Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poem

  • Story: The Boom Box and the Grape – 11/08/19

    Story: The Boom Box and the Grape – 11/08/19

    They grooved together as no other two could.

    The Boom Box sat above the hotel, on the top of the roof, thinking, “Well, goodness, this is utterly boring!” No one to play for, no one to entertain, nothing worth sharing, the tunes from his brain. The rooftop was deserted, there was nothing but air conditioning vents, and an entrance to the stairwell. This was the place where Boom Box often came to vent.

    Despite the illusion that a boom box’s existence was happy, jolly, bombastic, Boom Box actually suffered from moment of deep sadness, when he realised his presence and tunes were unappreciated. After all, he played songs from a cassette recorded in the 1980’s, and while the many tunes were pleasing and repetitive to him, others wanted something more modern to dance away the night with their hands filled with glasses of rum, scotch, whisky or gin. Their tastes were very specific, this crowd that I speak of, a refined understanding, a niche listening style, a charismatic knowledge. Unfortunately for Boom Box, he had been assigned to this crowd, whom gathered at midnight every Friday in the ballroom five stories below. He was tired of being something that he was not, he wanted to revel and sing, to provide his 1980’s tunes and be appreciated for the songs he held within.

    So, one evening, on a Friday night when he was meant to otherwise be occupied, he snuck into the pool room, where there was being held a party, at a quarter to nine. The pool was filled with inflatable toys, the room decorated in a celebratory style, a lone swimmer clasping a pool noodle smiled at him and said, “Hey Boom Box! Give me some music, play me something until it gets well into my head!” He picked his favourite song, and away the sound did blast, the person in the pool decided to jump out onto the concrete and he proceeded to fervently dance. He seemed to love the tune, it was everything he had been hoping for, a sound that came to him and so very soon would there be more revellers accompanying this ecstatic dancer.

    Then, all of a sudden,  Boom Box was swept up from the ground, thrown upwards, almost seemingly to the heavens, and placed within a tight grip of a purple hand upon a shoulder, a perfect spot for this contraption. The hand adjusted the knobs, bass and treble, volume pumped loud, and away the tunes would go! Boom Box looked down at his holder, and with a giggle of great delight, he realised he had been swept up by an excitable, bouncy Grape, who seemed funky now, her style and mood would never truly abate, her aura seemed so alive and alight.

    She grooved with the mood, sung along to the love songs, the power ballads, the crooning, the dancing music, the tunes, it was all so damned fantastic! The revellers greatly appreciated the Grape’s efforts, and wind back and play and wind back and play, repeatedly, would Boom Box of his tunes, that he thought, “Stuff it, I will not bother with the people in the ballroom.” This was his place now, his room of his ultimate forte, he would remain here every Friday, ignoring the ballroom always. After all, it wasn’t as though they appreciated him up there, and the music he was forced to play them was stuffy and of it he did not hold one iota of care. And when the hotel staff came looking for him at a quarter past one, he simply silenced himself, pretended to be dead and faulty, and away for a boom box replacement did the hotel staff run.

    Grape proved a great partner, she was such a warm, sweetened and talented ball of fruit, Boom Box wondered whether she had been sent from afar to save him from the bathroom’s continued metaphorical noose. Grape was the groove master who knew how to speed things faster, and slow them right down, to create a mood-like roller coaster. Now he was relaxed, with her, in her presence, it seemed together they would go far, but even if only for the night, their collaboration meant much to him, for it also meant he had not gone down without a fight. The ballroom members could be completely forgotten for all he cared, memories erased that very night, his efforts no longer forced to be shared.

    Grape and Boom Box, the epic new duo, the talented pair, they ended up travelling far and wide everywhere. A continent wide tour, and then one of the world, they entertained crowds upon crowds, of men, women, boys, and girls. Their tunes reached and touched the hearts of generations, for the recordings that Boom Box held there was only one of this compilation, and when it came to alterations, Grape leaped forth and performed her dee-jaying skills to recreate that roller coaster ride’s rapidly fluctuating moods.

