Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: short story

  • 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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  • Story: A Saddening Tale: This Way To Loveville – 29/08/19

    Story: A Saddening Tale: This Way To Loveville – 29/08/19

    Red-Sweetheart was blissfully ignorant, he thought their love tale was pleasantly unfurling, accompanied by joyous chords of major keys, independently bright, no sense of dissonance. There was no sense of unrectifiable yearning. Little did he know that his Fuchsia-Loveheart was secretly wearying of their love story, wishing she could escape the moment he passed her in the street, where he was off to his general company meeting after their lunchtime spent wining and tiresomely – for Fuchsia-Loveheart, of course – dining.

    Why was she so sick and tired of her man, who provided her love, footed the many bills for them, always reached for her metaphorical hand – for their limbs were implied, they were there to lend a helping hand, a willing guide – but together their hearts were meant to beat together, content, and subtly amplified. Fuchsia-Loveheart had had enough of his bland personality, he was boring, he was useless, all did was talk about his company’s dreams. How he wished to expand into other cities, other countries, and continents in fact, he never once asked her if this was the life she wanted for them.

    She knew there would much travelling, in and out of town, living out of a shoebox, or luggage case, nowhere to really call home, and this was not something which she aspired for, despite the money which would come rolling in. She knew her bore of a lover would simply listen haphazardly whilst she complained of this in the evenings, as he sipped his gin slowly, then slower again.

    How could he be so selfish, thinking of only what would benefit the company, rather than appeasing the company of her, who he had chosen for his life, as his wife? Did he not think he needed to understand that there was more to life than becoming wealthy and famous, everywhere recognised where he was seen? All he seemed interested in was the superficial, it did not matter to her how much attention she was paid, for all she felt that Red-Sweetheart wanted from her was the ability to be seen with her, and essentially have the tabloids spread of them, a happy couple they apparently made. It could not be anything further from the truth, the sensations within made her squirm again and again. However, this ill thinking about Red-Sweetheart was incorrect, it was only part of Fuchsia-Loveheart’s thinking processes, inextricably unfounded upon their relationship’s open pages.

    One evening, he came home from work at a quarter to two in the morning, she had been waiting up for him furiously muttering to herself, and now he would receive her verbose manner of speaking.

    “How dare you keep me up, ignore my many calls! What were you doing, did you have a great time, which of your receptionist girls did you enthral?” Dumbfounded, he could not belief this method of reverse flattery, where he was being accused of something that had not even occurred recently, let alone this morning or evening. He was a loyal husband, this was something he prized himself on, he would never again cheat on his beautiful wife, his leading lady, his strong, firm hearted woman, and he struggled to pick his dropped jaw from the floor as he proceeded to defend himself.

    “But no, my darling, I have brought something for you!” From behind his back, he pulled out a long arrow pointing to the right of the room, toward the exit, the doorway leading to the corridor of the hotel in which they owned and lived, and with a glorious smile, he announced, “This way to Loveville, you will never want to leave!” It was his ridiculous smile and grin that made Fuchsia-Loveheart explode with laughter, how could he think that outside they would enjoy themselves any more or less than the tiring times she experienced with her other? There was no romance left in their marriage, at least not from her perspective, but dutifully, she decided to give permission to his thoughts, to give his option a decent thinking.

    “Okay, then, Red,” she said dubiously, and with a flourish of his hand toward the door, then grabbing her metaphorical hand, she allowed herself to be led, out to the corridor, up to the lift, then to the highest floor, the roof, where he had arranged a four course meal, with three waiters, and what appeared to be a closed off enclosure with a four poster bed.

    “No way, no how,” Fuchsia-Loveheart said, furiously shaking her head. “There will be no romance of this sort, ever to enter our bed again.” Because she never really trusted him, since that night she caught him kissing that ugly blue hearted being, that thing, as she called it, who allowed and knew that he was cheating on Fuchsia-Loveheart by kissing him. She had a hidden agenda, the blue hued being who hated Fuchsia-Loveheart for being so wealthy due to her marriage, that she had seemingly decided to split them apart, but then, in that moment, a strange sense of jealousy had arisen, and she knew, at least for the sake of her lifestyle, that the marriage would be worth saving.

