The television show blares to life. I cannot watch anymore; the irreverence is bugging me, sending my mind into strife. I watch the little lady mouth away and curl into a ball, is it all for show? No, no no.
Her dear counterpart sits by her bedside, interrupting with ease whilst she tries to compose herself tap tapping the keys. The rhythmic data of his worded snipers are dot dot dotting the area at large and then he clasps his hands together shakes his head and sighs, gives her a smile and says, “Darling, please don’t whine…” She glares at him, insidiously, fire raging within her orbs. He clasps his hands together once more, he is confused by her delirium, perhaps she is just…. bored? Is she playing a game? Is she waltzing without a name? Is she bee-drilling just the same? Oh, darling, what’s in a name? These people think they can irreverently tame, kill, main, but the truth of the matter is, she is at one with peace, she is Spirituality, she is beauty and reverence, she is Lauren Maree,. Control Save.
Tag: imagination
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fiction, please: the thirteenth hour – excerpt – 01/01/21
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Poem: And the Fairy Prince of Summer – 14/12/20
The prince of Summer,
he flits into her life,
carving a journey,
nullifying strife.He is mischievous,
clever, kind, and smart,
and knows the pathway into many hearts.Will his visitation be pure,
will it last long, will her heart be mine?
he calls to nobody in particular,
above a wondrous sun,
her sun rays a glinting sign.He wants to be present,
he wants to brighten her eyes,
he wants to be held in esteem
and watch her self-confidence flower.She is more than enough and so is he,
the prince of Summer, flits with his wings,
taking her on the ride of her life,
this fairy and her will become,
something special,
at least for the moment,
the days and weeks have never felt so well-strung.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Rhett Wesley on UnsplashJoin me also at:
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Poem: Ornate Wooden Box – 09/03/20
What’s in the wooden box? An ornate engraved chest – Does it promise me treasure? Diamonds, jewels, gold? It must with any luck. I approach the container with trepidation, My fingers tremble with delicious anticipation, And the tremor which should rile me awfully Pushes me forth: The adrenaline is potent. What will I find? Something pleasing to the eye? An ornate dream awaits me, And I beg to see, Continuing to hungrily breathe the moments in and out And in. Each second, Every centimetre, My reaching hands, My claw-like fingers, Closer and closer until: Revelation! Inside there is nothing, Illusory, so potent. I tear aside all crushed expectation within. The thrill was most certainly in the pursuit, The hunting, It was within the chase, And I realise that what my mind, My imagination, Can conjure up Is far more magical and worthwhile than Any gold or diamond or jewel sparkling within my eyes. More than anything these material possessions can prove At a later date, My internal world, The breadth of my dreaming, This is the true gift I should accept As a prized possession in my life, It is irrevocably part of my healing. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Photo by myself.
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Something Different: A Little Prompt – 08/11/19
I’ve decided to try something different with this post. I’d love if you could join me! When you first see this drawing of mine, what springs to mind?
Could you write a few words, sentences or a little paragraph of your own story to fit this hungry, hungry birdie?
I thought it might be fun to interact this way rather than me posting my thoughts relentlessly. I hope you can share with me the results of your creative minds! 🙂
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Fiction: The Arachnid Queen’s Deadly Songs – 27/10/19
The Arachnid Queen weaves a web of delicate songs and spells, but this caster is known for causing perils in great a-many tales. While she crawls and creates, she plots the doom, of those unfortunate souls, lurking, unawares, waiting for her in the privacy of a stifling room. How she struts in toward them, turning this way and that, because while her spindly arachnid form is anything beyond compare, she doesn’t believe in being visually poignant, compliant nor aware.
No, she prizes her spinning ability above them all, to be the black widow in the tales of those whom happen to helplessly trip and fall beneath her multitude of feet. She glances down at them acting so feebly – she will wrap them slowly, it will amuse her greatly, don’t you understand? It’s all so plain to see!
And she’ll continue to lure them in like the easy prey, victims that they are, only known for wanting to be seduced by something that they secretly fear but cannot draw themselves any further from, neither walk nor run further, because her songs, the lyrics, they draw them in, such lilting, sweetly sung tunes, like the sirens pulling in the sailors to their deaths, she drags them in with such fine musicality, her deadly cadences are anything but folly.
