Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poetry

  • 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 They are known as artificial intelligence, and wouldn’t you know this, that the human race is slowly becoming superseded, by robots and machines that cost barely anything to be programmed.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.


    Return to All Posts


    Home

  • Story example: “Would You Care For Some Ice Cream?” asked the Luminescent Bug – 29/07/19

    Story example: “Would You Care For Some Ice Cream?” asked the Luminescent Bug – 29/07/19

    The Luminescent Bug was very generous.

    “Would you care for some ice cream?” asked the Luminescent Bug. I looked at her offered hand, whilst her eyes implored, she seemed genuine, appeared not to be an oddity offering strangers treats, of this I was seemingly assured. But here she was, a bug with legs coming out of her segments in strange manners indeed, offering a multicoloured ice cream to apparently the first person she had seen. Little Old Me, why how I did enjoy ice cream, but I wasn’t so sure about accepting an offer from a buggy entity, although she did seem pretty at ease. If she were a danger, surely she would be giving herself away with negative body language, but in short, I was suspicious.

    “You try it first,” I said to her, providing an innocent smile. She shrugged at me, perhaps more to herself, and with a great, widened smile, flicked out her tongue at the ice cream, absorbing the sweet delicate taste explosion, shutting her eyes and delighting in it for a while. I watched her carefully, for any sign of poisoning or absorption, there was nothing, she was in the clear, in fact, she went back for another licking session. But by now I had had enough, I wanted some of that ice cream for myself, she’d had her share, it was now my turn to touch. To caress that waffle cone with gentle elegance, a lifting to the mouth, a due diligence, and a splattering into my face is what the ice cream would experience, a smooshing become, yum, yum, yum, thank you dear Luminescent Bug for giving me a turn.

    Soon a hoard of ants suddenly appeared, began following me, they must be sniffing the cream remnants on my lips which hadn’t disappeared, which had been unintentionally saved. They would not be permitted, I was not after bull ant stings! Just because they wanted my lips’ meagre offerings.  This was all the fault of the Bug, I now realised, she was the one who lured me to shove the ice cream into my mouth, deep inside, and to have left small sticky parts across my lips, why the blame is upon she, and it is not remiss, where had she gone to hide?

    I looked around wildly for the Bug, to blame, and blame, and yell at her, and with each turn and step I made, the stupid ants would be within my shadow despite my screaming at them which could be clearly heard. The Bug was quite obviously sneaky, she had planned and plotted this outcome, and with a sickening twist, there would be disciplining for her. She would be subjected to her little bull ant friends, they could converse with her, come to a diplomatic reasoning instead, instead of them biting her, or reaching for my lips, she could source out more ice cream and caused them all to be prettily pleased.

    However, no matter how far and wide I called her name, with my unwanted group of bugs following me, along the dusty planes, I could not discover her, the ice cream criminal as she was now secretly known, we must discover her by the end of the day, and that we did, close to my home. She was digging into someone’s freezer for more ice cream, I am very sad to say. Not only had she set in place her plans upon an innocent person such as myself, she now felt the need to thieve the creamy goodness from somebody else, from them calculatedly take it away. It was a sad moment to view, but at least she had something to provide to the starving ants who’d come from far off to eat, over eat, and rest, then to no longer move.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • 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.

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Story example: Amelia Jayne Rust, One Costume Never Enough – 28/07/19

    Story example: Amelia Jayne Rust, One Costume Never Enough – 28/07/19

    Amelia was passionate about Drama and dress ups.

    Meet Amelia Jayne Rust. She loved to play dress ups. The only problem was, with her, one character was never enough. She simply could not decide which animal or person to be, instead she piled on hats, headbands, wings, anything that would confuse the viewer when she pronounced she was ready to be seen! Amelia didn’t suffer from anything like an identity crisis, in case that’s what you were wondering, she was simply indecisive and was haphazard with her costume choices, rather than sitting there, solitary and pondering. What fun it was for her to change, into a new individual upon individual each and every day.