    So now that we are aware of the shallowness of the Fuchsia-Loveheart, should we empathise more with the Red Sweetheart, who was trying to keep his marriage together, not allow it to fall apart? But how can we do so, when he had, for some reason, fallen prey to his lustful thoughts, or the seductive movements of the blue hued being, it seems that in each situation it takes two to tango, and that in both senses, each heart was partially guilty?

    However, Fuchsia-Loveheart allowed herself to be wined and dined on that rooftop, it was an activity she knew how to behave within quite well, after all, it occurred basically every weekend and second weeknight, eating out somewhere special was not all that special to her at all. Yet her husband, Red, did the best that he could; he tried to be charming, well versed, complimenting her, everything that a wise man and heart should, but by the end of the evening, Fuchsia-Loveheart was widely yawning, she’d had enough of this forced form of entertaining and there was nothing that she wanted more than to be in that four poster bed sleeping.

    She followed the arrow to Loveville, that she did, and would, and into the comforting, high threaded Egyptian count cotton sheets, she buried herself within, knowing that of her husband, now of his presence she could do without. She spread herself sideways along the mattress, to ensure that there was very little room for him, only for her, and snoring in a falsified manner, she made certain that now he would leave. Despondent, he had tried so hard for her tonight, to impress her, wooing her once more by the candle light. He had made not one mention, breathed not one word about his work nor his plans, and still, she didn’t want to lie there with him, even for gentle cuddles, it seemed that for him, she no longer and never would give a damn.

    So, he laid upon the ground next to the bed, curling up beneath her feet, at least she was close to him in this manner, and then he began an emotional dream. Where she still loved him, trusted him, wanted him for her own, and then the sadness overwhelmed him, he simply wanted to return to the room that he called home. He crept quietly and carefully away, returning to the room where they usually stayed, and he slept on her side of the bed, breathing in her intoxicating scent that was perfumed everywhere on the area that she always laid.

    He knew he could escape this unhappy marriage but he knew that it was also his fault, he should have never allowed that blue hued being to throw her lips upon him, my, what an unsightly trollop she was, a materialistic trout! He knew that she had only wanted him for his money, and he supposed that that was something he was used to, but at least from his wife he received some consistency, he would never ever leave him, from this marriage she would never voluntarily be removed. Besides, she seemed to like him at least on a superficial label, and that was better than having nobody to love, or hold, or talk to, or know just so.

    He accepted that this was his life, and together their relationship would sadly, never grow. At least they were famous, or at least well known of in this world, and of their sham marriage, an unsteady family life could be grown.

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


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  • Story: Mariabella the Ice Cream Indulging Cow – 29/08/19

    Story: Mariabella the Ice Cream Indulging Cow – 29/08/19

    Mariabella was a clever little cow. She loved, loved, loved the taste of ice cream from Mister Stan from down the road. The reason why she was clever was because she was always able to swindle cones of soft serve from Mister Stan simply by causing him some guilt. Mister Stan was married to the great Missus Eaglemont, who refused to take on his surname as she preferred hers so much more – she felt it had a nicer ring to it – and she was the stronger of the two, she was emotionally bolder and physically built, but she enjoyed bolstering him up to feel the same.

    Mister Stan and Missus Eaglemont would provide the animals various varieties of ice cream throughout their day, but Mister Stan was unfortunately unable to do anything more than give his cones away. When Mariabella projected her cutesy faces at him,  he would provide her a soft serve with sprinkles, she’d lick it up, then wink at him, then grin! His heart would properly be melted indeed.

    “Don’t give her anymore, she’s lactose intolerant!” his wife would snap. “Don’t you understand?” But with a smile and a chew, Mariabella mooed and mooed, and once his wife toddled off, he became less independent and more malleable. This cow would manipulate Mister Stan into providing her with more and more soft serve, reluctantly provided by his unwilling hand, and then he would painfully watch her moan with satiated pleasure but later groan, from her lactose intolerance in her stomach, near her bulging udder.

