Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: poetry

  • Story: A Resplendent Stag At His Own Stag Do – 04/09/19

    Story: A Resplendent Stag At His Own Stag Do – 04/09/19

    There was a lucky stag, who was marrying the most wonderful deer in the world, tonight was his stag do, tonight would be when he celebrated at the same time but a different place to the girls. Usually the night would be filled with heavy drinking, antler fighting, wide eyed ogling, but this wasn’t what he wanted for himself, he didn’t want to sin. Besides, this stag wasn’t interested in drinking excessively, waking up feeling horrid, pains a-plenty, what he was interested in was projecting a special sense of beauty. He had always held a fond feeling, a soft spot, for the sublime and the visually appealing, and his stag friends knew that this was how he wished to celebrate, to project an aesthetically pleasing viewing.

    Now, in a quiet corner of the forest they approached him, sombre, with a cascading wreath and male veil all of his own, placing the creation from Nature upon his antlers, his face, around his head, his crown. Upon their tippy toes they adorned him, made him shine resplendent from afar, the flowers, the buds, the leaves, brightening this special stag-star. One friend walked slowly with a full-length elaborately decorated mirror, presenting his stag friend with the visual version of who he presently was. With great delight and a widened smile, he threw his head back and grinned, admiring himself from left to right, all for a while did he.

    “What a beauty I have become,” he breathed, so astonished. “Who made this crown for me, my veil, the maker I wish to know them!” Never before had he seen such an intricate crown made for anyone else, let alone him, and he was the King of collecting nature made crowns and other such things. In fact, at home he had stowed in the closet secretly from his future wife the amount of three times twelve, and she would never discover his collection because it was hidden incredibly well. But this crown veil took the cake, it was weaved so specially for him, the flowers and buds so dainty as they’d been plucked, preserved, tamed, and strangely he felt like what a goddess must feel like, a beautiful version of a nature queen. Because this veil was not manly, it appealed to the feminine inside, and this was the part of himself that he liked to be in touch with, it was a gentler part of his insides. He could be a manly stag, making noises to draw attention, fighting with other antlers of strong stag men, but when it came to general life, this stag preferred to be gentle and loving, and not so over protective and wild.

    “It was Mrs. Simbalina!” one of his stag friends announced. “She was the one who created this for you, she must have known of your character quite well?”

    “Bring her forth to me!” he roared in a manner quite proudly, as he preened and viewed himself again in the mirror, my, it was a glorious scene to behold. He became lost in absorbing the beauty that he usually only felt within, now it was as though Mrs. Simbalina’s creation had drawn out his beautiful inner truth and sense of visual beauty which was now available to be seen. It wasn’t as if he classed himself as unattractive usually, but this crown and veil made him feel quite chuffed, so pleased. Soon, the maker mouse was brought to him.

    “Mrs. Simbalina! May I please pay my dues, you have brought the beauty out from within me, look at this wondrous view!” And with a flourish he turned his head this way and that, and groomed the flowing buds of premature roses, until, unfortunately, he accidentally pruned them from their holds, and that was that. Oh, how his heart ached, he threw his head back and produced a guttural wail, what had he done, he had planned to use this veil at the altar, with his lover before him, her eyes captured upon his face, surrounded by this magic veil before her unveiling.

    “What have I done?” he cried, tears wept from each inner corner of his eyes.

    “Do not fret, Brett,” she said to the stag. “I can make you another instead.” Instantly his eyes dried up as though a puddle would were it placed within a parched desert. He thanked her profusely, and allowed her to leave, of her craft to get on with it. And within two hours she had returned with the most resplendent veil and crown you could ever hope to see, amazing at her life’s work was Mrs. Simbalina, so talented was she.

    When Brett and his love’s special day came, they were both wearing their own version of veils, and surprisingly they were made by a craftswoman one and the same. Each one brought out a particular characteristic from the other; the feminine from Brett, brought out the stronger part in his other. As though the veils reflected the way that they were already intertwined in life, they held hands, joined their lives, and their truth was there to be witnessed, held together with love and affection that was wholly meant. And Mrs. Simbalina was secretly taken on by the Stag and his staff as a craftswoman of immense talent and secretive means to alter another’s life course, though her skills would never be openly spoken of, only held within careful silence from east to west, from south to north. Why? It was safer that way, because Mrs. Simbalina had to be carefully guarded due to her ability to exceptionally alter and cause.

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


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  • Story: Love Without Self Punishment – 03/09/19

    Story: Love Without Self Punishment – 03/09/19

    With her eyes closed, she felt serene and free. Acceptance swirled within her like a welcoming mist, a self-love that had taken many years to grow, for herself to believe. Standing there with her curvaceous figure clad only in a bikini, she knew that years prior she wouldn’t have been comfortable in this size of clothing, wouldn’t dare to be seen. Now she felt a sense of quiet confidence. An accepting of who she was, what her image had become, so different from who she had once been. Unlike the yesterdays where she would shy away, embarrassed by a single stomach roll popping through her clothes, she had learned over time to simply appreciate and love herself. She had not always been so kind to herself, so many precious years had been wasted, pure happiness missed, completely wasted in the process.

    She’d lived through years of feeling pressured to conform to society’s norms, to be toned and thin, wear revealing, tight clothes, they were not only the pressures of society but a decision she had also thrown upon herself. She’d control and obsessively count her calories, exercise excessively, measure the deficits, plan out every meal to each macro and calorie, all for the need to be beautiful to herself and all, because she knew of the attention she’d draw, and she essentially wanted to be seen. She had been invisible for too long in her life up until now, a quiet girl, a wallflower of a woman, barely noticed by the world.

    But there came a time when she couldn’t control her world any longer, everything became far too difficult, she felt her mentality being somewhat snowed under. Her disordered thoughts and life became too tiring and too physically exhausting to keep up the effort and the pretenses, thus she allowed herself, reluctantly, to slip, and this did cause her much distress. But she couldn’t continue without risking breaking herself, in this life she had been abusing herself, and she knew that it was only a matter of time before her body broke internally, for the doctors with their worried expressions to shake their heads sadly.

    Then came the slow weight gains, then faster as she binged to subconsciously make up for the restrictions, and faster still her body would grow until she had regained to her original size, original weight, and then some more as well. She was dismayed, heartbroken because of all her prior control and hard work, there was nothing anymore to show for it, her memories she might as well throw unwanted, useless into the welcoming dirt. Her photos which she’d taken of herself over time were like a collage, a catalogue of attractive to not, in her eyes, she couldn’t accept herself, because this shape, this new form, was something she wished to be rid of. She couldn’t muster the energy to recommence with the tactics of shrinking again though, her secrets, her techniques, it was as though they were meant to be leaving her, this was the correct thing to do, it must be so.

