Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: short story

  • Prose: The Message, Unheard – 06/09/21

    Prose: The Message, Unheard – 06/09/21

    Words unfold upon my screen, toppling, clamouring over themselves, fighting to be seen.
    I’m important,
    no, my message is of the utmost importance,
    let me be heard,
    while the most relevant one relaxes away, folded arms.

    Its words are the most likely to go unnoticed; its is the voice of reason, the truth you don’t want to see, but it lingers, to the side, presence important, but not impinging. Just there, whiling away time, until you become most aware.

    It is the truth that, once realised, you wish to deny, for accepting it, and following through with action will only lead to temporary suffering, and really, who wants this now? Who needs pain, even if it only lasts for a version of ‘now’? But what I must come to terms with, is that the behaviours I’m experiencing, being exposed to, are exceedingly on repeat, with only mere weeks of interlude. The same insistent melody cranking in strange intonations that ultimately are the same cacophony. And can I live with this pattern my entire life, should I endure the same tired push?

    The Message smirks at me from the side, its curled upper lip making me uncomfortable, wanting to run and hide, for if I squirm away now, I can ignore the obvious path ahead, and I won’t need to encounter it. I can deal with excuses, revelations away from the Message’s thread. Then I won’t need to lie in bed pondering how the future will be, if I take this step, make this step, because I haven’t been able to cease that cacophony. The melody, discordant though relevant, which made me feel good, but in the end, was only for another end to be achieved.

    And I know this, knew this, always can see, but receive with casual measures, never openly giving in return because, I don’t play games of affection, with insistent interjection, impinging on one’s direction, I need to cease the received indelicate actions. Is it time to finally learn? That there is no improvement, no learning from my words. There is no ceasing of expectation, lingering there, the Message needs to be heard. I pull my socks high, place my feet into my boots, stridently meet the Message, face its obvious truths. I lean in to one side, allow it to whisper its keen observations. With pride, it straightens its back, chest thrown forward, it has been heard, has been acknowledged, that is a fact. My expression, stunned, I have been made aware of what to do. Whether I choose to use its knowledge or not, is up to me to choose…
     
    Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
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    Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

  • Prose Poetry: The Stormy Sky – 28/03/20

    Prose Poetry: The Stormy Sky – 28/03/20

    I sit by my window and stare at the sky. There is nothing more beautiful in this very moment that I can capture, nothing else which can cause my heart to swell with appreciation. The clouds, they gather in wisps and blobs – light though, they are – they have this sort of moodiness about them, this white and grayness culminating in the distance.

I am pleased with my seated position, for here I can observe that which I wish to, the land of kingdoms above, and the land below, that which we are blessed to walk upon. I smile to myself at knowing that one day, I will be permitted to enter the kingdom above, a knowledge that makes me feel such warmth inside, I cannot adequately describe the feeling. 

Thus, I relax, and observe, and suddenly two gulls pass by and through my vision. The sea is such a calming place, even when the wind is gusting and the nearby sand dunes are throwing speckles of sand onto the skin of my face, I still can appreciate it, I am glad that I live here. These gulls are a sign of hope: they are out foraging, no doubt. They are alive and well, just as we are, within our isolated worlds. It is a necessity to be alone sometimes, and I know that this precious time can be taken to understand and hold gratitude toward everything positive presented to me in life. Even the negative, I surmise, because these experiences have taught me lessons.

I continue to stare at the sky, the clouds now gathering angrily: cumulus, fierce, dark. It is as though they are forewarning of a time when my mind will grow stormy, the thoughts clouded in my crammed mind. Sometimes there are too many, they stagnate within my skull, washing away the peace and tranquillity which was originally there to be felt and observed.

And suddenly, through the open pane, the first smell of rain permeates into my nostrils, that deep soil-like odour, mixed with the humidity of the pavement. I relish this scent; I have cherished it from years prior, during my childhood where it reminded me of the pre-empting of some of the most glorious and appreciated downpours ever to be seen. I wish to dance in the rain, you see. Unfortunately, this cannot be.