    For, her mother allowed her daily dress ups, even when she attended morning secondary school, for in the afternoon she experienced such joys that she could barely hold her anticipation at bay, the class she awaited would come so very soon. It was Drama, where she could express and be herself (but also not be herself), taking on roles and starring as characters that her imagination had created in the spur of the moment, her creativity was more than enough to be appreciated and pondered.

    In fact, her Drama teacher secretly held the belief that one day Amelia Jayne Rust would be famous, as an actress in her right no less, also starring in roles of the theatre and musical shows displaying her prowess. Amelia’s incredible talents lent to wildly amazing habits, and daily she would document the stories in her mind, their utterly incredible processes. She was practising becoming a playwright, a poet, a lyricist, and wouldn’t her dramatics go with them so well, they lent themselves to these.

    Soon came the day for university auditions. Amelia hoped to procure a place within the prestigious drama college in the city. With nerves of steel, she performed the role of “Susie, Teacher of Grade Two”, set in an office block where she took classes in groups of three, and sometimes two. Occasionally her role would be utterly depressive, then on her good days, manically uplifting, but whatever mood Susie was in, she made certain it benefited her students. Even on her bad days she didn’t call in sick, she made sure her teaching skills were still to be seen while she was ever present.

    To Amelia’s surprise, the panel of three gave out a resounding cheer, two out of the three stood to attention, a standing ovation, and how proud Amelia was of herself, for her script, her carefully honed skills, that a single tear escaped her, and then enough was enough!

    “Amazing, amazing!” called the final panel member remaining seated. “I can see that falsified tear escaping thee! What perfect control of your emotions,” he gushed, and wasn’t his excitement more than enough, when the three members reassured her that she had secured a college place. It was not their role to tell her now, but so exuberant they were they could not hide the information, it would be to no avail, and with joy and incredible wonder, Amelia bounded outside to her awaiting mother.

    “Mum,” she whispered. “Let’s take a triumphant picture.” Then Amelia suddenly realised that this audition had been the first moment in a while where she had acted only as one character, and to her great and utter surprise it had been without fail. For what she had grown to fear the most over the years in selecting one individual or animal or person, was coming across as bland, boring, and almost uncertain. The layering of different roles helped her, assisted her to succeed, but now she realised that she only needed to be one person, one individual at a time in this world to bring others standing to attention or bringing them to their knees. It was a realisation she held quite dearly, and wasn’t her future now planned out and pretty?

    As anticipated by Amelia’s drama teacher, she was a roaring success, the world lapped up her acting skills, beauty and charisma, and skills ever so delightedly, and when it came to the latest popular series or upcoming movie, you could be certain there was a chance that Amelia Jayne Rust would be the leading lady.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Story example: Crooked the Spider’s Altruistic Endeavours – 28/07/19

    Story example: Crooked the Spider’s Altruistic Endeavours – 28/07/19

    Crooked loved helping the less fortunate.

    Crooked the Spider led a downright dangerous life. She ducked and weaved her web through the atrocities and joys of life outside and inside. One destination may be a sunny paradise, and the next a tunnel filled with ill forgotten dead mice. Crooked was not discerning about where she placed her web, for anywhere would do, to allow her to rest her weary head. For obsessively she was bound to self-creativity, sharing her artistry of weaving to anyone who’d like to look and see. She was proud of her efforts, for her webs always looked glorious, the midnight sheen of pre-dew, glowing in the perfect moonlit scene to be viewed. Her mother would have been utterly delighted of her daughter, if only she were reachable, but wouldn’t you know her, a loving mother she was glancing down from Spider Heaven, viewing Crooked’s daily cause.

    Crooked was not fond of trapping other insects and debris inside her web, for she preferred to keep them away, safe and sound, and her web would be where she’d be gently tucking herself into bed. She was not prone to violence, and she disliked other insects’ deaths being slow and paining, she was, in fact, a vegetarian, a worthy cause and for others it was worth knowing.

