Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: flash fiction

  • 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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  • Poem and Drawing: The Monster Whose Scaring Went Too Far – 06/08/19

    Poem and Drawing: The Monster Whose Scaring Went Too Far – 06/08/19

    I can scare you, I can startle you, just with a wave of my arms,

    My hungry,  googley eyes will view and devour you, don’t I possess so much charm?

    I will creep, I will sneak on my fluffy feet until I reach my dreams,

    Of scaring you and knowing that you are utterly frightened of me.

    What say you to this? Am I by all means an oddball, wanting to frighten, are my dreams remiss?

    Or can you understand that scarin’ runs in the fam’, and that to carry on with this sense of adventure is behaviour which is encouraged to stick.

    But one day I startled the wrong person, she was heading south down the road,

    She was listening to music and smiling to herself,

    Then out of the darkened alleyway I crept,

    Step

    Step

    Slide and then walk,

    And before her with my hands presented forth did I jump!

    “Arrrrghhhhh!” she cried, shrill shrieking in my ear. “Aaaahhhhh!” she continued on, her eyes bulging with fear.

    Then suddenly she grasped her chest, breathing heavily, here is a fact, I had caused her a suspected heart attack,

    And this was no joking matter.

    No matter that I am a monster, and would be frowned upon for remaining,

    I stayed with this girl to ensure the ambulance officers could save her.

    But they would not let me into the vehicle, they would not allow me to travel, to see,

    I sighed heavily and left my phone number with the older ambulance girl, asking them to contact me.

    The very next day, I received a call. The girl was alive, safe and well. She had thanked the nurse to pass onto me, even though she knew the heart attack’s causation was me.

    Apparently she had already experienced three mini heart attacks in her life,

    And the major attack had been waiting to show itself, at any specific or given time.

    She was so thankful that I had been there to assist her,

    She wanted to take me out for a thank you dinner.

    And as I sat nervously at the table, waiting for her to arrive, I understood that it was a miracle that she had survived.

    I am not a saviour, I was simply in the right place, and my actions forced a heart attack that was premature, but almost welcomed in that fateful day.

    She arrived in a bedazzled pink dress, walking towards me, swishing here, swishing there,

    And it was with a respectful nod of my head toward her, we toasted our champagne flutes to living stronger and even longer.

    These days I am retired from scaring, the thought of returning causes my head to hurt, my eyes to feel paining and glaring,

    For I am here now looking after my love, the girl who strolled down south, she accepted me from the moment we locked eyes, she knew it was a message from someone important, someone up above.

    She fervently believed we had met in those strange circumstances to commence our special worldly love.

    © 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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  • 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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