Instead, I watch a new pair of birds soar and duck and dive, their forms so delightfully wonderful, streamlined and sheer perfection. Sometimes I wish I were one of those birds, if only for a moment. I could fly to my heart’s content, and never feel the need to further understand my yearning for it. But in a few seconds, they are gone, and I am left with their vision in my mind’s eye. Their freedom mimics that which beats within my heart, a desire, a yearning, for freedom outside the closed doors.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.   
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay 

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  • Flash Fiction: Poison in a Land So Sweet – 01/11/19

    Flash Fiction: Poison in a Land So Sweet – 01/11/19

    I lay myself down in that quiet meadow that exists only within my mind. I rest back, against the soft, pillowy grass and I allow myself to keep. To become at one with the scene, the beautiful sunset, the sublimely coloured horizon; it is so glorious, and I know it’s only for me. I bask in the wonder, treating my eyes, my amazed orbs to swell and brighten as the light slowly changes, the atmosphere darkening, into the dusk of the afternoon. And I lay here waiting, for you to come soon. I lie in wait, for your presence, to keep me safe.

    There is nothing to fear in this landscape, for I have created it all on my own, but I wish for you, I call for you, to visit at least, or perhaps to return here and decide to call this home. A land in which you and I can exist, with love and soft-spoken dexterity, our hands, their movements, clutching each other’s, are not at all amiss. We grasp our attentive and longing outstretched hands, linking also arm in arm. But, my love, you have not come, will you ever arrive?

    My careful eyes watch for you, I know you won’t leave me alone for too long.

    But in trots an arrogant fool, one who does not belong in my precious landscaped scene, nothing to compare with you, because he is too proud, he is too haughty, yet I am confused, do I pay attention to him or ignore him completely? After all, it seems far too rude to dismiss another, even though he seems rough and overly boisterous and showy. I am not in the practice of being rude, I dislike the practice and behaviour greatly. So, I make eye contact with this buffoon, who is lauding himself throughout my delicious scene, trampling on the flowery neighbourhood, and I, close to rolling my eyes, acknowledge him if but for only a few seconds. I do not want to encourage him, to have you feeling my eyes treating you as seconds.

    Oh, how he prances, how he dances, before me, his masculinity screams for my attention, begs for it more and more, until I cannot help myself, I start to laugh, he’s amusing, and this encourages him some more. And then suddenly, you appear from the corner of my eye, from behind a dense bush, and your eyes scream betrayal; I cannot do anything but fumble: I wasn’t moved by him, I want to scream, I wasn’t moved at all, not a little. Yet my heart, how it now aches, at having hurt you in a manner unintended, I am filled with guilt, while the buffoon stands to attention, smiling widely, grinning with obvious pride bursting from inside. He guffaws at the problems he has advertently caused me through amusing and entertaining me with his wiles, and all the while he remains there, cocksure, boastful, pride-filled – of him I am reviled.

    I reach for you, but it is too late, you tell me I have made my choice and it is time for you to dissipate. With tears forming in my eyes, you melt back into the horizon, never again to be seen, in this fantasy of mine, you are now gone. You were my only delicate and sweetened portion. I weep for you, but this buffoon has proven his method: a rapid and obvious sabotaging poison.

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


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  • Fiction: The Arachnid Queen’s Deadly Songs – 27/10/19

    Fiction: The Arachnid Queen’s Deadly Songs – 27/10/19

    The Arachnid Queen weaves a web of delicate songs and spells, but this caster is known for causing perils in great a-many tales. While she crawls and creates, she plots the doom, of those unfortunate souls, lurking, unawares, waiting for her in the privacy of a stifling room. How she struts in toward them, turning this way and that, because while her spindly arachnid form is anything beyond compare, she doesn’t believe in being visually poignant, compliant nor aware.

    No, she prizes her spinning ability above them all, to be the black widow in the tales of those whom happen to helplessly trip and fall beneath her multitude of feet. She glances down at them acting so feebly – she will wrap them slowly, it will amuse her greatly, don’t you understand? It’s all so plain to see!