    Crooked the Spider was upheld in the eyes of the community, glorified and appreciated and accepted. She was acknowledged for her work with “Free the Flies”, an initiative where wayward flies living on the streets could get back on their flights with refreshed wings, and “Feeding the Homeless Moths”, an affair she partook in two nights a week where she fed the starving residents of the streets their fill, more than enough to eat. And “Walk with Sam”, a fundraising event where insects with a terminal disease walked five kilometers, in the name of Sam who passed from cancer at age three, they would raise much funding each year, delighted the runners were when the funds were counted, notes stacked to be seen. The proceeds would go towards research for terminal diseases, and refurbishing of the children’s hospital in town, where the ill children could play upon the playgrounds and trampolines as much as they wished and pleased.

    In short, Crooked the Spider was a very noble insect, she was caring, loving, and selfless, she wanted to make the world better, and each day she took this as a test. To improve the lives of others, to be selfless in herself, her actions assured, to make a difference in anyone’s life, with even a simple wave or a smile. Over time, her endeavours grew and grew, that she no longer had time to aimlessly create webs for herself alone, this was more than true, she was spending mostly all of her time volunteering and being a better individual, that she thought: Enough was enough! She would do this fulltime. Such work gave her satisfied tingles. To know she was making a difference in others’ lives, what a special goal that was to hold inside.

    Slowly, slowly, then quicker, she began to be noticed for her altruistic work, when suddenly, one day in the mail, she opened an unmarked envelope and what was inside? A nomination for her, for Young Altruistic Australian of the Year, why, she was abashed, modest, how could she be, little old her, acknowledged for the work which gave her great happiness, when others must surely be doing much more than her? She was humbled, she was breathless, she needed to catch her breath and sit down, she was amazed, who had nominated her? In truth, it was unessential to know. But she felt important, appreciated, that someone had acknowledged her work and worth, that of the community she had a long standing admiration, perhaps this nomination was the result of her true life’s work.

    And on the 15th of August, she will take the podium, and accept the prize, with streaming tears, as she bumbles through the speech she has hastily prepared for them. She hadn’t expected to win, only the honour of being nominated was more than enough, she looks upon the crowd, eyes searching for her passed mother, oh, wouldn’t she be so proud, absolutely chuffed.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Story example: Leo the Astutely Observant Monkey – 28/07/19

    Story example: Leo the Astutely Observant Monkey – 28/07/19

    Leo the Monkey had much to say about this world. He was vocal, he was damning, but oh boy, wasn’t he utterly disarming? With his short, cute stature, and scurrying little legs, one could not be blamed for siding with the opinions of Leo more than absolutely less, accepted wholeheartedly instead.

    What Leo was most passionate about was using windmills as turbines, to create free, electrical energy for his jungle city, why, if they survived on that, wouldn’t the future of the world alter from dire to exceptionally happier and incredibly pretty? Another topic he was fond of spouting and educating to others at length, was his ability to straighten one single head hair each time with the warm air from his nostrils, of this none other held a skill to compare. And a third trick he was prone to sharing was leaping into the sky and performing skipping ropes with his arms held together, arching around and around, with Leo the Monkey his opinions and actions were not always of a serious tone.

    While playing loop-de-loop with his arms as Leo in the jungle was ambling, whistling to himself, whilst thinking the effects on global warming by humans were incredibly damning, he bumped into Jodi the Baboon, his favourite coloured butt friend, he high fived her in greetings excitedly, his mood was now focused, joyous, less angry and sad.

    “Jodi, how have you been?” he implored. “How is your lovely husband, your shared life?” Once Leo was away from his thoughts, he was able to focus on others as a means to listen attentively and of their words he’d bounce back and reassure.

    “Oh, you know,” she said, with a flippant, dismissive gesture, “Peter is well, Peter.” She chuckled nervously, and looked to the ground. Something about this situation was making Leo the Monkey uneasy, he wasn’t quite sure what the problem was with Peter, but he suspected it was not a picture that would be painted prettily. He was known in the jungle for being loud and domineering, what occurred behind closed doors with Jodi, when no one was there for the viewing?

    “Please, come for a cup of tea one day,” Leo implored. “You’re most welcome on any given day.” And with the reassurance that this invite was the case, it was correct, genuine and true, Jodi and Leo went on their merry ways. But Jodi never appeared, he never once saw her at his door, it was though she had vanished from the jungle for many days, hidden quietly away. Weeks later, he spotted her at the Money Tree General Store, where she was trying to surreptitiously nurse a bruise around her eye that was concealed with heavy makeup, it was still as obvious as a thumb that was inflamed, throbbing and sore.