    So, she carefully learned to love food again, she learned to enjoy every single bite. Not hating herself for wanting more, and reaching for the second serve, her body needed the vitamins, the sustenance, the help, to be healthy and alive. And no matter how many kilograms she was gaining and would gain, she understood that this was simply the course of Nature, and to not fixate upon the negatives, but the positives, such as improved health and happiness, this she would again and again. Sure, she was now classed as medically overweight but aside from a health factor what did this matter? As long as she had learned to be happy within herself, that was the feeling that mattered the most. It was a welcoming interior picture.

    Because for the first time in years she could enjoy a glass of regular Coca Cola, not fearing that one sip that may lead to another and another, and she could eat a slice of pizza without concern or care, and she could dress herself in a bikini and parade around the shop where she was trying it on there. There was no sign of her wanting to hide within the change room, calling over her friend to view her while she was still enclosed in it, a closet view, she was able to stand outside, look in the communal mirror from which she used to, when previously gaining, shy away from and hide, and now she closed her eyes again, breathed in and out, a deep sighing. How far she’d come from those years of great starvation.

    Never again would she punish her body, she would feed it whatever it so desired, she would provide it anything she wanted, without a single shred of guilt to be had. There was nothing to be self-conscious of, no matter whether her curved, bulging stomach was on show, in fact, this was a form of wondrous beauty in itself. In this bikini, her thick thighs and curvaceous hips were displayed, rather than hidden within a one-piece instead. And she somehow liked it this way, understanding in her heart that she must accept this was her body’s way of making her love what it had become, and to not alter herself again with any sense of unhealthy methods or desires or needs or wants. She didn’t care that her arms were now thicker, that her thighs rubbed against each other when she walked, pressing firmly together, that her chins were more prominent, because inner beauty was what she should prize the most.

    And appreciate herself for her interior that she did, no more worrying about what others would think of her, how she’d be viewed, judged or seen. She loved every part of herself, even her two wonky side teeth, and that was the end of the tale for this little former wallflower who had finally bloomed so delightfully.

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

     


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  • Story: The Secret Mozzie Healer – 02/09/19

    Story: The Secret Mozzie Healer – 02/09/19

    “She slurped blood here, she sourced blood from there, she took advantage of healing their injuries with great concern and care.”

    McBuzzy McBuzz’s role in life was as a brave fighter pilot, she would attack the enemy with rapidity and due diligence. When she was not reigning bullets and bombs down upon the deserving rouge nations, she was honoured to transport her fellow servicemen and women. However, she was addicted to the metallic taste of blood, the iron platelets slipping down her throat, it made her want to gleefully rub her stomach, and find others to drain from. When she was in mid-air, she’d often place the jet on autopilot, so she could visit and speak with the injured soldiers, to see if she could benefit. Some would be asleep, some would be moaning with great pain, their injuries were healing, not quickly enough though, they needed more love and attention. McBuzzy McBuzz was able to feel their pain, empathise with them, and understand what they wanted and in return what she could gain, and in a transfer so very easy, she sucked the pain dry from their blood, a secret tactic that she had learned when she was just a little wee insect bub.

    When she performed this action, often the soldiers’ eyes would widen, upright, stiffen, they would sit, their wings now glimmering and golden. “By goodness, what have you done?” they would asked, astounded, looking around with great numbness. “I feel perfectly fine now, and you only drained me of blood as I know it!” McBuzzy felt utterly pleased, a smile coming to her face, a crafty expression that, if it were to be witnessed, would not have gone to waste, because her actions allowed her to gain and the others to lose, and wasn’t this a perfect thing for them to experience and for others to view? It just so happened that McBuzzy would then return to the cockpit, to guide the jet down towards the runway, to deliver the cured servicemen to be used again in the trenches and pits.

    Because this was the real reason why she had been raised to have this talent, her wartime family knew that it would come in handy, to have her cure men and women who might otherwise be of no further use to the military, during dangerous world events. If one could make right the injuries sustained, over and over, why, it was as though these soldiers and their skills were being healed again to be used in the battlefield seemingly forever. Then the country would never run out of its manpower, for there would always be McBuzzy the fighter pilot and secret healer to make certain that their soldiers were in tip top shape to continue fighting for the country’s rights, but what would happen if McBuzzy was in trouble, who would heal or save her?

    There was no use in accommodating or entertaining such a thought, because this mozzie was able to look after herself. She could remove blood from any being, and never receive a negative transmission or a disease, not a thing. She also had the skill of purifying all received blood, it was like if one were given a murky solution, and they could separate the water from the mud. McBuzzy was such a top secret government individual that she needed to be on the lookout often, to protect herself the most, because she knew that due to her skill set, if others found out they might make use of her, take her away, suddenly kidnap: and put her to ill use.

    However, aside from the government officials and herself, no one knew of her skill at all, let alone little, let alone the most. Even the soldiers who she cured couldn’t remember the procedure, for as soon as she left the interior of the jet, she emitted a natural gas that wiped the memories from their minds, no longer would they be saved. But there were beginning to be whispers, rumblings, of a certain talented mosquito, who resided in the war-torn countries as a pilot, and soon the bounty hunters were beginning their tracking, their know-hows.

    The soldiers in the plane today didn’t look like the usual characters. Some had keen looks in their eyes, some were nervously darting around, some highly fidgeting. They didn’t have the war-torn expressions paining in their eyeballs, the way that the other, front line soldiers did, this group of soldiers seemed odd, as though they hadn’t experienced any negative war activity. They simply appeared either eager or nervous, for someone, or something. McBuzzy couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she knew something was amiss.

    She approached the most nervous looking soldier and asked if he wanted to feel calm.

    “Yes… y…yes, of course,” he stammered, barely able to look her in her eyes,  let alone being comfortable with her touching his shaking arm.

    “Allow me to rid yourself of your illness, of it I will suck you dry,” she whispered, and she plunged her feeder into his jugular vein, where there would be the most blood flow. He suddenly snapped to, he felt overwhelmingly awake, so refreshed he was amazed! Her talent, her skill, were something certainly to be captured and saved.

    “How, what, why?” he asked, needing to understand what had just occurred.

    “Never you mind,” she said with a smile, and moved onto the other male mosquitoes in the herd. She cured all five members, they were dutifully pleased, at how clever she was with blood-letting, and her ability to allow them to be free, of the minutia, of the delicateness of illnesses that they didn’t even believe they’d had, and now that they had received her treatment, they didn’t feel like taking her away for their rogue nations, to be analysed, stripped of her talent, and cast away without a care. Besides, she presently emitted her signature gassy scent, and there went their memories of the moments, that was that.

    The plane full of bounty hunters presently forgot all about their mission.

    McBuzzy slowly gained a huge following, online and in real life, because gradually, slowly but surely, she had allowed the healed others to continue on without having their memories wiped. She felt it was somehow important that they knew that she would be taking credit for the procedures she had performed and how she’d made their lives better as they would soon understand and know it. Because if she healed everyone the world over and they didn’t know who was behind it, wasn’t that slightly pointless, too selflessly altruistic? She also wanted to share her techniques with others, so she started a healing school, where she went through the biology of what her body was capable of, what it had been taught to do. There she taught adaptable techniques of how other mosquitoes could source blood while saving ill fated members of the world, it was incredibly holistic yet medical too.

