something the man had cruelly decided to made sure.

    And then Donkey lost his footing, he tumbled close to the edge! His left front leg was bleeding profusely, having been caught on a boulder laying on the path, and then, the slave driver spotted him, rushed forth to his aid? Or was he getting ready to send him to the glue makers, where into his hand money would be paid? All Donkey knew was that he was losing light, his brightness inside was faltering, deep down inside. And blackness occurred, the paining now a daydream, nothing more was there for Donkey as it may seem.  

    After what felt like an age, his eyes flickered, his eyes were opened, his surrounding taken in and saved. To his right were his friends who had been injured over the years, hurriedly sent away to be dealt with in the night. Here they lounged on sun chairs, rocking horses, lounge suites, sipping Bacardi and Coke, while champagne seemed to be the preference for some.

    “Where am I?” he asked in wonderment, amazed.

    “This is the ‘Glue Factory‘,” one replied with a laugh, “It was all a farce, here we are actually saved.” But Donkey didn’t understand how this could have become, how it occurred, who ensured the saving in a relaxing paradise was done. The replying donkey explained that the Glue Maker’s wife was in love with animals and for every horse or donkey sent to the factory she bought them from her husband with her own dollars. Then she saved them in this hidden place, a gem tucked away from the world, and wasn’t she a wonderful woman, a sterling example she was setting for her and her husband’s little girl.

    “Thank goodness for this woman, our saviour,” Donkey exhaled and with brightened eyes, said, “We must remain here in luxury for the rest of our lives. Thanks be to her for saving us from becoming glue. One day we will repay her kind actions, she will feel the same gratitude too.”

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

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  • Poem and Drawing: The Rooster and the Cracked Egg – 07/08/19

    Poem and Drawing: The Rooster and the Cracked Egg – 07/08/19

    It was the Rooster or the Egg.

    The Rooster cackled to himself.

    Why? Because he was safe, and in the wave of heat was somebody else.

    He had no attachment to this egg,

    Wasn’t even his,

    Would never see it again.

    Curiosity though,  

    Was the cracking caused by cooking or hatching?

    If hatching, wouldn’t it be wise that he was now planning to commence of this situation a firm and clean detachment?

    Away from the scene he would go,

    Away from chook support,

    Where no one would know,

    Of his face they’d never recognise or him purport,

    No matter how devilishly handsome he was, of course.

    From his plume of feathers they’d not decide,

    Whether he was a relative or the father,

    Monetary dues upon the hour,

    Because he now remembered that old chook Sheila.

    They were dancing all night, heel toe heel, yeah, it felt so right,

    Then that fateful night in her nest,

    Where he plucked and preened loose feathers from her breast.

    And so on and so forth.

    Could this egg be the result,

    Of his wild night of two?

    His regrets now,

    Were a thousand times two.

    For the alimony,

    The child support,

    For roosters was incredibly high,

    For their earning capacity had surged a few years ago prior to this night.

    But as he watched the cage with the egg lower into the welcoming fire,

    He quietly uttered a short thankful prayer,

    That the messy situation would become all cleansed,

    There was no way he could save this chick anyway from the heated cage’s chest.

    Then suddenly, a final crack,

    Loud, overwhelming, as though one had cracked their back,

    And out popped a tiny gangly little yellow chick,

    Eyes focussing right on Rooster,

    “Daddy! Where have you been?!”

    With a moaning and a groaning and a wing slapped across his face,

    Rooster took the chick under his other wing

    And commenced a trudging pace.

    What would he do with this chick?

    He did not know how on earth to rear it,

    Where was Sheila when she was needed,

    To look after her next of kin?

    But Sheila was nowhere to be seen,

    Perhaps she was dreaming of enormously satisfying things,

    Such as dancing away the night now with Farmer Green,

    And her chicks around the farm being looked after by their once wayward fathers who had tried to remain unseen.

    She had taught them a lesson or two that with adult behaviours comes actual responsibility,

    And with due course, she would return to her families and rear them all with the utter grace of an ingenious farmyard queen.