    How highly ironic that this cow was lactose intolerant! That the product that she natuarally created could cause her so much strife! The moans, aches, the gassiness, and the stomach pains that which occured shortly after the ice cream consumption were ridiculously unreasonable, but she couldn’t give up her addiction. She knew that Mister Stan was her ‘Provider’, that she was using him, despite the admonishments from his stern wife, the ‘Other’, yet she couldn’t give up her feelings of desire, for this milky goodness, a treat like no other.

    It was as though she was compelled to slurp the sweetness, always beg for it, to ferociously eat, that she couldn’t stop herself, she was like a drunken mess, slurping rum from an almost empty bottle in the mean, darkened streets. And the desperation that she felt upon awakening, when she knew that the ice cream was far away, that it was only lunchtime that Mister Stan would be serving, she understood that she needed to relinquish this dairy product for something that made her feel great goodness, not overwhelming sickness.

    Although it was not her fault that she was lactose intolerant, she was completely avoiding responsibility for taking care of her illness, and it was with this knowledge that Missus Eaglemont finally had enough, she put her foot down, and told her husband, “No more! That cow will have none!”

    Mariabella had been ill throughout her infancy also, because she insisted on being fed by her mother, from the three working teats of her udder, sharing it with her siblings, also of three, with their great greedy rivalry just so, plain for all to see. They often took the teat more frequently than she, sucking for hours, until she was desperate, parched and hungry, and only a few droplets would be left for her, she could not understand why they would steal from her. Weren’t they meant to share, be considerate of each other’s needs? But even the few droplets made her sick, and she hadn’t even known why, her mother would never realise this, or even understand to speak, because lactose intolerance in cows really wasn’t a ‘thing’.

    It had never been heard of before, and it was only with information overheard from the rabbits from the nearby warren down the hill that Mariabella was educated of the reason why lactose, milk, ice cream, made her ill. It was very simple, but she didn’t wish to accept it, it was something of which she did not wish to deal. The creamy soft serve was so sweet and delicious upon her lips, her wavering tongue, slurping here, there, upon the crispy cone, what a treat!

    She would never give up her ice cream, even if Mister Stan stopped offering, she would find another way to satiate her needs! Besides, she knew there was another ice creamery down the street. It would be her next stop, that very night, when all the animals on the farm were asleep. She would enter the premises quietly, and see what treats there were, the makings of finery, the making of her dreams.

    But she fell asleep that night, a deep slumber, and she was unable to rouse herself, when she had set the alarm to be beeping on and on. Instead, she hit snooze automatically, over and over again, and when she woke in the morning, she realised the error of her plan! She had unintentionally foiled her plan from even coming to fruition, simply because she was too sleepy to allow herself to be woken by the alarm. “Tomorrow, tomorrow,” she told herself, as she loudly slurped the soft serve from the offered cone from Mister Stan outside her favourite tree, this area she called her home.

    And when she arrived the next night at the ice creamery, she knew she wanted to remain here, it was where she felt most alive. Choc mint, strawberry, apple berry, boysenberry, chocolate, caramel, pink lemonade, mango! All the flavours she’d never been exposed to, of such a rich brightness that she was lulled into a haze, and to the side of the regular ice cream, was a section of tubs with different, interesting names. She couldn’t read them, they were in some other language, strange to her eyes, undecipherable to her tongue, but when she gingerly tasted a few flavours, she realised there was no immediate ache in her tum!

    To her great joy and amazement, she understood one word – gelato – she had heard of this before, from the rabbits, it was such a hopeful and an amazing word. Gelato had no dairy, these treats were utterly safe for her, and with a delight in her eye, a spring in her step, she realised there was no need to go! She would relocate to this farm, visit her friends in the other farm during the day, but return here for her morning, afternoon and evening treats, no need was there for Mister Stan to be admonished or guilt tripped, because here Mariabella could freely eat without dismay. All she needed was to create positive ties with the staff members here, because this was where she wanted to be. Her life would no longer be filled with happiness followed by deep aching and sorrow, a reluctance to accept that ice cream held no positives for her, only an uncomfortable mellow, but now she was free to do as pleased, she’d found her gelato land, a place of her abounding dreams.