    Soon, there were mosquitoes everywhere, sucking the world dry all over, yet the point of this, the wisdom of the matter, was that they were saving others, not simply satiating their thirst for blood, they worked together. And with the cure being made obvious now, there was no need for warring, for fighting, for capturing other countries for their resources or wealth, no more need to fight for world power, domination, and such, when everyone could coexist peacefully together. It was amazing how from one little mozzie that peace could begin, occur in a special manner, a wondrous style, for her as a great being, and of McBuzzy McBuzz she would be known of as the world’s greatest healer, of her name they would all righteously sing.

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


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  • Story: The Most Easily Startled Shark You Would Ever Meet – 01/09/19

    Story: The Most Easily Startled Shark You Would Ever Meet – 01/09/19

    Spike was an easily startled shark, everything he saw caused him a sense of horror to be seen, he jumped at the sight of anything, even a malformed coral piece lurking deep within the sea. The shadowy darkness of a cavern would make him tremble just so, the privacy for him was no sense or heaven to want, need of or know. Better that he stayed away, glided off, swum away, into fresher waters before he bumped into a fish hook plied with a slimy worm which refused to be still, to stay, and the notion that he could be caught by a nasty human terrified him this day.

    The worm upon the hook swayed, swayed this way and that, grinning to Spike seemingly, murmuring that it would be okay, to eat him, to taste, how delicious he would be, why, he only needed to have just a little taste, and then freedom from the sea Spike would be knowing, this was a fact! Because Spike disliked being in the depths, he wanted to free of the sights and scenes of the sea’s frightening views, and if that meant he had to throw himself out of the sea, that was what he was prepared to do. But now that Worm was presenting another way to escape this world, Spike was beginning to grow less suspicious, perhaps the hook would take him upward in a method that was safe to be known. He didn’t have to bite into it, cause the hook to puncture his mouth, his precious face, he could perhaps link himself onto it with his tail or his fins, that would hurt less, and would allow him a view like nothing else. 

    As he would rise from the deep, he envisaged himself dangling with ease, looking down upon the shrinking seascape feeling so very pleased. He would see the passing whales, spouting out water from their blowholes, schools of fish in the pristine water so clever, swarming together, so fit. The image itself seemed to make Spike happy, it was a method of escaping, to be taken away, to a better place, where, once lifted high enough, he could detach himself and throw himself on land, then a new life he would find. It all made perfect sense to him, thus he then hooked his tail to the hook, not before having devoured the worm though, the living form of protein he knew would be wise to take from the hook.  

    With a shake and a tug, he alerted to the humans up above that he was ready to be lifted up. Slowly they allowed his ascent, permitting him the view around the sea and above, just as he had thought, the views were just as he’d understood and were what the worm had explained to him, what he’d meant, and soon he was hanging from above a trawling ship, where large fish rested upon their deck such as huge specimens of marlin and tuna.

    “MY!” called the fishermen. “WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT??” A collective gasp as they view Spike the frightened shark as he approached them with an apparent gruesome intent. His teeth were bared wide with fright, although the humans misconstrued this as threatening, he swung this way and that, trying to free himself onto land, from the firm hook that was keeping him from escaping. It was not going along as planned, he wanted to be free of these gawking, threatening men, who surely only wanted to eat him later, moments before in which he’d surely be suffering.

    Around and around Spike swung, he was barely avoiding the men with their grappling hands and violent bats. He didn’t know precisely what they wanted to do with them, but it seemed as though they wanted to hit him many times, this seemed an obvious fact. He wriggled about and wriggled some more, and slipped from the hook, onto the deck the humans were grinning, their desires almost assured. He slid this way to escape them, and then slid to the end of the ship some more, until he was heavy enough to weigh them down, a forty five degree angle the ship was now at large.

    Spike knew that to get to the nearby land he would need to pop back into the sea, but he was reluctant to do so, because he had been so eager to leave. What if he couldn’t escape the sea again so easily, without the fisherman’s hook leverage, essentially he would have to bounce from here to there, with a type of cushioning to please. So instead he grabbed two humans, the ones who seemed most intent on having him of this world leave, and he sat upon them, allowing them to be buoyant, life saving devices for them now to be. They were frightened, startled beyond belief, at being attached to Spike, but he smiled to himself, grinned inside, and said, “Well, that’s what happens when you try to make me into oil, meat and hide!” They shook vigorously, their eyes widened and startled, their words begging for him to free them, but he wouldn’t, after all, he needed them, to escape their hunting world.

    Splash, he re-entered his previous world, and bounce up and down, he did, with delight, the humans realised that they could also survive here, as long as their heads were kept above water, they would be able to remain alive. He swum towards the bank, the shore where he would live quietly and well, and once he’d used the humans for his benefits, he detached from them, waved them off, and said his fond farewells.

    “Thanks for capturing me, I captured you in turn,” he said with a snide smile. “I am no longer frightened of you, this place, or my former world.” He was a shark of great bravery, for his travels he had learned, that there was nothing to be scared of, at least not in his new world. There were no brightly coloured corals to hurt himself upon, there were no murky caverns to explore and discover undesirables inside waiting to be known, and now upon land the only thing Spike needed to be worried of was remaining hydrated and having enough air to breathe in and out with precious appreciation and grateful love. He had overcome his fears, just by entering our reality, our world. Sometimes leaving behind what we do not wish to face can allow us to explore other exciting realms.

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


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  • Story: Carmella the Witch-In-Training and the Sparkling Night Sky – 01/09/19

    The sky appeared, to her, so very dull and grey. With her wand presented, she shut her eyes, winced them closed tightly, her thoughts, whatever they might be, didn’t, by any means, come carelessly. Carefully, she wound the wand around and around, circling the dull sky, until brightness abounded. From the tip of the wooden device she expelled a cloud of softened material, a bubble, if you will, of her good intent and will. Now the skies were a beautiful light blue, with the night tapestries of stars laid out, a confusing juxtaposed view to behold, yet still, it was wondrous to be seen. Of her handiwork she knew, that before her training, she’d never have had the opportunity to perform this, and her mind and eyes would be ailing, at observing the plainness that was there to have been seen, although now that she was more skilled, she was able to alter certain things in the reality that she lived in.

    Satisfied with her handiwork, she mentally prepared the stars, in differential arrangements, newer representations, that had more meaning to her. But the stars refused to move, so obstinately they wouldn’t, couldn’t, nothing at all to do, they wouldn’t be rearranged by a mere witch-in-training, they knew that their own organisations were perfect in themselves, and their constellations were worth saving.