    It was then that Leo pledged to alter Jodi’s situation, she knew that Peter, her husband, was a fond follower of his ideas behind wind turbines and their use as a positive result and situation. It did not help though, that he was a slimy character, and weaseled his way out of responsibility for things he shouldn’t be allowed to.

    The very next day, Leo turned up at Jodi and Peter’s door unannounced.

    “Yoo hoo!” he knocked and called out. In his hand he held a platter of cucumber and grubby bug sandwiches, they would please Peter, most certainly indeed. With a feeling of ominous wariness, the door slowly creaked open, behind it was meek, frightened Jodi, poor baboon lady, he wanted to hug here right there and then. But he knew that Peter would not approve, despite the fact that he and his wife’s relationship was only platonic, they were certainly only dear close friends, no point causing Peter jealousy and anger if he could help it. At his request, Leo was shown into Peter’s private study room, where he was sucking and puffing on a baboon cigar.

    “My dear friend, how are you?” Peter asked, surprise within his shiny, beady eyes. “I’ve not seen you since your last seminar! It was great, by the way,” he added, as though his approval was a classified secret.

    “Thank you,” Leo replied stiffly. He loathed having to be fake, so disingenuous. He was here for a reason though, to discover why Jodi was so skittish, was Peter maltreating the baboon who was now his queen, and years before his precious princess? Yet direct the hour long meeting and conversation did he toward feelings, emotions, understandings of life and how to treated your loved one, a beloved wife, it was no use: all Peter wanted to do was speak of turbines. With a shake of his head, Leo decided to draw the attention and concentration of Peter into one straight, obvious line.

    “Do you mistreat your wife, my friend, dear Jodi?” he spurted out. “Enough of this talk of windmills being constructed in the nearby city. What I want to know is: why the black eye? The sudden meekness? Her shaking, trembling, frightened looks like she’s about to cry?” Peter dismissed Leo’s accusation, and sent him on his way that day, from now on there would be no future interaction, Leo would have to perform his own actions in order for Jodi to be saved.

    Leo pressed and pressed Jodi until she cracked, raw nerves of steel altered, after the fact, and gushing forth with all the information of abuse, share did she, it made Leo cry and whimper, at the emotional abuse she was required to experience daily. What kind of world was this when a baboon could not trust her lover, to love and cherish her, accept her wonder? Years of hidden suffering, obvious signs that she was about to crack, and all it took to distinguish the behaviour from hidden existence was a friend who only  meant for her goodness and a desirable life to boot, to be had.

    So he convinced her, how courageous she would be, if of this Peter, questionable, rude abusive character, that she should up and leave him. Together, her and Monkey  Leo could start a new life, in a far reaching corner of the jungle universe, they’d recommence with style. And as for the evil one that she would leave behind, why, he could have many years to assess his behaviour and of this deeply contemplate. He would be alone forever, until the dawn of the world’s new time.

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

    If anyone in Australia needs to speak about their issues with someone confidentially, the number for Lifeline is 13 11 14, Beyond Blue is 1300 224 636, and Kids Help Line 1800 55 1800.

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem and Drawing: Jacqui’s Worldly Beauty – 27/07/19

    Poem and Drawing: Jacqui’s Worldly Beauty – 27/07/19

    Picturesque Jacqui striking a pose.

    When Jacqui looked into the full length mirror that day,

    What did she see that led her astray?

    Was it the small bump on her nose?

    The purpled birthmark above her left toes?

    Or the misshapen right eyebrow that needed delicate plucking and multitasked managing?

    Everything Jacqui could see before her, of herself,

    Caused her to be displeased.

    Nothing was perfect,

    Nothing was right,

    To her she needed a reimaging, an overhaul, a makeover,

    To match her insides.

    She knew that internally, she was a beautiful, loving, caring person,

    This her mother would reflect each and every morning saying,

    “Jacqui, keep being loving, keep being kind, everyone sees you for the beauty you have and are inside.”