    And she’ll continue to lure them in like the easy prey, victims that they are, only known for wanting to be seduced by something that they secretly fear but cannot draw themselves any further from, neither walk nor run further, because her songs, the lyrics, they draw them in, such lilting, sweetly sung tunes, like the sirens pulling in the sailors to their deaths, she drags them in with such fine musicality, her deadly cadences are anything but folly.

    Would any rise above the Queen’s misdeeds? Would a victor arise, to avoid his encasing, future suffocating wrapping, simply because for the wrong being he had fallen with ease? Nothing is proven in this measure, they are all mesmerised — ears, hearts and minds — seduced by her warbling spells, until one rather bland evening the sign of the Jackal is cast across the skies: something important surely is about to befall them all.

    While the Queen lazily sits upon her throne, casually singing rhymes, tunes, trills, arpeggios, a hero-in-the-making spots his chance to escape to freedom of his own. A tear in his casing, close to his left hand, my, the Queen’s error in weaving here is uncomfortably astounding, and with a quiet ripping with his thumb he frees himself. But he will not yet leave – he refuses to do so, not without assisting the other captives in the saddening scene.

    And now here is the perfect opportunity; the Arachnid Queen has lulled herself to sleep, the devil in the details, why, they are already being seen, and with a few slashes here and there, the men escape to freedom, with the snoozing Queen entirely unaware. She will awaken with rage, I promise you this, it will be of complete and utter disrepair, and awaken the entirety of her captive kingdom.

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


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  • Story: A Race With Conniving Emu of the Bush – 26/10/19

    Story: A Race With Conniving Emu of the Bush – 26/10/19

    “I can’t fly? Well, I’ll be damned!” the bushy emu said to me. With a squawk and a wink he ran past me with great ease, a bush sprinter as proud as can be.

    He then returned quickly as he could.

    “What do you say to a little race?” he suggested coercively, “The winner gets to sample all the fine tastes of the Bush’s delicacies.”

    I wracked my brains for what these delicacies could be and whether they would suit my palette, but after understanding that this emu was offering up fruits and seeds, I was pleased as punch to verse this bird who carried upon his face such a cheeky permanent grin as his habit.  

    “Ready, set,” he uttered, and before saying “Go” he sprinted away from the scene, the dust billowing in my widened eyes, shocked at the audacity of this bird which had just been seen.

    Still, I began the race after fairly uttering my version of the starter’s “Go”, and ran and ran as fast as my tiny little human legs could push me forth, struggling as I had never ever known.

    But on my path, I noticed the Emu of the Bush; he had fallen down, sprained his ankle. He was flat on his toosh. I was horrified, he looked in such pain. If I were an untoward being I could have continued on with the race, being the reigning victor without any complaint.

    However, I was not of that type, I was empathetic to his plight, and from my backpack I carried everywhere, I removed my first aid kit, removed a bandage and upon his ankle it was tightly applied.

    Tentatively he stood, gingerly on his sore foot, but then with a grin, he realised he could still run with some ease. And off he trotted, ahead of me, towards the end of the race’s scene.

    I was devastated, I could barely lift my jaw from the floor, but I resumed my style of a slow human run, impeded by a sense of an ego made sore. Again, I spotted him having fallen by the side of the path but this time I wouldn’t, did not stop, and through the discussed ending of the race did I reach with a victorious laugh.

    It was only then that Emu caught up, fossicked in the brush for my prize: a large handful of small stones known as gizzard stones, which assisted emus with grinding up their meals.

    It seemed that today both of us had been taught a lesson or two.

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


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  • Story: The Hot Air Balloon – 16/09/19

    Story: The Hot Air Balloon – 16/09/19

    See this giant hot air balloon? my darling asked of me. It’s all yours for the morning, he smiled.

    Me? What about us? I queried. He wanted me to enjoy myself wholly and without distraction.