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

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  • Story: Iced Chai Latte and Hot Choc: Who Will Reign Supreme? – 10/08/19

    Story: Iced Chai Latte and Hot Choc: Who Will Reign Supreme? – 10/08/19

    The Iced Chai Latte knew she was rich. Her thickened fluid crept down the throats of many, her recipe slid down for sure, it quelled the need for an iced beverage, satisfying and scratching that irritating itch. She was utterly delicious and gorgeous, she was made for a relative and worthy cause. For every Iced Chai Latte that was made within the cafe down the street, half of its price was donated to the charity of the Homeless Family Dream. Needless to say, the price of the latte was inflated to make certain, to be sure, that the Homeless Family Dream received and reaped the most benefits that could be grasped and seen. Over the past month, two thousand and twenty five dollars were gleaned, from thirsty sippers who wanted their parched mouths satiated, and their hearts warmed, their desire to be altruistic a living, real life dream.

    But what say you to the humble Hot Choc, who sat next to Iced Chai Latte, no one looking at her? Was she now commonplace, was she uncool, was she unworthy of being in the room? Why was the Iced Chai Latte all the rage, just because she was newer and of this world was upon a charity’s visual page? Hot Choc was classic, Hot Choc was nice, Hot Choc was everything that you’d ever want in a hot vice.

    And why was she being snubbed, for being traditional, why, even her once appealing marshmallows were being utterly ignored! Sadness upon this day, damned be you now, if all that you are hoping for is to wear a facade of a crown. To pretend that you do not like the Hot Choc, why, what has she done to you at all, has she performed you ill, you used to like her so much, when you pranced all over town! You once glorified her, you once could not wait for that sugary, chocolately goodness to slip into your mouth, and now your eyes are wayward, they are too far north, they do not wish for the Hot Choc to enter and go down south.

    Iced Chai L atte may be in style, but while the appeal is heightened somewhat by the charity drive, we cannot forget how glorious she tastes, we must understand this always. In comparison to the classic, Hot Choc, she is bombastic, but Hot Choc will always have a place, in our hearts, for she is fundamentally fantastic. And so ends the drive of who wins, who is the superior of them all, we cannot, and should not be made to decide, for the taste of both enthrals. Better still to order one of both, then down the hatch, down south where we will enjoy them the most.

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

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  • Story: The Abandoned Pink Pearl – 10/08/19

    Story: The Abandoned Pink Pearl – 10/08/19

    She had been taken, now where was she?

    The Pink Pearl originated from the Deep Sea of Joseph, a far off seascape where there were no humans to know of. Beneath the depths of the surface of this glorious sea, were little minutiae, to be viewed of by the most precise of eyes, on any given day, to be taken in, to be seen. Yet closer to the forefront, there lived a special, and rather especially large oyster, inside, tucked within was a beautiful pink pearl, of great vision to be held, to be sure. Her name was Eve, she was as pretty as could be, a special sheen, a opalescent luster, about her body was present for all to view, of her sheen the viewers would appreciate her glowing gleam. But one day, she was unfairly plucked from her casing, and taken away, far off, into a land of unknowing.

    Ferocious pirates were responsible for the pearlnapping of Eve, from her homeland, her oyster bed she knew she would never again be or breathe. So she sobbed in the galleys of the ship where she was locked away, she was miserable and experienced such utter heartache she could not live out a single positive moment in her day. The tears, oh, how many she wept, her wailing drew the attention of her pirate captors as though of them she was willingly calling, her tears never seemingly enough spent, always continually falling.

    The pirates decided to hold a private, personal polling and debate, was it worth holding Eve aboard the ship, when of her misery she would not abate? They never knew how homesick a silly little pearl could be, in fact, she was a gigantic pearl, that was why they stole her, but of her presence they now wished to be free. She was far too much of a baby, she could not control herself, why, who on earth would mourn the loss of an oyster bed when here she had a perfectly superior and clearly far more comfortable bed shelf?