    Still, Carmella, witch-in-training, attempted to mold the stars with her mind. She didn’t realise that what she was doing was sacrilegious, these stars and their formations had been there since the dawn of time. Whether the Big Bang or God, they were placed here, by someone or something, for a reason, and to alter them really proved a certain sense of worldly treason. It was one thing to alter the colour and shade and hue of the skies, but an entirely different matter when one meddles with something that should not be altered, nor compromised. Carmella pointed her wand at the stars, in particular now, Gemini, and shrieked her most potent magical word, “Kamenlatra!!!” It was meant to be the ultimate spell to be cast, when others didn’t cause anything, not even a movement in stagnant dust motes. The world shuddered for a moment, a warping sound, take that as you will, and then Gemini was reversed and rearranged, Carmella grinned deeply still!

    “Just wait until Sharon hears about this!” she giggled to herself. She understood that what she had done was entirely amazing, yet incredibly remiss. One of the first rules of being an Earth Witch was not to harm Mother Earth, yet here she was, celebrating her alteration of the Earth’s precious arrangement, the precocious twins of Gemini were now no longer at large. The world now seemed unbalanced, as though there were no childish laughs to be had, a breaking of the link between child-like wonder and still a sense of growing maturity, the atmosphere around now felt hollow, less than whole. It was an aching sensation in the pit of the stomach of everyone, a paining, a longing, and they didn’t understand this was so because someone had thoughtlessly rearranged something, two beings that had been perfect, just so. The world was now akimbo.

    Carmella skipped to school that day. She’d had a wonderful night retraining the rest of the Zodiac to be different where they hung in the sky and where they laid. Their new, brighter repositioning caused brightness in her eyes, a clear sense of delight, why, she was now the Master, she had the ability to alter the source of the stars’ dying light. She would arrive in a few minutes to Route Sixteen, where her training school, Sharon’s Witchity School For Clever Girls was situated out of the way.

    “Miss Sharon, Miss Sharon!” Carmella called to her, even before she’d reached the door. “Did you see what I’ve done? Have a look then look some more!” Miss Sharon swept into the room with her cape flourishing as she moved. Her beady little bespectacled eyes narrowed, as she sniffed out a sense of recklessness and stupidity within the room. Looking for the source of these, she could only lay her eyes upon her student Carmella, who was never, at all, stupid nor reckless, never had she been known to be these things.

    “What are you speaking of, dear child?” she implored the excited being. Barely able to stand still, Carmella’s heart and sense of pride were abounding. “Look tonight, at the stars, at what I have done! I altered the constellations, each and every one.” Proudly, with her chest thrown forth, she grinned widely, she couldn’t help it, of course. What a silly little being that Carmella was being, didn’t she realise that what she had done would disrupt the lives of every single living being? For the stars told their stories, their ways and movements within the world, affecting how we operated, sharing secrets of life that were able to be unfurled. They spoke of courage, of lightness, of brightness and wisdom, beauty in the beholders, and now they were warped, strangely made versions of them.

    “There is no reason to wait tonight to view the stars,” her teacher replied, and with a whoosh of her wand, she altered from day to night, and suddenly, feeling faint, she realised that this child was essentially at large. She’d be wanted by the Witch police for this, how could she think that this was the correct thing to do, of common sense, its target had sorely missed, Miss Sharon felt a wash of murky feeling, a deep, insidious blue. She pointed her wand at the stars to rectify the process but there was nothing, no change, because, Carmella had accidentally locked, with her magic skills, a secret code to never be entered, because even she did not know what it was. She’d scrambled the directions to rearrange and essentially added a coding that wouldn’t be remembered, unless one were startled enough or amazed.

    “Right,” Miss Sharon said after getting over feeling horrified. “We must do something about this, before others will have the chance to notice this.” But Carmella didn’t understand what they could do, even her grand teacher Miss Sharon could not alter the method made to never be undone by their hands. Her teacher knew what she had to do, and she pulled out a large roll of blank paper, with markers, fine liners, Posca pens, and coloured pencils, too.

    “Let’s get to work,” she said firmly, very seriously. Miss Sharon quickly switched the sky from night back to day, to allow them time to alter the mistakes that Carmella that previous night had made.

    And so they drew the night sky from heart, tracing and plotting out the patterns, dotting the now darkened paper skies with flicks of brightness, correct, no longer ill wandering stars. They depicted the upper world as best as they knew, bold and lovely, it was something wondrous to view. Carmella grew more and more excited as time went on, for their creation was taking shape, and she realised now that her errors of the night could be undone. She shouldn’t feel bad anymore, because they were going to somehow rectify her process. And once completed, they laid the depiction of the sky up high, it was something perfect in itself to witness. With a certain technique to her movements, sharp, swift, yet with gracefulness to it, Miss Sharon weaved their sky to the altered one behind. With a quick, emboldened cutting of the stitches, she felt perfection in this replication as they knew it, others wouldn’t realise the duplication because Miss Sharon had made theirs a reality as the world would soon know it.

    When night time befell, the whole world was in amazement and awe. They couldn’t understand how this had happened, how much brighter their nightscape world above had become, had it been by divine hands or simply the work of the stars? And when it came to whether Carmella had to face up to her star altering deeds to the Witch police, I’ll tell you this, she was incredibly lucky to have Miss Sharon as her teacher, because with the authorities she smoothed over her student’s behaviour with ease. She was a silver tongue as well, very skilled indeed.

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


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  • Story: Patrick the Pelican With a Tickle in His Throat – 31/08/19

    Story: Patrick the Pelican With a Tickle in His Throat – 31/08/19

    Patrick the Pelican never bothered to chew. A huge mouthful of fish swallowed, gone, that was how he rolled, that was what he would do. Why would anyone bother with the activity of chewing when he could swallow many fish while even thinking? Sometimes he warned by his other, non-pelican friends that he must chew, otherwise he might choke instead! Patrick always laughed them off, after all he gotten by for thirteen long years of his life, without any cause or incidence, he ate each day with no strife.

    But what would he do if a little wayward fish became stuck in the back of his throat? He would surely cough, cough, cough, until it became less of a blockage, and flew from his beak from the inside out! It would be no drama, he thought, if this were to occur, because he had a great gag reflex, he used to practice swallowing swords. Patrick was a skilled sword swallower, he was known for his amazing skill through the wharf and in the busy pub a little down south, where he used to showcase his talent on Friday nights after school, this was actually how he gained his fame and his wealth. So, there was nothing to be concerned about, nothing to worry, a little stray fish? Why, nothing to do with it, no need to fret, he didn’t need to think of the consequences carefully, for there would be none, and Patrick knew he could always eat, voraciously or even daintily. It wouldn’t even matter, there’d never be a choking.

    One day, Patrick decided to go for a swim. He felt the ocean had a lot to offer him this afternoon, and he wanted to fill his beak to the brim. Normally he desired catching them while diving from the sky, but today he felt a little languid, a little lazy, and he thought he’d give a different method a try. Besides, he could swim and smile and view the unsuspecting fishies all the while, and pick them off, one by one, until his beak was filled with tasty delights, all of them would be his to swallow and have his stomach then positively churn. But one little fishy stood out to him, she was pink and yellow in colour, flaming with elaborate fins and eyes widened with stoic disaster.