    But darling, you are not by any means a distraction, why, you are my star attraction.

    He blushed deep crimson now, rarely was he used to receiving compliments, mainly playful little cute insults which he knew were full of love and meant nothing of which others would use them as.

    Run along now, he urged me, run along and have some fun, enjoy yourself. I’d never been in a hot air balloon before. I had always come up with some excuse: too expensive, I would have to awaken too early, it would be too cold, what if the weather turned dreary? And other some such, or whatnot, excuses which masked the true reason: a fear of flying.

    I’ll be right here, he reassured me, pointing to the grassy knoll by the evergreen trees. I’ll be reading and researching, it’s important I do so, but I’ll be watching out for you.” He reached forth, pulled me into his grasp, placed his lips full upon mine, passionately. Surprised at his action, I withdrew slightly, then warmed to his embrace. I melted into him because it was rare we expressed ourselves physically.

    Thank you, my love, for thinking of me, I said and reluctantly extracted myself from his grasp.

    The hot air balloon operator was incredibly kind. He could see I was tremble profusely, that my hands could barely hold onto the edge of the basket which held us as we ascended into the perfectly blue sky, tinged with coloured clouds that twinkled with differing shades in our eyes.

    It’s okay, he said reassuringly. First trip in the air? he inquired with a warm smile.

    First trip in the air in anything, I replied, I’ve not even been in a plane. What got me the most was the noise as we rose, I was frightened but I knew there was nothing to be afraid of. Balloon accidents were very rare, and this operator seemed to know his methods and flying to a tee. I glanced down at my love, he was reading on his phone, making notes in a pad to his right, his mind set upon certain equations and problematic formulas all of his own. I called to him, waving and attempting a false smile. He looked up, delighted that I was enjoying myself and fervently waved back.

    Then, something seemed wrong, there was more strength from the flames which allowed us to rise, we were on an errant path, rocking from side to side. With horror I looked up and realised that the lower flames from the burner had extended far past where they were meant to be and were situated up near the exit hole of the balloon, exposing the likely flammable material to excessive heat, now what could I do? I was too high in the air to jump, but above it showed that we were going to fall anyway, what could I do but scream for my love, to tell him how I felt once more, before I might become gone, gone, gone, away my life would go, crushed or flown away.

    I shrieked for him to hear above the burners that scolded the air for listening on its firm intent on destruction, I stared at his bowed head and willed him to raise it, to captured my attentions, but I could smell the acrid scent now, a certain plastic-like melting odour in the air, then a rapid whoosh, and away we dropped, into a group of sharp, gnarled bushes.

    I heard him scream my name in the background of the silence which was the result of our inevitable, heard him breaking through the bracken of the bushes, clawing to see if I was alive, for himself. The operator and I were shocked beyond belief, he now was shaking, his hands trembling, telling me over and over,

    This has never happened before, this has never happened under my attentions, it has never happened before.

    My love finally reached us, I was not damaged, but I was frightened beyond repair.

    Oh, my sweet, how did this happen on my watch, my choice, I’m so glad you are here, alive, I will never leave you again, remain by my side. I am so sorry, for this stupid, idiotic choice, in leaving you in there without me. I am glad this operator was there to guide the balloon down somewhat safely.

    After helping out myself and the man from the wreckage, my love and I walked away from the scene which never would cease to amaze me. So thankful I am that he was there keeping watch, but never again shall I ride into the air, no matter within what contraption, not even under another expert’s watch.

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


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  • Story: Mrs Marmalade – 15th September 2019

    Story: Mrs Marmalade – 15th September 2019

    Mrs Marmalade was known as such because she liked to have marmalade as the main ingredient for her lunch. Not only that, but it was the same for her tea, and breakfast might I add, of course, Mrs Marmalade would agree. She held a great love, a fondness for this condiment, jars and jars filled her cupboards, to fetch more was not required, stockpiled they were, of her house she hardly ever left!