    They landed the ship at the nearest island, small, sizable enough though, for a pest whom they did not wish to hear of her continued whining, no matter how much her worth on the black market, they could not deal anymore with the irritations she was providing, a sense of patience would never grow.

    Quite obviously, these pirates were not empathetic, they only thought of themselves, and where and how they would benefit, cash flowing beneath the decking of the boat. Then, they forcibly removed Eve from the room, and threw her overboard, onto the island, where they left her high and dry, marooned. And sail away as quickly as they could, before she could even run and yell, all the time she had was to throw up her hands, and scream out, “What the hell?”

    Her misery continued, for now she knew not where at all she was, not even upon a ship with others, no matter how cruel they were. At least she hadn’t been alone. At least they had fed her, given her drinks to allow her positive, continued shimmering sheen, and now, what to do, she was alone here with the swaying trees.

    Over time though, she realised she could survive, she taught herself to prepare and eat the leaves of the native trees and how to dive. This was a means of how to replenish her moisture, so she would survive, for she could not drink the sea water, it was far too salty for her, back in the Sea of Joseph there housed fresh water, of a taste which she much preferred.

    To her surprise, one day a ship sailed past, slowly, eyes lazily convincing herself that it was not a mirage, it was safety beckoning toward her at last! Oh, this opportunity for rescue was presenting itself, right before her very eyes, if only she could attract attention to herself! And call, call, call, call out she did, she caught the ears of the crew and the captain, she was now readily seen, and rushed aboard she was, treated like a queen, no longer the abandoned pink pearl, she was the rescued pink pearl of the Seas! All the world over would she now be seen.

    Even her mother, the oyster, now a grandmotherly type, grey and cuddly, viewed her daughter on the seascape television, so proud of her little Evie was she, she wished one day they would be reunited with ease. And even if this could not be a wish come true, she knew Eve would have a wonderful life, and she wished so truly hard for her, for this to come true. Of her girl, she was so very proud and pleased, for surviving her trials and such a wretchedly painful catastrophe.

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

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

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

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

    He stood to attention as he lied,

    His disrespectful morning salute,

    An utterance of how perfect the world could be,

    He never expelled the truth.

    Instead he preferred,

    To distance himself from truthful Others,

    So of his intentions,

    He could impress many others.

    For the moment of truth for him is,

    Obscuring the totality of life,

    Pretending as though everything were perfect,

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

    What was he the leader of?

    Is it really that relevant to know of? Because,

    In every little corner of the world,

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

    Sometimes in life we need to hear an untruth,

    To bolster our confidence,

    To allow us a positive view,

    Of ourselves we sometimes must also tell a lie,

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

    I do not take forced silences well,

    They are simply a lie of omission,

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

    A positive predeliction.

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

    Creating understanding of the realm of his projected world,

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

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

    What does it take to silence an untruth?

    What will it take to cause a firmer view?

    Of correct understanding, a positive landing,

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

    For this liar’s land was far too serious,

    I could hear a grumbling now in the crowd,

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

    But of the truth they must now know.

    A roar above the previous silence,

    A devilish wave of due diligence,

    And away were his followers, from him they escaped,

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

    We don’t take to liars kindly,

    We are glad this leader has now gone,

    Been overthrown in the pursuit of true knowledge,

    The new world has been known to become.

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

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  • Poem and Drawing: Ecstatic Jumping Jellybean – 30/07/19

    Poem and Drawing: Ecstatic Jumping Jellybean – 30/07/19

    She was more than happy with her life.

    She was an ecstatic jumping jellybean, the happiest bean the world had seen.

    She liked to jump in and out of people’s way, causing reckless commotions throughout the day.

