dowsing the crystals with illustrious mayhem the tainted air of dragon’s breath, poison, enlightening myself to the treasures of the planet, the powers deep within me, I need not lace melodies from counterparts, I need not stunt my heart with mimicry, hidden behind obscure masks, no, there is strength in being myself, knowing, learning, stronghold, resilience from waking hour to the magical twelfth.
sleep deprived I layer myself with ease carrying the threads of foxy foxy actions I smile and try to relax their knees they become weak. I do not know the true cause the truest heartbreak anthem which rides upon your throat but this is to the ones closest dear leaves, leaves from the scene exit stage left.
slowly, slowly, deludedly, she unravels the past, deciphering not much at first, but then, at half mast, between the sleep, it all makes sense. she is enabled, she is untoward, she is unpopular but she is loved and that’s all that matters.
the special ones will come, trust me on that. there are just different stages to be sent, to be scene, to be signed off, my darling, read my lips, I’m over the rorting, the commotions, the derelict ascensions, take down the falsehoods and live live live< roar, the cycles cry, the world of darkness flies she petters them away like undesired times, because, in her mind,
she’d wiped them away, with regal style her heart wanders into her starry eyes, she’s all the way up toward the moon, the moon, is this all we can and will speak of, the wiccan cries, her witch-familiar sits upon his hind legs and smiles. smiles. She will stay within, stay home, just for a little while.
Copyright 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Haunted are her eyes above a winsome smile, wistful character is she, hoping for more in a while.
Fallen by the wayside, all her trickery, her witchery, her cosmetics, her haberdashery.
By goodness what is told beneath those furrowed brows? Heavy times envisaged, poignant moments told, she loves to flicker her eyes from the land to the sea, a calming peacefulness takes over she.
Without her layers, which peeled away one by one, she’s naked as the babe she entered the world as, all magic spells come undone, without the falsity of rare moments of rage, she no longer finds herself or others disharmoniously caged.
For their prison was this – requirements to abide by society, she just wants to flow now, rippling waves, breathe, gasp freely, ride the swells of less commotion, battle away prior despair, no longer a ‘witch’ but a fair haired innocent maiden…
What was wrong with her sorcery? She’d not ever know, only condemned for being different, not lining up in conforming rows, her magic is what she held pride in, what made her so proud, shriek and cackle she wishes now, to elaborate aloud.
They have changed her, made her ‘pure’, sootiness cast away, undo, undo, bring back the smudges, the unsightly smears, her darkness is, was, forthcoming, can you feel it, dears? There’s so much she has to say, watch as the pretences fall away.
Spells and magic occur each and every day. It’s up to us whether we perceive them, or whether they go unnoticed – like glitter, they can fall before us, bright and vivid speckles falling where they may.
A spell can touch the very tip of a nose and cause a sudden smile; one might not know why, how or when, but joy is flooding their insides again. Like a stork bringing an infant to the stoop, magic delivers us happiness and wonder – in order for emotions to converge, does a stork need to be truth? Can we not accept the notion and dream, of a desired, oft-prayed for delivery, as wholesome, contented proof?
Spells, spells, spells, they’re all around, delivered from up above, and reverberation with insistence from down-below. A sorcerer never reveals the source of their conjuring, but ultimately though, they should project positive intentions onto us knowingly. A wand can lithely dance in patterns, held by a skilled hand, one gesture and a wish has been made at the wielder’s command.
But what about ‘everyday magic’? Or the lyrical words and images of writers and poets? Or artists’ imagery and feelings splashed onto cardboard, paper and canvas? Or children’s peals of laughter, the licking of a cheek from a puppy-dog’s tongue, the social inclusion which makes one feel a part of a whole as fellow sports supporters join in song. The shivers, the goosebumps on one’s arms as something amazing is heard, digested, or watched, the assurance felt when one clasps hands with someone they truly love.
All here is real magic, drifting from my pen, surely many more instances can be detailed, and I won’t need to repeat any tales of already-expended magic, for they’ll be so much for you to all presently share from your own pens.
The dancing genie has released herself this time, A flowing effluence of movement and truths. Serene, eyes closed, she strikes a pose, Replicating the stilling of time as she once knew.
Because, when she is free, her world does not turn, No longer does her current captivation of life feel as if an err, She has not been summoned, she has permitted the escape herself, The dancing genie who flows with a perfected consciousness and a warming sense of wizened mental wealth.
How she’d been slighted by her past summoners, They were purely propelled by greed, At meeting this genie with recorded, positive history, To make meaningful and real their inner dreams.
They used and abused, didn’t accept her for what she was, Used her for their gains, and ignored her flowing, ethereal thoughts. But with time she learned to associate the rubbing of her lamp With the selfishness of the summoners of their outer land.
And she stopped allowing herself to be forcefully beckoned from her hideaway, Instead remaining still, quietly resting, Until she could remove herself from the lamp For another expression of her emotions through the freedom of contemporary dance.