    My, was she ravenous, for this delightfully sweet and zesty treat, that in actual fact I will tell you the truth, the only ingredient was this sweet preserve for her meals. She didn’t mind only consuming the sweetness, never had she recalled missing savouries, because this woman only needed one item on her grocery list. Do you get the point, do you understand, that even though she was risking malnutrition she was adamant at only consuming this condiment similar to jam? She couldn’t help it, but she’d never admit it was an addiction, poor Mrs Marmalade didn’t understand that this was a dangerous predilection. Her teeth were nearly all rotten, she could barely chew the zest without experiencing overwhelming pain, yet she would not make an appointment with the dentist; last time she’d presented, he’d told her to throw all her jars of marmalade away!

    “Preposterous!” she had yelled. “Why would I do such a thing?” He sadly told her if she continued eating only marmalade her teeth would soon need to be removed rather than replaced with fillings, and given dentures that were uncomfortable and wieldy. But she had not listened, and a pain was present basically in every single tooth, she couldn’t afford the dental service for dentures, but she knew what to do. When it came to having tooth aches, she knew that the first line of advice was to eat soft foods, and my goodness, didn’t she have that in excess: her marmalade was the best item to consume! How she laughed to herself as she continued to eat her favourite delicious item, her delectable treat. What would she do in the future though, who would hold her hand as her teeth either fell out or were yanked out by the dentist man? She didn’t care about the future, for now she was too happy to give a damn.

    And so, she continued living only on the condiment, her teeth continued rotting away, she didn’t notice though, for she took pain killers to ease the growing pain. She continued to order her treats online, on the supermarket website. She didn’t need to leave the house at all, no judgement would anyone pass for the massive amounts of jars she had to have delivered by freight.

    The potential ending of Mrs Marmalade’s tale is not all that sweet, in fact, it is fraught with disaster, because over time, quickly, her tooth ache peaked. The cavities and gums throbbed with great insistence, and soon there came a time where she couldn’t even chew the softened zest of her favourite treat. Saddened, she knew she must return to the dentist, where he was shocked, horrified, to see the damage she’d allowed to develop when she avoided seeing him regularly.

    “You knew I asked you to return late last year, why didn’t you, Mrs Marmalade? Now I have to remove nearly all of your teeth, because you refused to e more aware.” He could talk to her in this tone because they were old family friends, but she didn’t’ appreciate being addressed in this manner, so she built up a wall of defence.

    “If you don’t speak to me nicely, I’ll just leave and eat more marmalade!” she threatened.

    “Please yourself,” he said with a shrug, “but I’d better remove your rotten teeth to save the few others while you’ve still got them.” Excruciating though the pain was, once they were removed, she felt so much lighter and less in pain. She thanked the dentist and went home again to do what? Exactly what she always did, and wasn’t this a crying shame. Some people never learn their lessons and Mrs Marmalade was a perfect example. Her addiction to this sickeningly sweet treat was her failing, and she felt no need for behavioural correction. 

    Nowadays, Mrs Marmalade is the proud owner of a set of perfect dentures. The dentist felt sorrow for her and fund-raised until he’d had enough to aid her. Mrs Marmalade enjoys them because they’re perfect for appearance, but easy to remove when it comes time to eat. There is no worrying about whether her teeth with suffer, because, with the dentures out of her mouth, she can eat all day, throughout all meals, without any chance of decay, no need to suffer! She can consume her delights from morning to supper.

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


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  • Story: The Fantastical Court Jester – 14/09/19

    Story: The Fantastical Court Jester – 14/09/19

    The fantastical court jester had a multitude of skills. Though he felt that life and himself were a cruel joke, he still amused those in the court as he was willed to. He threw up a rabbit from a hat, danced with his feet flung up and down this way and that, he grabbed the sparkling stars and the moon from wherever he could, out of thin air, and then  he would throw them into the area where the King and Queen and Princess were watching with a great sense of enjoyment, yet the parents still projected an air of judgement. Because they couldn’t act too impressed, they needed the court jester to know that he always was required to up his game, as they do say. To perfect his show, better each time, with more elaborate skills and tricks, while the King and Queen quietly sipped their glasses of red wine.