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

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  • Story example: Camillia the Terrier of Staffordshire – 07/09/19

    Story example: Camillia the Terrier of Staffordshire – 07/09/19

    Camillia the Terrier of Staffordshire lived a life of great fun. She was fed treats and walked twice daily, she was known all over town. For her jolly attitude she was appreciated throughout the place, she always had a silly, quirky smile plastered across her face. On her daily walks, she liked to take off with a trot and then a run, cantering occasionally, galloping slightly, she had learned from a horse nearby, he had taught her his speeds as she’d wanted to learn. She was unique in this way, in that she was a dog with the characteristics of her friend Tommy the Horse, even when she was offered a carrot, Camillia said, “Yes please, of course!” Now who had heard of a dog liking raw carrots, it was akin to a herbivore wanting to eat raw maggots. It simply did not make sense across the town, and plus: Camillia’s yellowy golden fur was beginning to turn a horsey auburn brown.

    She must have been spending too much time with her friend Tommy, perhaps by simply being together, Camillia was absorbing the characteristics of the other, becoming more horsey and less herself, so previously jolly. Now she commandeered the abilities to gallop and prance, to gnaw on a carrot, to switch from light fur to deep darkness, wasn’t this interesting, to view of the scope, of her skills that she was beginning to truly hone?

    Soon, Camillia wasn’t recognised across town. She was now tall, with lean, long legs, with a space for a rider on her back, to take control. She barely even resembled her former self, now she glanced in a nearby mirror at her reflection, and wasn’t she very much in doubt! She did not understand the image before her, she looked nothing like her former mental pictures, and now, in such a quick span of time, she had gone from Staffordshire terrier, to a clone of her friend Tommy. She rushed away from her owner, allowing the leash to drag behind her, to frantically discover Tommy within his closed off shelter.

    “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy!” she called. Where was he, when she needed him the most? Then looking down, to a small corner in the hay, was a little puppy, yay high, with a Terrier of Staffordshire’s face. Bamboozled, shocked beyond belief, she understood that this was Tommy, begging to speak, without knowing how to doggy speak. How had he been transformed? This was so terrible, so difficult to understand, yet here they were, with altered and almost identically swapped appearances at hand. Could they reverse this strange spell of nature, by being together for much, much longer? They tried but to no avail, and they both decided to just live together in the stable. Soon the other creatures and humans would forget, of these two unlikely friends, only their owner, who was shocked, yet proudly amazed, would continue to feed and groom these animals night and day.

    Who performed this strange spell, I don’t think we shall ever know, but one day in the future, perhaps the spell master, the grand teacher, will step forth and reverse this cruel spell. And then this individual will allow Tommy and Camillia to live their lives out good and well, and in the future leave any cruel transformation ideas alone.

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

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  • Story example: The Grasshopper and the Monster Wheel – 05/08/19

    Story example: The Grasshopper and the Monster Wheel – 05/08/19

    Morty was more than chuffed enough with his recent discovery.

    Morty the Grasshopper liked to own everything large, he liked to lay claim to everything gigantic he saw. When he laid eyes upon this monster truck wheel which had been cast aside, he thought to himself, “This has been deserted and abandoned, and I will make it mine!”  And surprised to find it soft and somewhat squishy, nothing like how he imagined, not even in his wildest dreams, he jumped and jumped upon it with forceful power, he positively loved it, he could do this for hours it seemed! It was like a perfectly round jumping castle, with the squish, squish, squash, and provided height of better than he’d ever experienced and seen, he wanted to jump repeatedly as it rolled forwards and backwards, he wanted to do everything  – fly, land, jump!

    The main selling point though was the height and width of the wheel, apparently it had been used on a monster super truck, according to a tag near its left seal. Morty just loved how large the wheel was, he could jump and explore it for days and weeks and never, ever grow bored. So he did so, he performed the trek for three whole weeks, where he explored the circumference of the wheel, but then a discovery, and my, was it bleak.

    He had discovered a family of hunting spiders, living in the inner curvature like hidden soldiers.  And when they were happened upon, their eyes grew widened, how they were so terrified, to have been discovered from their safe house, which their Mother had obviously chosen and decided. Surely the Mother spider believed this would be a safe place to coexist, but now here Morty the Grasshopper was, and they were all mute, they could not bring themselves to even speak.

    Never before had they seen a being such as Morty, never before had they experienced the palpitating in their chests, such fearful hurting. But Mother’s eyes narrowed, she knew what Morty meant to herself, she leaped from her web and chased him down the edge of the wheel’s raised shelf. With horror, the baby spiders watched on, barely wanting to continue to view, but they knew it was in the best interests for their mother’s safety that their eyes view their proof and take in their fill. Morty was frantic, he bound away in a panic, for he knew what Mother could do!