    Oh, how it made her sing and then laugh, merriment spurting from her sweetened mouth,

    And then when it came to laying down for rest during the night, her body was horizontally tested, and her mind and body were slowly going south for hours to remain.

    What existed within Jellybean’s dreams?

    Why, the prettiest, glorious stories to be ever viewed, heard, then mentally seen!

    She created mental images from her daily events, from the moments when she jumped here, there and everywhere.

    The shock, the horror, and the joy, upon people’s faces and within their eyes,

    When she intercepted their paths, of course it amused her, these mental images were set to last.

    “WHY, JOLLYBEAN, WHY ARE YOU ASLEEP?” A booming voice entered her dreams.

    “JOLLY, JOLLY, JOLLY!” and she heard a loud guffaw, she certainly wasn’t peacefully sleeping anymore.

    It was her half brother Fred, the Green Grotesque Jellybean who had fallen and bumped his head,

    He now sported a great bump in his forehead and in his crown, a mere look at the dints would make one cry, “Yeeeeouch!”

    “You’re always sleeping or scaring,” Fred chided. “Why don’t you do something productive?”

    “What, like fall and hit my head?” Jollybean, also known as Jellybean said, and then she regretted it, why did she need to be cruel with what she said?

    Fred’s saddened, long face pained her to view, she decided to cheer him up, in the best way she could.

    “Let’s go scaring, come, it will be great fun!” and reluctantly, then slowly smilingly Fred agreed, and then the decision was made, the activity agreed upon.

    And a gloriously fine day together they had did they, pursuing peoples and other individuals, keeping their own wits at bay.

    That Fred clear forgot the nasty comment Jollybean had made, and he hugged her tightly for the great and wondrously hilarious day.

    Nowadays they perform their scaring twice weekly as a way of maintaining their sibling bond,

    They’ve grown closer and closer and greatly enjoy the moments together just because,

    They were not essentially that different, despite Frank’s propensity for clumsiness,

    And Jollybean’s habit of making life a light-hearted laughing mockery and sometimes a downright mess.

    Because when they were together, their lives were always blessed.

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

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  • Story example: Broseph the Car – 30/07/19

    Story example: Broseph the Car – 30/07/19

    Broseph was one of a kind.

    Cars rushing everywhere, no time to stop and think, for the cars are on autopilot in my world, they don’t even need to eat or drink. They are known as artificial intelligence, and wouldn’t you know this, that the human race is slowly becoming superseded, by robots and machines that cost barely anything to be programmed.

    Broseph the Bottle Blue Car was different to these inventions, he was of the old type of car, which responded to their driver’s manual movements and voice inflections from near and far. In fact, Broseph was incredibly sensitive to the sound of his owner’s voice that he often misinterpreted his earnest tone as being harsh, and this often caused him to weep, or at least shed a tear from one eye.

    It was not his fault that he was overly sensitive, for Broseph had not always been like this. It happened during lunchtime one day, by the pond, where there were other cars and men, three friends, two cars. Curious, Broseph ambled along up to them, as he loved to make new friends, but they shooed him away: “Go, you fool!” and this ruined Broseph’s day. His feelings were incredibly hurt, he did not know why he had been dismissed, although he did recall the men looking suspect and acting cagey, perhaps something about them was remiss? Broseph shrugged to himself and went along his merry way. He could find many friends for himself in the future who would wish to stay.

    Being on the highway frightened Broseph. The artificial intelligence cars were far too fast, far too skilled, far too dangerous to handle when he was simply an old, rundown vehicle, he could not reach top speeds steadily when his fluids often dangerously dribbled. Several panels on himself were dinted due to accidents completely of his own fault, they occurred when he and his owner driver did not get along together whilst they were conducting their driving work. Again, it was not his fault, he simply panicked in the moment, his anxiety rose the moment he reached a speed of sixty.