    The princess, though, utterly divine she was, was forever exuberant about his skills. Though, secretly, just between yourselves and I, the Princess had a great crush on this fantastical court jester who didn’t really appreciate his wretched life. And how could he, where he was hired as a mere spectacle, there to amuse and be laughed at, by beings in the court who he felt were buffoons who liked to belittle him. Princess never said a thing about her secret love for him because she knew that nothing could come of it, besides she was already promised to Lord Chive. She hated that obnoxious boy, yet her mother and father had picked him as her future husband because his family had much wealth hidden and also on display. They didn’t shy away from living the life of extroverted billionaires, and this fact made the King and Queen feel very pleased with their selection, of their daughter’s future man.

    Still, Princess dreamed of her jester, his smiling face, his painted, decorated eyelids, his twinkling bells on his costumes that when heard, caused her tingles and shudders, in the only good constructionist way that was known how. A tingle here was enough to make her heart leap and bound, and cause an ache deep within her stomach that no food could appease. She needed to view his shows again, over and over, because he was her living drug, the thing she most desired. How much she hated that wretched Lord Chive for being promised as her man for the rest of her life, why, she was only nineteen, she had eyes, ears, a heart and mind, surely, she could select for herself. She would choose her ironic court jester, who had recently been catching her eyes.

    The jester wondered whether there was something going on with the Princess, for she stared at him with such hunger and intent. It wasn’t as though he was undressing before her, to a tight bodysuit to showcase his pasty skin, but with bulging muscles and a well-built chest. Occasionally he caught her stares, when he dared to look at her beauty which he’d just realised was there, a wide-eyed glance into her brown docile eyes and slowly, over time, during his shows, he, too, began to fall in love. Before each show he would be nervous now, whereas before he couldn’t give a damn, prior to this, a show was just a show, but with a special audience who actually appreciated his skills, and perhaps more of him, he felt a warmth in his heart that made him fulfilled.

    Then, one morning, when the court jester was ready to perform, he took a deep breath and walked before the King, Queen, and daughter. He was wearing a brand-new outfit, selected especially to please the princess, he wore hearts plastered all over his front and his back. And as he danced slowly, sensually, catching the princess’s eyes often, the King and Queen were outraged, they couldn’t believe this treason!

    “What on earth is going on?” demanded the King. “I want to know right now!” Suddenly, the jester snapped to, what was he doing here in this love-suit? What on earth had possessed him to create and wear such a thing, when he knew that his feelings for Princess needed to remain hidden? He was just a mere jester, a slave of entertainment, nothing but a speck of dust in the eyes of someone as noble and wealthy as Prince Chive. Abashed, embarrassed and mortified, the jester hung his head, apologised profusely and walked off the stage, proceeding to cry. He wailed and wailed and wailed, knowing that he’d likely be dismissed, into their lands of the forest, where those who committed criminal acts against the royal family lived. The last time he would see his beloved princess had already occurred, it had passed, and her facial expression of confusion mixed with acceptance and love for his visual love proclamation would be what remained in his mind, forever there to be drawn upon and observed.

    But, the jester was not banished to the forest, instead he was locked up in the dungeons. Which would be a worse ending? he wondered to himself. Still, at least he could see his princess; every morning she snuck into the chambers of prisoners, and fed him her elaborate and rich breakfasts which she’d refused herself. There she told him of her love, which had blossomed before he even realised, of how his irony at life and means of still projecting happiness were what drew her to him. He would then share his brightened realisations, the moments that he knew she loved him for him, and the moment that he decided to proclaim his true feelings with the heart-suit, before the Queen and King.

    Eventually, the jester was freed, and was allowed to remain in the castle. Instead though, he was assigned a different role, and it was within the kitchen, deep in the mass of passageways, where King and Queen believed their daughter wouldn’t find him. The reason they kept him in the castle was a very simple fact: once he had received enough punishment for his behaviour, he could return to his jester role, because he was extremely talented at that.