    She was fearsome, she was bold, she was nothing to compare with anything elderly or old. Her hunting skills were the finest, and wouldn’t Morty know it, for he suddenly recognised Mother with her two marks behind her fangs: she had taken out his uncle years prior, and after the meal eaten him, after their evening kiss, why this was a fact that was most certainly not remiss!

    After escaping her chase, Morty had to abandon his new home, the monster truck wheel which was slightly flattened and could no longer roll, he had to desert this wondrous new environment which he had only recently discovered, because this Mother spider was a fierce carnivore! Thank goodness he escaped without needing to bare his teeth, for this was the only defence mechanism he had been shown by his own mother, the wonderful dream that was she, and aside from hoppity-hoppitting away from the ferocious mother spider, he left with all his teeth and legs intact, now there’s the spiders’ tales to ponder. Will they continue to rule all, live fiercely without appearing so, and gather any intruder within their grasps, until they are left well alone?

    What a saddening tale for Morty the Grasshopper, at least he had experienced a few weeks of large wheel exploration which he loved. He now knows to fully explore any new place which he decides he may want to call home, and safely he does this now, carefully before he lays claim or decides to say whichever large or gigantic place he apparently now owns.

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

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  • Story example: A Disappointing Act of Feet – 05/08/16

    Story example: A Disappointing Act of Feet – 05/08/16

    The Foot family were the very opposite of intriguing.

    The Foot family stood, motionless, in a perfect row. Little, bigger, biggest, to be shown, none was ever left alone. Fitted with special umbilical cords to feed them around the clock, their meals consisted of chewy rocks and plankton water, distilled then fed through their tops.

    This Foot family was by no means adventurous, like one would expect a foot family to be, instead they were static, unmoving, unwavering, simply sitting there for the whole world to see. But they were oddities, while they were anomalies, for being severed feet with umbilical cords, because they did not actually do anything, would not even perform, the public of them became rather bored! Who wished view a severed foot troupe who just sat there, unwilling of others’ desires to compute? All they did was eat and breathe, what a boring family, best look for something else to amuse the world with ease.

    And on we move to the Leopard print crew, where the entire family of five and twenty two would were leopard skin printed in vibrant yellow and pink and dark blue, they were far more exciting, they liked to prowl, growl and pose, all the while excitedly sniffing the public audience’s with their noses. When they were patted by an unwitting, curious child, roar would the leopard print member, yes he would, he only meant it though with a gentle warm and loving style, his gentleness would reign true. This family simply wanted to amuse, to raise the crowd’s energy, because they knew that the crowd had left something entirely and utterly boring previously, even though they were not sure what it could be.

    One day, the Leopard print family was sitting casually, sipping their dinner through a large purple straw delectably.

    “I wonder what act the audience’s come to us from, why they need to be cheered up so much more and instilled with more fun?” one wondered, more to himself than the others, for by now, they had already commenced their evening run. It was delightful being a leopard print skin crew because they had the traits of leopards too, involving being fast and quick footed, and terribly handsome and attractive, why, who wouldn’t want to be part of this, what a family view!

    The wondering leopard print skin member decided to investigate the prior act, even though he was told never to retreat into the woods, for it was filled with many booby traps, set to catch and maybe kill innocent, curious beings as he, but he must go, he must, he must go there, investigate, to see! And then through the brushes, upon the horizon, he saw what he made him most surprised! A family of big and middle and little feet sitting there before his very eyes. He watched as they inhaled and exhaled deeply, how boring seemed their lives, they didn’t even have to fend for their own food, it seemed, they were pumped with it through the tubes into their insides.

    “No wonder the crowds are so bored, when they come to us,” he said with amazement, from shock he could neither breathe in nor out. He was shocked beyond his wildest dreams, for what kind of act was this foot family about? There was no skill whatsoever in showcasing this type of act, and close this atrocity this leopard print skinned member had to appeal for, at that. He half decided to walk up to poke one and tell him of his plans, as a means to chiding them, and allowing them to rectify the grim situation at hand. But no cajoling, no enthusiastic pondering, no encouragement growing could rouse them to attention, it was as though they were only there to be a boring vision.