    Yet these words halted her,

    It was as though she was visibly unworthy of her inner truths,

    That her personality did not match the outer appearance,

    And it was as though her mother was hinting at that too.

    So when Jacqui looked in a reflective surface,

    Desperate to find something visible to adore,

    She could only find faults, problems, wrong, wrong, wrongs,

    Nothing that could be appreciated and admirably looked upon and mentally stored.

    But Jacqui was lovely!

    Jacqui was fantastic!

    She wore her head bald and proud,

    A statement to the world,

    That she was different from the crowd.

    She knew how to pose for photos,

    In a most inventive, imaginative, photogenic manner,

    And with false bravado,

    She could even break into runway modelesque behaviour.

    It did not matter what flaws she believed she had,

    For these were so minute they were small, of such paling insignificance,

    That I could squash them with my forefinger and thumb into disappearance.

    For the truth of the matter is Jacqui was a wondrous being, inside and out,

    And she simply needed some convincing,

    Some cajoling,

    To know that she was wonderful, and the world was better with her,

    Not without.

     And one fine day, at the park she happened upon a lost dog,

     “Are you lost, dear honey?” she asked, bent at the knees and gently patting his scruffy fur.

    “RUFF!” the dog ruffed, and led her to her future love, a great star.

    With wonder, Jacqui approached his presumable owner,

    And reflected in his big brown eyes,

    She saw herself, awe and star struck,

    Trembling quietly inside.

    Was this her love, her future man, was this who she was meant to be with for life’s tumultuous ride?

    Struck with a similar feeling, the man smiled at her knowingly,

    “Jacqui? I’ve heard of you, beautiful, intelligent, kind and lovely You,” and with a wild anticipation, she pictured herself with him forever: him, her, and Ruff the dog, living at the house across the street, number twenty two.  

    I shan’t suggest any further,

    Whether Jacqui had met the man who would help her understand,

    With his reassuring,

    That she was perfect,

    Internally and externally.

    But if you have a certain hunch,

    That this man at least asked her out to lunch,

    You’d probably be right,

    And the answer would be some positively worded muttering or uttering of such and such.

    The rest was for Fate to decide.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Poem and Drawing: Two Sword Playing Mice – 27/07/19

    Poem and Drawing: Two Sword Playing Mice – 27/07/19

    Sometimes mice just want to have fun.

    Two sword playing mice,

    See how they fight,

    Watch as one leaps gracefully into a dance,

    And slices the thin air near the first sword mouse, making him evasively prance.

    The air rippppps, ever so slightly,

    A reflection of the thin sword being so mighty.

    Gleeful grey Field Mouse,

    See as he clicks his sword and turns,

    Elegantly with his protruding pot belly,

    Attacking violently is something which he will never learn basically let alone wholly.

    Then to the serious blonde Field Mouse,

    He wants to be victor of all,

    Champion of the underbelly of the sword mice world,

    He’d walk a mile to gain the golden cup with a nip, spin, thrust, and a final stab with a twirl.

    Sword fighting mice,

    See how they interact in their world,

    Then suddenly an appearance of Chester the Cat,

    And the game has been encompassed by him outside and of their world – oh crap!

    Chester plays with them for fun,

    Pawing, toying with them this way and that,

    How to escape they have not yet learned,

    Then growing bored of their flailing antics he allows them escape,

    Their victorious cries of freedom can now be widely heard.

    Off they scurry for more swordplay,

    For a long cheerful afternoon of that day.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home

  • Story example: Gerald the Graveyard Caretaker – 27/07/19

    Story example: Gerald the Graveyard Caretaker – 27/07/19

    Ghouls can be viewed in differing lights.

    Gerald was a peculiar character, he possessed strange characteristics, oddities that stuck out, character flaws, personality antics. He was awkward around men and women, and only felt comfortable around ghouls, of the graveyard in which he took care of them. He faltered at the sight of a real person, scurried away with all his might once they were in sight, but when it came to welcoming a ghoul, so strident and proud was he, to welcome it into his home, where he would serve them jam and cream scones and a pot of steaming tea. For Gerald was the town’s graveyard caretaker, and of real life humans he had little contact, which he was most pleased about, as in his past he had experienced some negative tragedies. With the ghouls, instead of humans, did he love to converse with and dance with them with ease.