    Love still secretly blossomed though, and whispers of their emotional affair caught wind of Lord Chive’s ears. Mortified by Princess’s lack of loyalty, he withdrew from their arrangement for future husband and wife.

    “If she cannot remain loyal, before we are even wed, why makes you think I’d like to bring her wholly into my life?” said Lord Chive to the King. Outraged at the scandal which had still unfolded beneath his very nose, he summoned his daughter and growled at her, with great anger, and he expelled her from the castle at once along with the traitorous jester. They could fend for themselves for some quite time. Of course, they would be allowed back, for not for a decent amount of time. Punishment needed to be observed firstly as something of a permanent kind. Instead of being desperate and feeling betrayed, the court jester and Princess were overjoyed at what had occurred, because now they were free, to love and be, without any need to hide from the eyes of her parents or the world.

    The King desperately missed his daughter and soon realised the error of his ways. She was the light of his life, and he had simply flung her aside, because her heart wanted to know another, not the man he had deemed as the correct, wise choice. Who was he to decide who his daughter should love? Was it his role – no, never! – to force her into an alliance that would benefit the Crown, but not the girl? He felt ashamed of himself, and sent out troops to welcome her daughter and her new love back into the castle. Once found though, they didn’t wish to accept the invitation. The irony of the situation is, sometimes a forced freedom is exactly what one needs to realise their own slice of heaven.

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


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  • Story: A Morning in the Mind of Alice – 13/09/19

    Story: A Morning in the Mind of Alice – 13/09/19

    She wakes at two, or two thirty in the morning when she’s sometimes late to rise. She pads heavy-footed to the kitchen for a thirst-quenching drink, unfortunately in the refrigerator there are no hidden tasty surprises. Back to bed, where she’d inadvertently knock her head on the bed head, now there’s an aching inside her noggin. She took after her father, they are careless with their heads, knocking them upon doorways, objects in their way, the pain making them surly and sour. Just yesterday, Alice had spotted a large graze on her father’s pink bald skull when they’d had coffee together. She didn’t say anything, not wanting to embarrass or hurt his feelings by drawing attention to his error visible by practically everyone, even the laughing sun.

    Back to sleep, until around five, when she inevitably rises to the chirps of the birds, excitable outside her window. She sits up, smiles warmly, and sits by her bed now, at her desk, staring at the computer keyboard longingly. She knows the words will come, she trusts, now hopes they do. Perhaps she needs to commence an illustration first? She’d been experiencing a loss of inspiration lately, not knowing what to write, create, or what to say. It was frustrating to say the least, but she refused to allow this blocking to cease her from creating in this still-darkened day.

    Then, it comes to her, and she begins to frantically type, getting out all the information that’s within, now viewable inside. She needs to note it down, it rushes through her mind as though on a never-ending loop, but all the words and ideas and phrases are only written once. One time, one opportunity to collect them in her own way, her style, with her own sense of fire. Lighthearted though, as her style usually is. But today the words are different, they have a different tone, a deeper and sometimes darker meaning to them. They don’t ring with brightness and positivity, they speak of past inner darkness and pains experienced beneath the ever-changeable moon who watched over her, a formerly aching being who wanted nothing more than to feel love and acceptance. So too, a sense of acknowledgement.

    But she doesn’t want to speak of these days. They are long gone, whittled away out of her brain as though a drill had purposefully hollowed them out, creating a free space for positive dreams, a loving space for focused, loyal beings, and fulfilling memories. What point is there in dredging up what used to be, this was not a form of wanted therapy, although one could call it art.

    It’s all about how much she is willing to share with others, did they know she’d been far less strong than how she now presents? A once-broken being, upon her knees, begging for a chance at understanding? At being understood. That is all gone, wiped, useless history, and others need not bother with it. She takes the high road, there is no need to speak ill of others who treated her badly. They will receive their comeuppance when the forces deal with them. It is not necessary for her to meddle with this process.