    “Please, dear Patrick, please stay away from me, I’m too beautiful to be eaten so freely!” Patrick narrowed his eyes and grinned a crafty smile. “No fish is too beautiful to stop it being tasty to me all the while.” And so into his mouth she popped, gone right there, as if she hadn’t existed at all, and with a strange sensation inside, his mouth began to suddenly seem to crawl. What was going on, he wondered, what was that slimy yet creeping sensation that he’d never experienced? Surely it wasn’t that irksome fish, taking her sweet revenge. Instead he tried to ignore the feeling, moved on to other horizons and fishies, and gathering them he continued to do so, well into the evening. Tonight would be a great haul, and he would swallow them all when he was pleased with how full his beak was feeling.

    Still, he felt discomfort, now his skin beneath his feathers began to crawl.  From inside his beak, a certain screaming:- “I told you not eat me at all!” Then he felt a type of repeated electric shocking from behind his tongue, near to his throat, he suddenly felt the irresistible need to swallow this sensation away, that doing so would solve it, by taking it down. And so he tried, awfully hard, it was with great strife that he attempted to do so, but nothing would rid him of this horrid form of fishy life. It was like she was going to punish him forever, for simply needing to swallow, to eat her.  It was all a part of life, part of the food chain, why couldn’t she realise this, and just give up, and lie there, instead of fighting, not being tame? Fish were meant to be eaten, that was one of their many roles. It just so happened that this insolent fishie was not accepting, or being aware of the role that she was likely expected to play the most.

    Patrick rolled around, trying to dislodge her from the back of his throat where she was somehow causing him the shocks. He then turned upside down then righted himself, and still, she persisted, remaining at large. Finally, he had had enough, he needed to be rid of her, if she would go down, then by goodness he would then spit her out, this was how he would get rid of her. Patrick forced out all the fishes that he had procured, that he had acquired, they all flew from him mouth like a tidal wave of living others, expulsion at its finest, how saddened was he, to have lost his large meal, and then out popped Yellow Fish with her dazzling areas of Pinkie!

    “Thank you, dear Patrick, for doing what was right,” she snapped. “Although I knew if I didn’t tickle your throat so, I would have died this very night.  All my extended brothers and sisters will all thank me on the morrow, but you, dear Pelican, of your selfishness, you deserve much sorrow.” And off she swam, swinging her hips so haughtily, head held high, her nose set in a manner so snooty. Never again would Patrick fish near these waters, instead he would visit the high tides elsewhere, and stay away from this sea’s sons and daughters. For fear of coming across a variety like her again, he wanted to simply live a quiet life where he wasn’t made to suffer to his need to eat again and again. It was better this way, that he found some place fresh and new. It was probably that, better still, that he decided to swear himself off eating fishies too.

    It seemed wise to become a vegetarian, his mother was one, after all, he did enjoy looking at and taking little tiny bites of her prepared meals, during the years he had still lived at home. One day he would encounter the yellow and pink fish again, and approach her would he with a certain tenderness, and share his wild stories, of his greatest encounters, of fetching and making himself elaborate and downright delicious vegetarian dinners. Perhaps they would become friends, he could only hope for this, because she had taught him a very important lesson with her behaviour and the way she had spoken to him. Think of others, not just as beings, as edible things, but as individuals who have a mind of their own and so too feelings. He was a peculiar pelican for going against the carnivore grain, but boy, wasn’t he happier with his life now, just the same.

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


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  • Story: The Catfish and the Gem – 31/08/19

    Story: The Catfish and the Gem – 31/08/19

    There was a girl of nineteen years old, who had everything at her disposal, money and power flowing through her hands in her world. From the outside she was a type of a dictator, with her ordering around of others in her world, although inside she was warm and kind-hearted, she was a wonderful young girl. She needed to appear forceful and strong to those surrounding her, for they knew that it was a difficult task to be forever, fixed, in the world’s view. Her father was a great philanthropist, and did much for the world stage, and her exterior personality was the opposite of his personality to be viewed. Still, they enjoyed father-daughter time on the porch, with him in his rocking chair, and she perched precariously on her childhood rocking horse, and together they would share tales of their day, of what had been, together they smiled, giggled, commiserated, pondered on what the future day would bring.

    This girl, her name was Gemma, named aptly so because she was such a gem to her parents’ world, was a curious girl, although she’d been brought up in a wealthy world, she hadn’t had much opportunity to associate with boys, only other girls. This was because she had attended an all-girls boarding school for the entirety of her schooling life, only returning home during holidays to visit Mama and Papa, and little Rovie, her puppy who loved his exploring life. Because she had not been exposed to what the opposite sex was like, she felt somewhat unsure, perhaps inept, in dealing with them in real life. But she was an avid internet user, she enjoyed getting on the chat rooms and speaking with young and old, her favourite room was for Secret Billionaires, this title gave her a laugh and a half because often the users in the room were clearly catfishes wanting to earn some money to unfold.

    Their traits were fairly obvious: they’d only call out for older women or older men, because, presumably, these people were easier to trick into love, and fooling them into sharing their fortunes would be such a breeze. Another trait would be that the catfish would be very pushy in nature, wanting to exchange personal details so quickly, this could be viewable within the chatroom discourse, they didn’t give a damn if their motives were observed ever so freely. The talk of their being an illness in the family, of needing medicine, or money for continuing studies, other such things, these were the red flags, the warnings, that could be observable, too. The constant talk and chatter of how they loved the other, wanted to be with the other forever, that they just needed some time to get the money together, and would they help out? Because wasn’t that what love was all about? “Here’s my number for Western Union Transfer.”

    Gemma would giggle when she spotted a catfish in the room, it would amuse her to no end, all day, to view their silly little games that were always one and the same. Unsuccessful mostly, but saddened Gemma was when they hit a target, causing a potential future heartache, for someone who only wanted another to chat with. She always kept her mouth shut though, she didn’t interfere with the chase, there was no point policing these people, for, her wise words would go to waste. She had tried to expose several catfish in their time, but to no avail, she couldn’t help that the victims – two middle aged women and an elderly man – didn’t want to know of the truth, their endings were sad tales to unwind.

    So, Gemma had many online chat friends, mostly young men, her closest friends were Harry, George, Michael, Simon, and Steve, with her female friends being her close girls from her school, as well as acquaintances from the online world, they were Lucy, Abigail, and Maureen. They loved to have a general group chat online together, speaking of what it would be like, how great it would be if they all got together, had a pizza night and watched movies with great delight, and then outside, fell asleep looking at the stars, and rose warm from the risen sun. They enjoyed planning out activities they could do in reality, but in essence, these activities would never come to fruition with any ease. Because they all lived in different areas of the world, except for her girlfriends, and a couple of the online boys, their lives could potentially cross into Gemma’s real world.

