Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poetry

  • 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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  • Story example: Wigglebutt the Polar Bear With Questionably Coloured Hair – 01/08/19

    Story example: Wigglebutt the Polar Bear With Questionably Coloured Hair – 01/08/19

    Wigglebutt was an exceptionally happy bear. He loved to dig, and chase and run with animals and his fellow bears almost everywhere. Of his ecstatic nature he loved to express, through his wagging little tail and pouffy fluffy butt from left to right, great joy, of life he was always dutifully impressed. His cute little fluffy bear bottom was unique all of its own, no other bear’s bum could compare, no rounded shape or volume of hair, nothing to compare of their own!

    One day, a polar bear approached him, with a sneer across his face. “Why are you the wrong colour, what’s that tan along your face?” With shock at the bear’s disdain he ran toward the nearest mirror, Wigglebutt had always thought of his visual differences a great asset to himself, from standing out from the others. His tan and white complexion caused a contrast among the polar bears and wood bears, who comfortably and lovingly lived together in a means and upon a land that with Earth could not compare. And never once had he been told that he was too different, or wrong, or some such, he was always embraced by the animal crowd, he was always deemed more than enough. Now this such and such had to put in his two cents worth, and activating insecurities inside Wigglebutt, it was unfair, and his words were unwanted, his opinion was undesirous, Wigglebutt had had enough!

    Wigglebutt returned and pointed a finger into the mean polar bear’s chest.

    “Who are you to say I’m different, why, perhaps you could not compare!” And then suddenly a thoughtful smile came across the nasty bear’s face, “Perhaps you are right, dear wrongly coloured animal, touché touché, your words are so nice.” His biting sarcasm hurt an innocent Wigglebutt to the core, he could not stand this verbal abuse and his tone anymore. With a broken sense of pride, he walked away, walked on by, and into his den he hid, uncaring for hiding his emotions now, proceeded to cry.

    “My darling, what’s wrong?” his mother asked, rubbing his back. Wigglebutt simply shook his head left and right, with his wracked sobbing, he couldn’t enunciate the facts. She knew something untoward had happened, and when he was able to squeak out the words, “I have the wrong coloured fur!” she understood the moment in his life had come to explain where he truly was from.

    With careful wording, she explained first that he was deeply loved, by herself and his father, Professor Earl Grey the Curl. He had a curly tail that was different to her and Wigglebutt, and he was not afraid of his visual difference at all.

    “You see how Father is different,” she said gently. “Well, so too are you different from your father and I. You are much loved, and our precious, adored son, but you came from a world where there was too much for you to learn and for you to be unfairly used throughout your life. We rescued you from a meteorite, come from the Planet Earth, where you would have been worked, worked, worked, like a slave bear, into their earth. But someone who loved you, your owner, the letter inside your capsule said, that she was willingly sending you away so you wouldn’t end up overworked to death. You are not born of this world, nor myself, nor your father, but please, understand, we love you all the more stronger. We cherish your being, we cherish your life, each day we are thankful that you came into our lives.”

    WIgglebutt stood stunned, barely wanting to understand this, his mother’s words of which she was rapidly and shakily speaking. This was why he was different, why he was not a pristine polar bear white like his parents, but this did not stop him from future life successes. There was nothing wrong with being different, in fact, unique was always in style, he stood out from the others, with his bobbing, cute little bum and tail. And he didn’t allow others’ negativity to ever again get him down, he would succeed at his life so wholly, he was meant to wear life’s crown.

    On his eighteenth birthday, his mother and father proudly produced the capsule’s note from his former owner, the first of many sentences:

    “Dear Georgie, you are my favourite corgi, with you, I send you away with love, to a better life yonder.” Thereafter followed deep explanation of why his life would be better away from Earth, elsewhere, safer, somewhere he could be filled with wonder. The mystery of his life was now solved: he was a Royal breed of canine, not an oddly coloured polar bear, now proudly certain, to everyone his truth could be told. He was the only known Corgi on this land to behold and wasn’t he so chuffed that he would no longer be a different unknown.

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

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  • Story example: Jan Lotto Curls and the Spirit World – 01/08/19

    Story example: Jan Lotto Curls and the Spirit World – 01/08/19

    In her dreams, Jan transformed every night.

    Jan Lotto Curls was a glorious girl. She was friendly, kind, and knew much of the world. From years of travelling, and lifetimes of studying, she was well above her peers in lifestyle, life and emotional understanding. Jan Lotto Curls had lived many lives, she had reincarnated almost every night, dreaming of being a different individual, entity or being, why, when she ‘became them’ at night in her dreams, she felt their knowledge was her calling.

    So she absorbed what she could learn and knew that with this skill she was so very blessed, to be able procure beings’ intelligence. When the method was so uncertain, so unsure, she knew to appreciate the confounded method even more. For all she knew of commencing this learning process was to shut her eyes, relax, and think of nothing more. Then the creatures or people or things would come to her, in her mind’s eye they’d swim, into her eye they’d fill, right to the brim, and if she focused clearly, quite near enough, she could view their inner morals, their character, of which during their own living lives they did share.

    Soon, Jan Lotto Curls became well known to the spirit world, for her eager attachments to the passing, fleeting spirits of their world. She did have a distinctive look to be seen, pale complexion, and about her face and upon her head flaming red curls, coiled and healthily gleaming. Thus, it was not hard for the spirits to notice her worldly view, and they understood that she meant no harm, was only, in and of their former lives, passing through, and what their understanding meant to their world, was that she was a curious, intelligent, talented and growing girl. But they prayed she would only retrieve good spirits, for there were many lurking for a specific release date, but currently hiding away.