Sylvie the Punk lived a careful, quiet life. Despite her appearance, she was an introverted individual, preferring to stay home and read, by herself, rather than entertaining others outside. Although she had her nose and eyebrow pierced, these were not for mere show value to impress, they were simply the look that she was going for, they were for herself, nobody else, herself, no less. Her favourite pastime was absorbing the knowledge of the greatest writers having walked the earth, she fed upon their words like sticky rice pearls, absorbing their wholesome nutrition as though she was starving, and their words were the first things her eyes had fallen upon.
However, one day, in her grandmother’s library, where she was permitted whenever, daily or nightly, she came across an ancient looking relic, it was a leather-bound book, with embossed name D. D. Derek. Intrigued, and curious while also amazed, she carefully opened the book to the first page, and then, upon the title page, declared there was this book as “My Secrets. Read at your own peril”, and that was that.
“Strange,” she thought to herself. She’d never come across a book like this before. Furiously flipping the pages to satisfy her curious hunger for what had seemingly been held behind for ages, her eyes fell upon a singular page, “Join here with the Masses”. It was a step by step guide on how to hypnotise a crowd, lulling them into a false sense of security until they would do anything you wished them to, even mooing while on one foot, or clapping, stamping and meowing!
“Interesting, interesting,” Sylvie muttered under her breath. “We must test how this works upon the public, but I’m scared of them, this is a test.” Sylvia suffered from a phobia of leaving the house without any accompaniment; she always needed someone there by her side, with her. Usually she took her grandmother, but today she was somewhat poorly and sickly, her mother was at Bible Study, thank goodness she hadn’t been taken along there to listen and see. For, if she had, she would never have made this discovery, this apparent diary filled with spells upon spells of magickry and manipulation of others so freely. She knew this book was wrong, that she had best hide it again, better still, throw it away, but she could not bear the thought, she needed to test out this hypnotic spell today.
The second problem, after her phobia, was that she knew her appearance was somewhat off-putting, her earrings of large safety pins, the piercings in her face, her unique hair cut, her love of wearing an outer clothing layer of lace, created an unwelcoming vibe from the crowds. But why would it matter, if she had hypnotised them? Then again, she needed to lure them in first to have them listen, their newly directed attention span. And hesitantly, she left the room, glancing backwards wistfully as the freedom of being herself she was knowingly leaving alone, and deep breaths, and deep breaths, as she passed out into the sunlight, in actual fact, the air was quite pleasant, perhaps this outing wasn’t going to be of a negative scent.
Upon the train – it was a fifty five minute ride into town – her eyes devoured the words and scrawling of the spells which she had found at her home. She was so glad that her grandma allowed her to live there, for all her days she could spend reading and researching without a care. The books calmed her, detracted from her life fears.
Now, at the main town mall, she called around, gathered, called, gathered all, until she had attracted a fairly large crowd, and then she sat down and proceeded to do as the spell had told. Soon, all the members of the crowd were cackling, then clucking, then bouncing on one foot, then maniacally laughing. Sylvie joined in along with them, she was so joyous that the spell had worked, that she continued her session within the town into the night, until ten o’clock.
News of her proficiency in magic spread across the land, rapidly, swiftly, with each touch type of a journalists’ command, and when the truth came down to it, Sylvie had procured some enemies, who were jealous beyond doubt of her talented skills she had honed with ease and now permanently had. Apparently she knew too much, needed to be taken down a peg, until she was a normal as normal could be person again.
She was seemingly not permitted to be successful, from her studious work, in her own right, and with the assistance of Mr. Derek, no, she was meant to be stuck at home, afraid of going out, of the world, forever being sick, battling her inner frights. She would not take this kind of attitude, nor would she admit defeat, she would not acknowledge these kinds of people who wished for her skills and opinions to never speak.
Sylvie honed her skills even further, became a master of this type of style, and isn’t it well that this ended well, the news of her skills were still looked upon with great admiration of her wiles.
The Magic Potion sat upon the table, stewing beneath its surface. What was is that making him so darned aggressive this day, when the reality was such anger was pointless? What was causing his inner anguishing and upset, why, let me tell you, my precious pets. Alice will show you yonder, Alice will show you how, Alice will map the way for you, for I know how. Let me weave the story line for you…
One day, in mid August, when the wind was gusting gaily, doing as it wished and pleased, a small potion was being concocted in Manstonian Lane, Apartment 1/303. The nimble fingers of the chemist danced as though possessed; adding this ingredient, then that, then this, then a touch of that. After much adjustment, the potion was now complete, a green, slimy offering, for someone who will soon no longer speak.
For, this potion snatched away any means of self expression, thieving the partaker into a slice of dumbfounded heaven, it stole away the ability to talk, and what’s more, it ruined the ability for their feelings to expressed in a manner of being written.