    Her favourite boy to chat with was Bryce, she kept him secret from the others, he was her desired other, the one who she dreamed of spending her days with, a night of playful delights. Where they would sip cocoa, hold hands and gaze into each other’s eyes, searching for something that they had already known to be so, a love growing, building, each day, with the tapping of their fingers in the chat window, her heart did so grow. He was charming, witty, had great discourse, and knew how to flatter – she always blushed with his many compliments.

    He lived nearby to her, in the town over, but they had never crossed paths with each other, and before chatting, had never even heard of one another. This was rather strange, given that Gemma was well known, due to her father’s activities, and thus, her family name, but maybe Bryce led a sheltered life, and didn’t read any newspapers or magazines. She couldn’t, in essence, hold it against him that he didn’t know her name, that would be most arrogant to think that she should be perpetually heard of, known and seen. After all, she was simply a young girl, with a bossy exterior, who had a future bright and rich as could be. Simply speaking, this would be monetary, but she also was talented at many things.

    She dreamed of Bryce often, daydreamed of his online picture, he only had one, but she didn’t mind, he’d said that he had accidentally dropped his phone one evening out of the window of the car. He had tried to film the moving scene and suddenly slip! It came away from his hand, no longer there, a has been, and since then he had only been allowed by his parents to use a very old mobile phone with a terrible amount of pixels that it wasn’t worth him taking more pictures for Gemma to fondly own. She believed him, of course, for if it were a lie, what a terribly rubbish one it would be, a useless method of explanatory discourse.

    He didn’t have online social media accounts because he didn’t believe in following the trends, that wasn’t what Bryce was all about. He was about fluidity, anonymity, facelessness, freedom, he was an artist, his heart was overflowing, he wanted to capture the world in its essence and beauty, and Bryce said that Gemma was one of these, such a beautiful lovely thing. When she read these words, a smile flew upon her lips, a grinning, a delighting, a wondering at how he knew the words that she wanted to read. He seemed perfect to her, in every way, shape and manner, and she knew that soon, they would organise to meet each other.

    Yet when she brought up the idea, he seemed to shy away. He was happy to promise that one day they would meet, soon, one day, but she needed to be patient, he was going through some things, and thus, in his town he needed to stay. Although Gemma had the feeling that she should not ask, she did so reluctantly, and he replied that it was indeed better to not ask. A few minutes later though, Bryce seemed to crumble. He told her everything that was happening in his world. 

    His Auntie Lena was suffering from renal failure, they couldn’t afford the money for the thrice weekly visits to be worked on and monitored, they were trying to raise money online but to no avail, and it was terrible to have to ask others. He felt ashamed that he was begging others, mere strangers, to save her life, and this would be ongoing, the funding project would be continuing.

    Then, his father was suffering from major depression, every now and then he would attempt to take his life, and they only ever just caught him in the nick of time. His mother could barely cope with the responsibilities of being the sole earner, and looking after an ill partner, and caring for her sister Lena, her life was stressing her out.

    And here was young Bryce, in the middle of this hurricane, accepting the overwhelming emotions and pain that was what his life was currently about. In turn, Bryce now revealed that he suffered terrible anxiety at leaving the house at the best of times, in his late schooling years it had been so bad that he’d needed to be home schooled. Bryce was on the brink of a psychological melt-down, he could feel this happening to him, it was saddening to read, she really felt for him.

    Gemma knew that she could offer him help in the form of donation money, but she didn’t think that this was what he was currently seeking. What he wanted from her was implicit understanding. Besides, he knew that she was wealthy, if he wanted her assistance all he had to do was ask her, she would kindly and willingly provide plenty.

    With shock and sadness, Gemma had read his words, disbelieving at first, but then the reality started sinking in. How difficult it would be to be in Bryce’s shoes, in his world, when everything around him was crumbling? The instability of his life was quite obvious, and the ailing mental health of his immediate family was a struggle to absorbed by herself, she felt such pity for him, and what he was going through. She wanted to reach through the computer screen and hug him tightly, until he understood, until he knew, that she felt so deeply for him now, so much closer for sharing the intimate details of his life, it was appreciated, too. She wanted him to know she didn’t think badly of him at, despite what he was next to say.

    “I’ll bet you don’t want to be involved with someone like me,” he typed, the tone was definitely sorrowfully. “I’ll understand if you want to leave me alone, I wouldn’t want to talk to someone with problems like me?”

    “Not at all!” Gemma typed chirpily, bubbly, for she knew she needed to be upbeat for him. “This doesn’t change at all the way I think of you, in fact, I now feel closer to you instead.” He flashed five smiley faces upon the screen, it was their secret code, five was their favourite number, and his happiness was there to be known. They began to talk more frequently as he began to confide in her more often, then came the worst week, where he promised he would finally speak with her on the phone, and then when she rang, there was nobody there to speak.

    It just rang and rang, the call then cancelling itself, she didn’t know what to do, she had been looking forward to it for many hours. He wasn’t available online either, which was odd, but she returned to her day tasks of pretending to dictate to others what they should do in their daily grind, though inside she could feel a breaking of her love. For she had grown so close to Bryce with every single confided word he shared, she felt a part of his life, nothing was too much to take on, she knew she must continue to dare. To dare to be the best support she could be, Lord knew he didn’t have any others, let alone many, and whenever she heard the message alert, she opened it, there and willing, to listen to what Bryce would say, whatever the content was, of sorts.    

    Suddenly, her phone rang, private number. Curious this was, she never received blocked numbers. Yet she jumped up with a shock, grabbed the phone and answered, heavy breathing was obvious, within her she knew that it had to be Bryce, how could it not? But then a laughing in the background, growing louder and louder and louder: “We’ve got your number, we’ve got your details!” Her face contorted, she didn’t understand.

    “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

    “Ha ha,” they muttered, and then a click, no more. She placed the phone on the mantlepiece and desperately returned to the computer, needing to speak to Bryce now, he surely must be home.

    “Check your bank account,” a text message proclaimed as it arrived. With trembling fingers, she signed into the app, with dismay in her chest, and despair in her eyes. As she watched the numbers drop from millions into cents, she wondered who could be so cruel to have done this to her, what did this mean, what was meant? Had Bryce betrayed her? Hers was after all, a very secure private number, and she hadn’t given it out to anyone who didn’t need it, in fact, only a few people held it. It seemed mighty strange that mere days after swapping numbers that this would happen, and now her fortune was dwindling, now, gone, completely away, and she had no one to talk with about it, to confide, of who or where, or what to say. Another text message arrived, and she dreaded to think what it enclosed.

    “You’ve been catfished by the Almightiest of Catfish, the one and only Ghost. Nice knowing ya,” it rounded off, with five smiley faces, and now she understood, it was known. Aside from monetary, she knew not of “Bryce’s” other motives, whoever he really was, but it was with great sadness that she knew this would affect her ability to trust. What was the point in caring for others when it could all be a sham? She threw her laptop upon the concrete, smashing it into pieces, of her online life, she no longer gave a damn. She would live in the real world, she wold educate others of what can happen when you least expect it, and by goodness would she share her embarrassing story so others wouldn’t have to experience other versions of it. And when her father would ask about the activities of her days, how did they unfold? She would share, with great seriousness, that she had educated potential victims and made them learned of the dangers of the online world.