    One night, Jan Lotto Curls was exhausted, and she did not feel like connecting with another spirit, another beautiful soul. She simply wished to fall into sleep, tumbling, tumbling, into the black hole of unconsciousness down she would go. But because she was so exhausted, so very, very tired, her protective guards were not up and as she tumbled she collected something dark on the way on her rolling slumber. It was frightening to experience that feeling, the latching onto her very being, the shuddering that was felt and also to be seen, the crunch  as something began gnawing, chewing, biting.

    Terrified beyond belief, she tried to swim to the surface of consciousness but she was being held beneath too deeply. She floundered this way and that, frantic arms splashing in the dark murky water of the depths of her distress, and now she heard a booming, low cackling, she shuddered to herself, how could this spirit have make itself aware? To her, she needed to escape as quickly as she possibly could, of this darkened insipid world she needed to disappear, and so she would.

    She most felt the spirit tugging at her left leg and right foot, she kicked and kicked and kicked, she needn’t have a closer look, because who would want to view a captor that sounded so dangerously frightening and menacing, she knew the image would be either equally or more than frightening. She slapped his wet face – she assumed it was his face – with her backhand, then gouged his eyes and finally she was free. She kicked to the surface, gladly, so swimmingly, eager to escape, to silence this warped thought of a dream.

    And when she reached the fresh air of consciousness she gasped, so lucky she felt she was to be out of there, that down below, that from now on she vowed not to dance with the spirits anymore, to not consort with the spirit world. After all, she had learned much, more than enough, from spirits who were geniuses, writers, engineers, scientists, artists and so on and so forth, she did not need her mind exploding with so many thoughts and understandings of topics presented from spirits such as these. Instead, she would enjoy her nightly sleep, no longer calling upon spirits to alter herself into becoming them for a night so freely, transformation of this method is so special indeed, but she had best leave it in her past and simply enjoy her pleasant nightly dreams.

    © 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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  • Story example: Life in the Aquarium: A Trapped Land Dweller’s Nightmare – 30/07/19

    Story example: Life in the Aquarium: A Trapped Land Dweller’s Nightmare – 30/07/19

    One forced foot in front of the other, she trudged through the sticky affray, of the seaweed clinging to her calves and knees and ankles, on this otherwise fine and calming day. From the outside of her world, things appeared safe and sound, but on the interior, and within her screaming mind she would find there was no end to the curious crowds. Peer into the glass separating she and them they would, so dutifully, knowingly and freely, without any understanding of her paining anguish and agony, of being bound by her once land dwelling feet.

    Why was she here, how had she arrived here, who was so cruel they would capture a land dwelling individual and place her within a rectangular, tiny vessel, for all the world to see, why she suffered so freely? For it was not the simple physical paining that caused her to groan, it was the mental pain of being all on her own, with only fish for company and sea rocks and squid, all the occupants which could quietly exist. With her, she needed verbal stimulation, and emotional context, and someone to feel her warmth, and of their love she could experience that emotion again, for how could one coexist simply with barnacles, crustaceans and fish by her side? She had left so many others in her previous world behind.

    This woman’s tale was utterly miserable, could there be a shining light? To witness, to daydream about, something which could save her from the Inside. But no one from her former life knew whereabouts she gone and what she had become, and trudge all morning, noon and night did she, waiting for a hero to come. The curious crowd always pointed and would speak, of how interesting it was to watch her scene. Of the sadness which covered her expression, so clearly overwhelming, was there not anything positive worthy of me saying?

    Sadly, it was not the case, it were as though she were a mermaid trapped on the land above, but reversed, she had been plunged deep within this aquarium by a nasty man who thought so little of humans, apparently unworthy of respect nor love. He believed anything was up for capture, as long as it could breathe underwater, but how could this be? She was a woman of the earth, the land, not the sea, and indeed, he solved that problem with a click of his fingers, one, two and then three! He was handy with contraptions; he created for her a breathing apparatus, quite like what divers used, except this last for centuries and ages. She was forever doomed to a life beneath the water, not even afforded residence into the cool, calming sea, but a facade of that world, perfect for viewers such as you and I to permanently see.

    With no friends to save her, she even stopped trudging in the temperature controlled water. What was the point, when there was no emotions or excitement to feel, not even of impending danger?

    All of a sudden, one morning, a man rushed from behind the crowd.

    “Sharon, Sharon! I will save you!” and he thrust his thick elbow into the glass before everyone, causing a collective gasp, and an accumulative, “Woowwwwww…” The water exploded forth, the glass shattered everywhere to be seen: coral, mussels, molluscs, seaweed, all an aquarium owner’s both nightmare and dream. All for the picking, for those who wished to glean.

    To Sharon, the trapped Land Dweller’s surprise, she recognised her best friend Scott from the land of the Outside. He had changed so much, gained much weight, grown a thick beard, but still she couldn’t believe she hadn’t recognised him immediately, but then again, she had had much to fear. A striking human he was, he had missed her ever so much, he had caught wind of her entrapment from yonder gossip amongst the fields.

    And here her saviour was, hugging her with such protective kindness and a warm embrace, she felt so loved, safe and reassured, by his presence, and she knew by his side she would never leave. He had saved her from a life of paining, agonising and utmost loneliness indeed. She felt so overwhelmingly grateful that all she could do was limply hug him back. Later she would express truly how much she missed him and her former life with words spoken, uttered, sung, and actions made after the fact. She knew he understood how much she appreciated him, and his saving of her, and while the aquarium owner would never be brought to justice for capturing and never intending to release her, Scott and Sharon would live together, their friendship growing stronger, then into love each day, a little by little, a little more.

    © 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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