    Besides, why look back when she can aim to exist in the yonder?

    Instead, she smiles, reverses the meddlesome, dark rhymes and meanings, makes of them positive feelings and dreaming. Of loyal creatures, animals with differing lives, of personified objects that would make her readers laugh and feel so alive. She wants to provide all this to them, to whoever happens to read her version of paper and pen. A joy in life she wishes to feel, and so too should others know, that contentedness in life comes from within, not from an overly flowery eloquent skill or style. Simplistic moments can make all the difference, just watch as she breathes in that perfumed, heady scent, the inspiration she has found she grows drunk upon.

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

     


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  • Story: “See Ya!” – Simon the Sociable Sloth – 11/09/19

    Story: “See Ya!” – Simon the Sociable Sloth – 11/09/19

    “See ya!” called Simon the ever-sociable sloth to his visitors. “I hope you thoroughly enjoyed yourselves. I urge you to come again soon,” and with that, he bowed deeply, for he was so glad that they had attended. Simon wasn’t like most sloths, who were solitary and shy, hiding behind trees and their leaves. No, Simon was an extrovert, and he socialised as much as pleased. However, after the dinner guests had left, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was difficult for him to remain on top of all of the conversations, and be charming, and most of all avoiding appearing meek. Because inside he would be fighting the urge to flee the scene. He was only recently teaching himself how to be sociable, to be as keen for company as he could be.

    Sloths were known for sleeping the day away, so it suited Simon to have his social events at dinner time, with his friends with exuberant personalities, the dinners would be perfectly joyous and gay. Because, when he and his guests were all together, they ate, and laughed, and danced, and played after-dinner cards or board games. Everything was very merry, it was as though these types of dinner were planned perfectly, and their itineraries would be well thought out, and always ended in playing Uno, or on occasion, Monopoly. They would be entertained for hours, and sleepily they would leave only when the sunshine would show itself.

    But who were Simon’s friends, how did they stay up into the wee hours of the night with him? Surely they couldn’t be other sloths, because somewhat antisocial they were known for being. No, his friends were the owls, the wolves, the animals that hooted or howled at the moon, away from the sun, and how he loved their company, they were unique and loyal, and terribly great fun. It didn’t matter all that much that Willy the Wolf had tried to bite him one time. Simon understood that was part of his instinct, his urges, to seek out delicious meats to eat. In fact, Simon took it as a compliment, that he was considered a delicacy by Wolf, it made him tingle inside with confidence. What a strange thought process Simon had regarding his friend Willy the Wolf.

    One dinner, when Olivia the Owl and her family of six were present, along with Willy the Wolf and his new wife Mindy, Simon asked his guests to take their seats, because presently it was time for their tea. Carefully, for with his curved claws it was difficult to serve, Simon precariously balanced the first course – pumpkin soup – before his ravenous friendship herd. But the soup was secretly not to their liking. Willy and Mindy wanted the taste of meat! So too did Olivia and her troupe, they were hoping for servings of dead rats to be seen. After all, Simon knew of their delicacies and preferences, and they were unsure as to why he’d not catered to their specifications as he usually did.

    It was as though he could read their minds. In reality, he’d read their disappointed body language.

    “I’m trying a differing menu of sorts,” he said with a smile. With a flourish towards the kitchen, he explained, “I’m going to serve vegan for a while.”

    “Vegan?” they all collectively gasped. “What about our need for protein, or red blood cells, their iron??” Mindy began bickering with her husband, forcing him to tell her why on earth she had allowed him to drag her here. Olivia and crew now were squawking among themselves, trying to work out how to politely leave this room. There was no politeness in this. Everyone could hear them, including a now despondent Simon. He had tried, really, he had, to make a positive change to his menu, for his community, and for the environment. He was happy enough to now only eat a strictly vegan menu, and he hadn’t known his friends would be so narrow-minded. He stalked over to the door and flung it open.

    “See ya!!!” he yelled, and pointed out the exit of the door.

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


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