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


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  • Story: Gran’s Wise Words – 30/08/19

    Story: Gran’s Wise Words – 30/08/19

    “Sometimes, in life, you have to cut some people off,” explained Gran, as we sat by the hearth of the warm winter’s fire. “I know it will hurt you, and the discomfort of the paining will be present probably for quite some time, but don’t ignore that yearning. For the sorrow that accumulates from the loss of that friendship, which needed to be ended, for whatever reason or reasons, you will experience it deeply, you will know it. Acknowledge and cherish your fond memories with that person or persons but know, inherently in your bones made you feel that this is right path to take, that it is so, they should be forgotten.”

    “But what about if they attempt to make amends, to come running back to my arms?” I asked. “Surely I should think of forgiveness, allow them another chance?” Gran shook her head sadly and replied, “No, darling, no, these people have continually let you down in recent times, they’ve forgotten your worth, your liveliness, your place in their lives, only thinking of more important others, you don’t want to be a second fleeting choice. Everyone around you is building up, or has built up their lives, and it just so happens that you are no longer privy, no longer permissible, or worthy, to view what is in their lives now, their interiors, their insides. And don’t feel disappointed or saddened, this is simply a method of their thoughtless abandonment, and cannot be helped, others’ actions you cannot control.” I sat there, stroking my chin, thinking to myself, how wise is Gran, how much of the world she must have experienced and seen, because but minutes before I was sobbing into my cupped hands, wondering why it was that I was being cast aside by certain people in my life, who no longer seemed to care.

     “These people, your former friends – for that is what they’ve gone and labelled themselves as – may have been there for you in great times of distress. When your heart and mind were aching, needing support in many forms, they were there. They held your hand, they guided you, cared for you, but it was not one sided, so too were you there for them, too. You provided a capacity all of your own, maybe different in nature to their support but you were always there, willing to listen, of your positive intents the others had known.

    But with time some friendships wear away, grow thin, like overworn fabric they become thinner and thinner still until you can view the weft, you can see the structure, and with gaps in places, the result is a saddening picture. Still, you can try to use this, this barren group of threads, but soon there will be a tear here, a tear there, then falling apart between your fingers will the weaves as you sadly stare. That’s much like a friendship falling apart, if I do say so myself, but really, try to cease your concerns, lessen your care, protect your heart.”

    My bottom lip began to waver as I remembered a certain memory, of us sitting by a lake by the pond, as I consumed my skinny vanilla latte so freely. And with the other sitting by my side, we chatted about many things, this was my friend, so close to me, now far away, I’m ignored so obviously. What point was there in listening to the strings of my heart when they were aching, to think about my friend or friends when they were never contacting or calling, we have grown apart, I’ve been cast aside on the shelf, and there was nothing to do that would repair it to how we used to be, clever together, and birds of a feather. Now we were worlds apart, and I resented this, greatly so, it made me angered, and suddenly hot tears began to flow. I thrashed around, punching the carpet with my bare fists, hurting myself in the process, but Gran grabbed me and begged me to think.

    “Do not hurt yourself, do not allow them, in their absence, to hurt you. There’s nothing further you can do, you’ve contacted them with no reply, not even a simply goodbye, a formal adieu. You weren’t even afforded the respect to have the friendships ended because, it’s easier for someone just to drift away, and think, ‘Well, we just grew apart, we’re all busy, blah, blah, just because.’”

    I ceased my sobbing and became stronger, firmer, sat up straighter and made my eyes bright and alert.

    “You are right, you have always been. This is my test, to be strong and not to feel hurt. I can allow myself to over feel, I allow myself to be affected negatively, but now I really must deal, these facts are blatant and true, they don’t want me as a friend, and neither do I want them, too. It’s good that I know how they feel, portrayed by their silences, fleeting methods of contact, or simply nothing for months, nothing at all. At least I know where I stand, and I choose to stand away from them, I will feel good this day and every day. They will not dampen my spirits or will.”

    And so I pulled out my photo albums, going through the pages one by one, removing them from my visual memories, until they were neither here nor there, there wasn’t a remaining image, not a single one. In my heart and in my mind I decided to wipe the pains away, and lock the happy memories away, hide them behind a cast iron door where I couldn’t view them easily again, doing what they had done to me, easily casted me aside.

    “You’ve done well, my darling,” my gran said, her hand rubbing my back, ever so calming. “You’ll know soon that you’ve made the right decision.”

    “I already know so this second of the day. My will along with your know-how, has helped me greatly today.”

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


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  • Story: Graham the Muscle Man – 30/08/19

    Story: Graham the Muscle Man – 30/08/19

    Graham the Muscle Man adored impressing the ladies.  Whether it was through his bulging, well defined physique, or his suave manner, when he murmured his sweet nothings to them, in a manner of eloquent speech, or his fetching red swimmers, known as red budgie smugglers, Graham was able to draw positive female attention wherever he went, women flocked to him, their feet pounding on the pavement.

    Graham spent a large portion of his life at gym. To him, looking good was very important to him. It was nothing to do with having a healthy body and a healthy life; it was all a means to satisfy his desire to be viewed of as a delectable prize. You see, Graham was somewhat in love with his image and himself, his loving understanding of his life, unintelligent words about him would not suffice, for he knew he was clever, wise, attractive, well built, and most of all, kind.

    Although he would always draw these women in, by standing on the beach, or in a park, subtle flexing his muscles so they could be greatly seen, he was also rather fond of impressing in the evening, the very dark mean streets. He always remained hydrated so he could take advantage of vascularity, when one’s superficial veins were so well hydrated that the muscles appeared to be further bulging. This meant more attention to his immodest self, this was what he wanted to be experience more and more then – with a shriek a group of women down the street called out, “There he is! Graham has been sighted, Graham of you I have seen!” The women rushed down from the brush and car park, and upon the sand they did now land. With a secret smirk, Graham knew he was famous to these women, that he was somehow well known to them.

    “Can I have a hug??” one lady begged. “I don’t even care that I’ll get your fake tan upon me shirt and pants, I can change when I get home, I’d rather wear these stained with your vivacious shade of yours!”

    “Why, of course,” he replied, now very modest. He needed to keep up a sense of pretence. Respectable and knowledgeable were separate things, but being narcissistic and in love with oneself was frowned upon by society, even though this is the way that most of us are operating, or at least how society itself is currently being portrayed, our visual media upbringing. It was as though it is a free for all, look after all features of your appearance: cosmetic, invasive, clothing short, sharp, snappy, the perfect job, life, pet, children, that everything is something to aspire to, can’t we always be happy with what we have, with what we already knew?