The truth of the matter is that this potion was extremely dangerous, it was only intended for one’s worst enemy, given the depth of punishment dolled to the user, it stole the moments in life where one could be free. Instead one was left mute, expressionless, nothing to share, not even through their eyes, living became pointless. The ability to feel and the ability to see became far less intense, there was no loving within them, nothing to view, nothing to be.
And because of the intensity of the chemist’s emotions during creation, the potion absorbed some of his personality and increased his degree of poison. He could now feel and hate like the chemist did, it aided their cause, it was plain to see that the target was in grave danger, most certainly, of course.
While this potion should never have been created, the chemist had one user in mind, Simon the Spook, who became bitter because Chemist failed to rock his socks. Simon then instead chose to indulge in a brought bottle of red and upon Chemist’s sofa and fresh new white carpets spill his bottle of magnificent merlot, his favourite red. It was his favourite because this particular wine never went to his head.
Simon acted as though the spillage were an accident, that during this first online date this was simply an incident, but the chemist knew spitefulness and rage when he saw it, and within Simon’s eyes he saw these bubbling.
All because Simon had leaned in for a premature kiss, and the chemist had backed away hesitantly, not ready for this. And bitter and twisted had become Simon, or so it seemed, that he wished hateful rage upon the chemist from him. In a moment of sheer audacity, in slow motion it seemed, the chemist saw the bottle become a-knocking, and falling, falling, slowly, drips and drops spilling everywhere, suddenly, moment of impact: blood-like red wine everywhere.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he proclaimed, hand facade-like held to an open mouth, “Let me get that for you, I’ll grab a cloth…” he trailed off.
“No, you most certainly won’t.” Chemist would deal with the mess himself, not with a cloth that would rub the stains in. Simon nodded in agreement with a slightly visible smirk, then growing into a grin. Chemist hated him for that.
With a sharp glance to his damaged, thousands of dollars worth of carpet and with the potion in hand, Chemist now waltzed to the doorway of his apartment, unknowingly not realising that this would be the last time his evil nature would be seen again, for in an accidental moment, when he visited Simon the Spook and served him potiony goodness, he mixed up the glass his with his own, wouldn’t you know it?
Luckily for him though, the potion did not take effect, in his creation of it he had missed adding the catalyst. His voice would remain, his happiness at self expression would be there to save him throughout rainy, miserable days, and now he learned forgiveness most haphazardly became he had been allowed to properly live.
He almost snapped out of a mood he hadn’t realised he was in, and understood plaintively and guiltily that he had cruelly, willingly, intended for Simon’s suffering. In the moments prior to this poisoning, he had experienced some apprehension, and thank goodness that internally he had the space for that. And when it came to remorse and regret he had much to contemplate of that.
He bid Simon farewell and erased his number from his phone, there was little point in pursuing anything of the like with him anymore. Each time he saw the faded red stains, he growled to himself but then calmed, he had to learn this again and again to become a habitual behaviour that utterly tamed, calmed his mindset, flooded serotonin and relaxants into the brain.
Simon has now found his own boyfriend, they met on an exclusive dating site, they share the love of the theatre, comedy shows, computing, and most especially chemistry on quiet, cold nights. Chemist has learned his lesson, on not being malicious with his physical potions and explosions and keeping in check his emotional conditions, and never more has he or will he misuse his knowledge anymore, no matter what the situation.
Stacy, the Conjurer possessed powerful sorcery skills within herself. These she had gleaned from her mother, Sandra the Grand Master, her spells she’d share while a baby Stacy would sleep upon the bunk bed’s fashioned bed shelf. She learned how to conjure a baby mouse from a little frog, she knew how to teach it to hop, skip, and yelp a mouse song. She could alter water into honey and oats, and a greedy Stacy loved this spell for herself. She knew how to transmit thoughts to the mind of another, this particular spell she kept from the prying eyes of others.
As she grew into a toddler, then a little munchkin youngster, the spells became more convoluted, and much more complex. She studied hard and true until she knew, a spell of an ultimate test. While she was at the skill level of allowing another to fly, her final, ultimately skilled spell was to create a purple aura of immortality, with this she would never, ever die. Only she knew this spell, she had crafted it well, and with a saddened knowledge she understood it could only be known by herself.
She watched generations of families begin, build, grow, multiply, the older generations becoming elderly, then with tears in her eyes she watched them die, and while Stacey remained at the age she had gained the aura, the town was growing suspicious for she did not appear to grow older.
The townspeople cried, “What is this sorcery? Are you a sorceress?” At the stake a mound of oak trees burned brightly, hungrily awaiting a demoness. For that was how they viewed sorcery: evil, wanton spirits, filled with blackened misery. But Stacey was nothing but the opposite, she was loving light herself, and in the moment of the townspeople’s rage she shed the cloak of immortality from herself.
Without it she grew older rather quickly, time had caught its way up to her, and in three short years she passed away from the world so quietly, so gently, with her loving kitten-daughter Pearl curled in her arms.
Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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