    He often wondered to himself why his owner did not trade him in, perhaps it was nostalgia for his past, the memories of what occurred within, the setting looked after with much care and trust. After all, Broseph was from the 1960’s, where one would have had so much freedom and enjoyment, of living without stringent commitment, and many moments of this Broseph would have seen them.

    One dreary afternoon, Broseph was on the main highway, travelling to assist his owner to obtain some weekly food, when all of a sudden: BAM! An artificial intelligence vehicle came directly into the right side of his driver, the one and only nostalgic man. The damage was done, there was a side mirror hanging by a mere thread, oh, how the pain throbbed in his side, Broseph wished for anything but this agony instead. The rider in the car obviously instructed the offending car to continue along its way, for during accidents, the AI was overridden to accept orders from humans who sat, ready, at bay.

    But the question of the matter is: why was there even an accident; surely the artificial intelligence was fool proof, that was why they were on the road to replacing us, but the fact of the matter is that there is still a failing point, even if one percent it were. And while the tow truck pulled Broseph onto itself, while he squealed with deep ceded anguish that everyone who heard could feel and almost see, he decided to imagine the images, colourful flowers and outfits that were experienced from the 1960’s. She’s got a ticket to riiiiide, he sung to himself, trying to self soothe, she’s got a ticket to riiiiide, and behind his closed eye lids he viewed the glory of the flower days, wonderful, spectacular through and through.

    At the hospital, when he was about to be put under, for minor panel damage surgery, one breath, two breaths, three breaths, four, and out he was like a light, perfect for that paining night. And awaken did he with certainly less agony, but he wondered where he was, it was all new to him. His eyes slowly focused and he laid them upon his owner, his caring driver, who had been there for the past four and a half hours. 
    “You alright, mate?” he enquired, giving a panel a quick rub. “You’ve been asleep for hours,” he added, smilingly.

    “Yes, thanks, feeling much better,” he replied, and went back to sleep.

    This is why we cannot rely on artificial machines to take our place. While with ourselves there is more room for error, the intelligence does not have any setting to be reprogrammed, they could be like robotic demonic soldiers. If they take our place, what we meant to do as a human race, why, temporarily they may make our lives easier but in the long run? I do not envisage much fun. Internally I view a dystopia, where we are expected to worship and work for vile, cruel machines, who never take no for answer, do not allow us time, not even a second to ponder.

    Who wants to be around machines which need to be programmed, that while they can perform the work of a human, they cannot feel emotions, empathy, happiness, all these things may be forgotten, as we slowly make ourselves into artificial intelligence ourselves, with frequent and newer upgrades, an alteration of our health. Who knows, perhaps one day we will become like the future Them, only operating on codes and scripts that other skilled, talented coders have written. I hope this day we never see, for if so, you, myself, Broseph and his driver, may soon be completely forgotten.

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


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

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

    Baby Balloon and Mama Martha on their walk.

    Baby Balloon was excited,

    She was soon to go on her walk,

    With her adoptive mother, Mama Martha,

    When they walked, they loved to sightsee and talk.

    Normally, with most balloons,

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

    But Baby Balloon had not yet learned that skill,

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

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

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

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

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

    Where her eyes had just been.

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

    She wondered how much longer she must wait to learn,

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

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

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

    Would she forever be walking,

    An oddity soon to be featured on the Nightly News?

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

    Baby Balloon and Mama set out on their walk.  

    “Look at this tree, now that shrub,

    And now look! A sparrow and a lark!”

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

    And rise and rise above, dear Martha she did,

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

    It did not matter that the flight was artificial,

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

    For she was so delighted with herself,

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

    But now she was dropped carefully back down to earth,

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

    She lifted herself clean from the ground, you see,

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

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

    A form of nostalgia.

    A beautiful Balloon story in the making,

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

    Sharing her knowledge of flight,

    Allowing the youngsters to rise sooner than naturally possible,

    Into their days and winding nights.

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

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

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