    It was not Gerald’s fault he had experienced negative activities, one was when he was twenty three. The perpetrators saw him with his deep hunch, walking with eyes staring straight to the ground, laughing with animosity of his awkwardness, their mirth was much. They began to throw small pebbles at him, irritating him, then deeply angering him for a great while. His rage bubbled to the surface, he was enraged and screamed with a sincere lack of eloquent style.

    Another incident occurred when he was twenty two, the year prior, when his confidence in himself was the highest, oh, how it soared. For it was this year that he was travelling the world alone, taking in breathtaking views and meeting other travelers and interesting locals to know and of their culture’s understanding grow, he didn’t need Mum or Dad as emotional crutches, but then he met Sandra, whose heart he did snatch.

    She and he fell in deep romantic love, it was as if they were made for the other, perfect opposites complementing the other’s love, what a perfect, pretty picture. Then one day, after five months, she told him, quite out of the blue, that she had met someone better, what on earth was he to do? The love of his life now walked away from him for the very last time, arm in arm he imagined them, walking into the setting sun, to awaiting glasses of sparkling wine.

    Their love had been rich, a tapestry that was not quite complete, a dangling thread here and there, and that destroyed the dream when side by side a perfect image was compared. He returned to his homeland with a bitterness surrounding his understanding of life, and within the month applied for the job of graveyard caretaker, instead of him having returned with a new loving wife.

    And that was why he preferred ghouls, they didn’t hurt you the most, not like real life humans who wanted to serve you the painfully raw truths which direly hit home. Ghouls were his friends, humans were out of style, wondering less and thinking more, Gerald decided that he would commence a certain life trial. He would live and breathe the life of a ghoul, awakening when least expected, creating sounds worthy of the ghoul nearby, coming soon to you, the only things that he could not achieve were flying through the walls and soaring through the roof. To do this, Gerald would have to leave life as a human, and dedicate his life to becoming a Caretaker Ghoul. Sometimes he felt he was ready enough for this role, for what was the point in dealing with human life, when he saw one or two or three, he wanted them to go?

    He prayed day and night for his transformation, he asked all his friendly ghouls how he would ascend to the Ghoul Heaven, where he could obtain his transparent form, achieve his hauntingly lilting “oooOOOooo”s, when would he arrive there, what to do? Gerald had to remain patient, for many, many hours. Hours, upon days, upon weeks, upon years, and at the age of seventy five, he felt a tugging behind his ears. A certain soul-like grip pulling him apart, soul under attack, physical form presenting forth one day, soul pulled backward, disconnect, and then, POOF! He was looking down upon his formerly present human self, he gave an almighty yelp!

    “I’m a ghoul, I’m a ghoul!” he shouted, in celebratory style. “I can do whatever I want, I’ll be Caretaker Ghoul for a long while!” But what was the difference in being a real life human Caretaker and the Caretaker of the Ghouls, why, they listened to him, and now they’re listening to you.

    “OOOOOoooooOOOOO,” we all sing. “Gerald, we bid you farewell, may you live a happy ghoul life, with no sadness to know of, no feeling that you failed. Be joyous in your new life, you are here forevermore, mix with the hauntingly beautiful souls who surround you, much more happiness for your life is in store.” And flit away, this way and that, did Gerald joyously, gleefully he celebrated for the next twenty five breakfasts, lunches and teas.

    Though he remembered his past love, the details were now hazy, he didn’t need them to resurface enough, her name was absent, eventually he found another love in his ghoul, Susie Patsy Pagent Daisy.

    And together they guarded the graveyard, with strength, unconditional love and hope. His former love should have remained, for Gerald was the one in the world who would have loved her forever and cared for her the most.  Lessons to be learned, of love and loyalty lost, the reckoning and strength of a solid relationship requires trust and confidence ever so very much.

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


    Return to All Posts


    Home

  • Story example: The Magic Potion – 27/07/19

    Story example: The Magic Potion – 27/07/19

    Beneath the surface bubbled rage.

    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.

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

    Return to All Posts

    Home