Would any rise above the Queen’s misdeeds? Would a victor arise, to avoid his encasing, future suffocating wrapping, simply because for the wrong being he had fallen with ease? Nothing is proven in this measure, they are all mesmerised — ears, hearts and minds — seduced by her warbling spells, until one rather bland evening the sign of the Jackal is cast across the skies: something important surely is about to befall them all.
While the Queen lazily sits upon her throne, casually singing rhymes, tunes, trills, arpeggios, a hero-in-the-making spots his chance to escape to freedom of his own. A tear in his casing, close to his left hand, my, the Queen’s error in weaving here is uncomfortably astounding, and with a quiet ripping with his thumb he frees himself. But he will not yet leave – he refuses to do so, not without assisting the other captives in the saddening scene.
And now here is the perfect opportunity; the Arachnid Queen has lulled herself to sleep, the devil in the details, why, they are already being seen, and with a few slashes here and there, the men escape to freedom, with the snoozing Queen entirely unaware. She will awaken with rage, I promise you this, it will be of complete and utter disrepair, and awaken the entirety of her captive kingdom.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Story: The Lion Cub Who Knew He Could – 10/10/19
Lucius wasn’t like every other lion cub. While others simply wanted to roar and eat, he wanted to achieve a special dream.
Lucius wanted to soar into the clouds, heady as could be, and reach the moon, in a space-travelling machine. He wanted to be the greatest Lion cub astronaut the world had ever seen.
But how the others guffawed, how they cruelly laughed. “Lucius, don’t be silly, don’t be daft. You cannot achieve that!”
Their words harrowed him, despite him being a strong Lion cub in himself, he felt the trickling of tears come from the corner of his eyes, a salty wealth. They ran down his furry face and into his mouth, the salty taste a sign of defeat within themselves.
Lucius almost felt inclined to hide away in his mother’s den, but when he skulked to its entrance, she shooed him away, “Son, take time to yourself, under your shady Acacia tree, take leave of, here and then.” But when she noticed his damp tear-stained fur, her heart melted, for her son how it ached, “What has happened, my darling, what has occurred as of late?”
With a deep sigh he heaved himself onto the dusty ground, and began to expel his sufferings, of the cruel words of the neighbourhood bullies, in the Savannah in which they had surrounded him. How he was being mocked for his dream, even though many decidedly assumed it could not come true, and how he knew, that with the right amount of know-how, social connections and training, that his great desire to become a Lion-astronaut would almost certainly become truth.
His mother listened carefully, her ears cocked, her eyes contemplative and bright, and said, “We shall have to do something about these bullies, and this will happen tonight.” With widened eyes, Lucius wondered at her plan, but he said nothing, because he knew that his mother was ultimately secretive when it came to any cunning plan.
But he didn’t want to focus on revenge. He wanted to focus on achieving, being, flying, reaching the skies. He quietly left his mother’s den as she slept and wandered off into the sunset.
What to do, what to do? he pondered. “What to do?” he wailed, “why won’t the world hear me?” Suddenly, he had an idea. He gathered his necessary supplies from the deserted camping grounds that the humans who had visited years prior, selecting basically everything; for he would find some use for them.
He constructed a contraption – resembling as much as he could – a spaceship, with all the bells and whistles. He adorned himself with loose fabric, made a helmet from the remaining refuse of the humans, and there he was, at NASA, where he “needed his space”, he had reached the home ground.
It was all perfectly well and good to have made his own space station, but now he needed to show others, to have the word spread, to become an internet sensation. He could lord over his bullies, show them his hard work, and wait until the next safari exploring group attended his land to allow him to be viewed and at large.
With any hope, he would be photographed and videoed, swooned over by the crowds for being so adorable and innovative. He’d likely reach the media outlets online, and soon be seen by NASA itself, oh, what a dream.
Some might call this plan farfetched, but Lucius was being rational, and realistic. Because, after all, the safari troupes came in basically two by two groups every month, sometimes every two weeks.
He simply would have to wait and see.
Lucius knew that he could. Lucius knew that he would.
And Lucius achieved all he wanted, because:
Now he’s the first Lion cub astronaut, at least in his neighbourhood.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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