    She grabbed him tightly, wrapped her clammy mitts upon his back. “I’m sorry for sweating, it’s a nervous reaction. I want to get it looked at,” she said, trailing off. “One of my best friends told me I’d never meet a man with my excessive sweating problem, yet here I am with you!” He noticed she wore  a brooch-pin with his face upon it with a large decorative button. He smiled at her dedication.

    The other three women from the group, also giddy, wanted a hug, and a firm squeeze of his biceps, and potentially another all over look, because they knew they would never meet such an attractive man again, especially not one who graced the cover of many romance books. For Graham was a model, he enjoyed being on covers of much loved novels, read by many a woman and men, but mostly daydreaming women who loved the sense of escapism. Romance covers allowed him to meet other women and impress them with his well sculpted physique, and commence conversation with them in the hopes that once comfortable they’d like to grab something to eat. But the current view of the situation is this: they only wanted to be friends, for they felt that Graham was romantically interested in men, not women, and this was how their thought processes went. These thoughts were obviously incorrect, and incredibly remiss.

    Just because he was a giggling gossip, a man who loved to look after his body, look utterly fantastic, what did it matter if he highlighted his effeminate, pixie-like features with a thin face of makeup, besides, he knew that inside he would find The One eventually though, his search need not be pressured or drastic. But if most of these women automatically assumed he wasn’t interested in them, how was he meant to find a lady of his own, on his own volition? It was like he was going through a sort of enforced human condition, where he had to prove himself to them, that he would be a willing member of a relationship, a loving participant.

    But for now, he would draw the attentions and eyes of the women all around, perhaps he would change his attire, remove the makeup, smile more and lesser of his contemplative momentary frowns, and now that he was joyous always, he was able to draw the ongoing attentions of females in every way, something which he had wondered if he was able to do, be, or even say. With each random meeting, he knew love was closer to finding to him its way.

    On the beach one day, he decided to roll and roll in the sand. He didn’t care that he was covered with tanning oil and lotion that would cause the grains to stick upon him in every way, not a thin layer, but thickly instead. He giggled to himself as he felt himself being coated as though a piece of crumbed chicken, laughing and laughing, he could feel his mood lifting. Why should it matter how many women he could and would and had impressed, there was nothing malleable to take from those experiences except that he was attractive and well wanted. It spoke of nothing of his character, zero point to his personality, and then he realised that what truly mattered was that he be himself, not worry about the superficial, there was nothing further left to ponder. Over loving yourself can be a terrible disease.

    So, he returned to the gym, asked for a week and a half off from membership payments, then at work, handed in his notice of resignation. He had always hated this job, and now he absolutely loathed it, so despite being told never to quit until one had a newer position, he wanted to be free of obligation, so he made the decision, the choice, to become available to what life would determine.
    “Throw at me what you will!” he dared the gusting breeze, the sun filtering through the trees, the clouds moving so slowly yet very, very freely. He enrolled in a yoga and meditation retreat, where they were not allowed to speak for ten days – the length of the retreat – and were only permitted to speak on the inside as though permanently introspective.

    Here Graham found himself, his centre, his core, of who and what he truly was. He was not a showy being only intent of showing his body off. There was more to him than others viewed and this was important to be known, this information was never meant to be suppressed or misused, but he wanted to keep it carefully tucked away, upon a hidden message, stored at home. He didn’t want his true vulnerabilities to be shown, that he was an ostentatious man actually disguising a gentleness unknown to the women.

    Now he operated in a manner so very modest, he was dressed well, his skin was scrubbed clean of fake tan, and his hair styled appropriately for the age group of 28-35, Graham was now an improved and less showy man. Now he was free to life his life, and perhaps, in a strange occurrence, he would meet his future wife. Who knows? Sometimes pigs could fly.

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


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  • Creative Nonfiction: Today’s Thoughts and Mood: A Truthful Account – 29/08/19

    Creative Nonfiction: Today’s Thoughts and Mood: A Truthful Account – 29/08/19

    I think it’s time that I write how I feel today, a truthful account, that I will put to my name. Everything seems hopeless, I feel as though I’m nothing, not worthy of anything positive, to be written down, nothing joyous or amazing. Nothing can cheer me, it seems as though today’s sharply crested waves have a purpose, a method, a direction in which they’d like to dangerously steer me, the rocky cliff seems their chosen way. My emotions overwhelm as though thick ponderous clouds, blocking any view of sunlight that could ever be discerned, to be found. A murky suppressant internally and I feel as though I’m about to break, I can’t snap myself out of this misery, I’m so miserable, why? Oh, for goodness’s sake!

    I shouldn’t need a reason to feel this way, not when I’m usually so buoyant, happy-go-lucky, on my usual positive days, where I’d listen to others, have myself listened to in return, smiles, laughter, snide witty comments, and now of myself, you’re beginning to learn. But there are some of you who don’t need to hear of the personality behind the words, my subtle gearing, my choice smile as I witness something hilarious or absurd. However, today is one of my worse days, and I haven’t experienced anything of the like in a very long while, this ill-tempered mood seems intent on hanging around, without being useful, no fun, no method or style of any visible or felt enjoyment for now let alone for a long while.

    It’s like I am sinking into a bog, a quagmire, of heavily thickened emotions that are dragging me under, and little loose arms and greedy hands are grasping at handfuls of my hair, pulling me down, pulling me towards them, over there. Where I can easily sob with my mood, enveloped in this thick, ill fitting stew, that envelopes my body, sucks it right in with ease, as though it feels like I’m decidedly yummy. That this pit, this cesspool, is filled with darkened, painful emotions, and having myself sucked in, the vast pit now sucks me dry, of anything positive or hopeful, now nothing positive is lurking. I can only sit here, arms folded, mud right to my neck, a scowl of sadness upon my face, when will my forced positive thoughts begin to start working?

    I know I am bad company to others, feeling like this, I know I am useless, so to speak, at bringing the prior happiness out from within me, I simply wish to be myself again, but how to reach that peak? Everything seems a downer, a drainer, a weight upon my shoulders, every little thing has stacked upon one another to create a mountain of heavy, immovable, impassable things. My path of least resistance is to simply remain saddened, I know that if I wanted to, I could try to forget my worries and my pains, and become, although forced, but decidedly more gladdened.

    Whatever happened to being grateful for the things in the world that are positive for us? I cannot, will not, allow myself, to think of this path, although I know that later it will be a must. Otherwise, I will remain in this bog, sinking, sinking, into my ill thoughts and paining dreams, wondering why it is me that is the one suffering, what have I done wrong, nothing! I wish to be positively seen, not viewed of as a negative being.

    So, here ends this account, of my trying day, I’m sure others are suffering far more, but I cannot make any comment without having heard of their trying times, an encouraging, loving comment I will most certainly one day throw your way. But understand that my account was simply a means to an end, a method of catharsis, a type of expulsion, I hope that you understood my ailing, and that perhaps you’ll provide me a comforting smile or thought one day, perhaps these thoughts are worth further exploring.

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


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