    So the leopard print skin member returned to his crew, told them what he saw – they were aghast – and what he planned to do, he appealed to the Jungle’s High Court of Acts, where he obtained the permission to wipe away their presence from the audience’s view. They were instead required to rest inside the jungle, where they would remain, not shown, for an undetermined time, for their arrival into the act themselves had actually been the result of a terrible bungle. A misfiling of documents had allowed them to be shown, and for many years crowds had been far than impressed at what they’d been shown. Now it is correct, now the show is fluid, each act in the show amuses or astounds in their viewing. There are no bothersome deep breathing, and essentially unmoving feet, they are now hidden from the world, no breath of them will we speak.

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

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    © Alice Well Art, Alice Well (LMH) 2019. All rights reserved. 

  • Story example: No Diving Ever! – 04/08/19

    Story example: No Diving Ever! – 04/08/19

    NONE WHATSOEVER!

    “No diving ever! And welcome to our country. I hope you all immensely enjoy the sights there are to be seen.” The president of Jabbieworkhora had much that caused him to be pleased. Before him, a million and a quarter new skilled worker immigrants, and one hundred and five thousand tourists, who had travelled from various countries across the globe to work or witness this country, for its many beauties to be seen. A massive boost to the economy, new taxes to be paid, new skilled workers to be showcase their work and assist the populous and earnings of the general workers of today.

    No diving ever though, in paradise this seemed awfully rough. The crystal clear blue waters tempted the new visitors and immigrants more than enough. Though most had come to this land to work hard, they came to build a better life for their wives, children, or their men, they understood that being surrounded by such a luscious backdrop and scenery would be positive for their mind, the thoughts within their head. Perplexed were they and the tourists, they simply wanted to see beneath the deep, watch the fishies and the octopi and the crawling crabs, pass before their very wondrous eyes, wonder within to be seen.

    But why could there be no diving ever? What was the reason for this regulatory role? Snickey the Tourist Guide would deliver these facts, which were initially never provided at all.

    She stated, and this is verbatim: “My dear visitors to our paradise, this wonderful world, enjoy what you can view, to see, but understand this, listen to me. You are not to dive beneath the deep, you may think underneath the view will be spectacular, very sweet, but allow me to state this is only in your dreams, nightmares within are what they will actually be.” She went on to further explain of The Hubba Hubba, which apparently resided in the depths, where he feasted upon bones of old humans, wrapped with seaweed, dipped in the sauces of relics left behind, forgotten after the fact. He liked to floss with the bone shards, picking and picking out remnants of meat as he pleased, would these immigrants and tourists wish to meet with a sight and vision as monstrous and horrendous as he?

    In deep fright, with solidly widened stares, the visitors to this land now understood that their dreams and the actual nightmare did not positively compare. Best walk away from the suspiciously welcoming waters, and cherish their leaving of the sand with their lives intact, they went on to explore the streets, the restaurants, the beach – without closely approaching the sea – and that was that. The workers make good of their new chance at life within this deceiving paradise, and the tourists enjoyed their holidays immensely, returning to their countries, saying, “Nice, it was so very nice!” They purposefully did not mention though, avoided highlighting the fact, to the listeners of the presence of the Hubba Hubba, and because of his immense ability to cause fright and menace, they would never come back.

    Tourism fell that year, then a little more, as each year cleared, until the tourism industry was washed away, no more visitors to fly there, enjoy the food, and sights, to pay, and the country became a haunting sight upon one’s eyes to be laid. Whispers of olden times, when successes were the president’s words and activities, no longer yours, nor mine, there are no longer excited voices jabbering in the bars and clubs, no smiles and arms around shoulders, newly made friendship-hugs. No, now it was a deserted land, and if only the tour guide and president had made up a positive lie to keep the tourists and immigrants away from the menacing water instead.

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

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  • Poem and Drawing: A Hungry Little Cupcake – 04/08/19

    Poem and Drawing: A Hungry Little Cupcake – 04/08/19

    This Cupcake was ravenous for candy,


    A hungry little cupcake looks down onto the ground, what does he see? What have his searching eyes found?

    He’s found a pile of scattered candy, from his favourite piñata horse, his name was Joseph Weedlie, this is important to know, I’m to be trusted, of course.

    Mr. Weedlie had led a long, fruitful life, where he had weedled candy from manufacturers or shop owners, and become full and bloated his stomach did inside, it was the engorgement of candy that was the main cause.

    Bound for extraction were his goods this day, and hit and hit did the little cupcakes of the town, enjoying the festivities always.

    Weedlie didn’t hurt from the attacks, he knew the candy would go to a good cause, he had his eyes on his friend, Thomas the Cupcake, of his motives, they could be judged pure, this was to be assured.

    With the finality of the explosion of sweets upon the ground, Thomas the Cupcake rushed forth and delectably obtained that which he decided was to be his own.

    The straggling remnants of Weedlie were soon taken away, they were no longer required to float eerily and alone hanging from the trees, like something on a hauntingly dark day.

    And it was with great joy Thomas began to shovel the candy into his hands and then scoff the candy within.

    It didn’t taste sweet enough though, it were as though someone had extracted the sweetened juice, the sugar content of these items were so very low, the juice content and concentration had been vamoosed!

    Still he slurped in the goods, seconds by minutes of the day, until five minutes later there was nothing left to consume, nothing remaining for an hour, let alone a second of this day.

    Thomas is happy now, he realises he does not need to eat things that are so very sweet, his taste buds have acclimatised like they have, there was no reason to to otherwise think.

    For he had survived the alteration, and no diabetes in the future would have he to deal with, such a negative thought sensation, he was more aware of his sugar intake now, thanks to Mr. Weedlie for altering what he had collected and what Thomas had briefly owned.

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

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  • Story example: The Spray Painting Can Who Could – 03/08/19

    Story example: The Spray Painting Can Who Could – 03/08/19

    He graffitied in the light of night, bathed in the wavering, orangey yellow hued monstrosity. That light was put in by the leader of the community, to deter activities such as this graffiti artist’s greatest delights. How he joyously spray painted everywhere, words, images upon the walls, whichever, he did not care, only that he was leaving his mark, pink, yellow, blue, why, these were his favourite hues, grab them, for a start!

    The funny thing was that he wasn’t an untalented artist, in fact, he was an artist in his own right, he was known throughout the streets under his alias, “Stabb in the Knight”. He liked to play on words, you see, and his well known trademark was a knife dripping false water across the helmet of a knight – this logo suited him to a tee, for in the basking yellow light of the night, it did certainly cause some unsuspecting viewers a fright.

    Tonight he was at his favourite haunt, the sidewalk alleyway by the park. Here he was afforded some privacy, the pathways were too deserted and isolated to be safely walked. From the station, the commuters would rather the long walk round to the car park, it was safer that way, and they were better left alone. It was frightening in this day and age for people to walk the streets alone, so much crime and disaster potentially lurking on the streets, why, it was something that across the news it should be continually plastered.

    The Stabb pulled out the colour which matched his own hue – baby pink – for he was a can of pink full too – that with the greatest irony he sprayed the colour upon the wall that was exactly the same shade as himself. (If he ever ran out of this shade, he did not use a spray from himself.) His outer exterior though showed him as blue, to fend off his enemies from being calculated at attacking his true hue. This was because he needed to retain his life, his colour, his world, for this is what he was known for, for being a spray paint artist, a Graffer, talented, a unique can of this common world. He was the pale hued Stabb in the Knight that would become of you if you were not done with observing his miraculous skills of artistry before the night is yet done.

    Quickly yet skilfully he tagged a rapidly sprayed “Hello”, a message to his rivals, “Elegantly Cursed I’ve Curled,” to allow them to understand he knew they were on his field. Each party had a graffiti making area of their own, and The Cursed had been encroaching upon his territory without a spray of remittance or utterance of permission to be experienced or owned. Though the Stabb was a friendly can, this was not on, he did not tolerate such disrespect from women, cans, or men, for when his walls were being abused, he was utterly unamused, wait until they watched the fury fly from him, the spray exploding unintentionally from between his curled crossed eyes.

    In the city they met that night, the meeting was coded and arranged by specially arranged dot- dot languages that were always on the rivals’ brains, and once marched before one another it was time to duel: their method of settling a score involved graffitiing across a large wall before a packed living and breathing room. And of course, it was with great natural skill that the Stabb obtained his right, to vamoose these Cursed cans out into the night without a means of their continued fight. For they failed in their defence, a simple failure of calligraphy lettering across the wall, small, pathetic, at best, and scurry and slink away to the ends of their former territory did they, ashamed to have even existed on this fateful day.

    Nowadays the spray painting gangs leave the Stabb alone, they don’t encroach on his world or area, nor try to take his metaphorical throne, he is now understood to be the leader of skilled spray painting graff, and wouldn’t the world be content to understand this at that?

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

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