    Mister Stan and Missus Eaglemont were more than grateful that she’d solved the conundrum of her case, because they felt terrible every time she had grown sick, the joy of their ice cream had essentially gone to waste. Now they could attend to all the other animals on the farm, and allow Mariabella the happiness of being able to seek her own sense of freedom elsewhere, but still remain in contact with her friends, the other animals, and of this, everyone was wonderfully and duly amazed.

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


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  • Story: “It’s Not My Size!!!” – 27/08/19

    Story: “It’s Not My Size!!!” – 27/08/19

    “It’s not my size!!!” the joey shrieked. Her voice could be heard for miles, for thousands of feet. “I…DON’T…WANT…IT!” she enunciated, while for each syllable she stomped her feet, she was the most ungrateful marsupial the land had ever seen. She threw off the over-sized fuchsia sweater, and with definite difficulty she scurried over to her mother, and then hid inside the only warmth providing ‘garment’ that she could ever desire, the one and only pouch of her loving, accepting mother. For only a mother could love an animal so brat-like, she had been catered to far too often, during her young life her whims would never be cast aside by Mother or Father, never forgotten. Instead she received everything that she wished for, the worst time her father anticipated would be when she wanted to own her own car. But she was only five months old and that time was far off, and Mother had felt that, today, a spot of shopping would go down well. But in the sweater shop, where Mother was known to bound in, bounce around, quickly select something flattering and form fitting for herself, this time, the assistants would have a mission ahead of themselves.

    Joey was picky, she wanted everything this way, her way, that way, and she wasn’t careful to hold her tone, whether snappy, selfish, or snide, she didn’t care at all, she had unfortunately not been taught manners, she was simply a terror to behold. Mother had thought it would be rather fetching if Joey were to have an oversized sweater, it would be cute, sloppy, and a play on words: Sloppy Joe! She thought Joey would appreciate this particular two toned jumper, with her favourite colours, fuchsia and amber. But no, when the assistants placed it over her head, the spoilt joey shrieked for them to get it off immediately, it was stuck around her head, and her arms would not reach, the sleeves were far too long, what idiocy was this??? she shrieked further, as she hopped up and down the change room corridors, when she didn’t wish to belong. She was a whirlwind of the utmost destruction now, she wanted to destroy everything in the store, bounding around and ruining the displays, teaching them all a thing or two about how to treat a privileged animal who should be wearing her own elaborate, exquisite crown.

    There were two options here presented, of how dear Joey had reacted, which one do you think rings of truth? The more subdued reality, or the angered emotion of her truth? Sadly, I must inform you that it was the latter that was the correct unfolding.

    “But, darrrrling,” her mother purred. “Come here, stop being destructive,” she said. “Hop into my pouch, where you can rest and hide.” Confused, Joey shook her head, stunned to come to reality herself, she thought she had already done so, she thought she was already nestled in, just so. With widened eyes she looked around, “What on earth, what have I done?” Her mind was a whirlwind, she tried to fixate her memories upon what had just unfolded, and then with a start, she understood she needed to ask her mum.

    “What is going on with me?” she wailed. “I don’t know where to begin, how to think, where to start!”

    “It’s okay,” her mother said, patting her little furry head. “Let us go to the cafe, I’ll explain to you there.” And slowly they hopped away, right after paying the register girl some money to fix the results of Joey’s one-kangaroo affray, and with a hop and a jump, they landed at Coffee O’Smiley’s, and this is what her mother had to say.

    “My darling, you experience a wiping sensation of your memories. What occurs, only to you, is that you think you are performing an action, when in reality, it is another type of a move. You can be in two realities, one in truth, and the other in your mind, and the terrifying thing is that you don’t know always, even though the reality is to snap alert, to reveal what had occurred outside, and inside.” Joey didn’t seem to completely understand, though she did know that she was somehow disadvantaged, not everyone had a disorder such as this, whatever it was called it was the opposite of blind bliss. Why couldn’t she be like everyone else who had one thought pattern, one world? This was why she was such a spoiled rotten girl. Her family knew that she was different, and paining at this reality, that their poor daughter would often be suffering, they provided her with everything materialistic that she wanted, and endless food, treats, all the while, to provide her with something worth remembering.

    Because if she had all these things at her disposal, at her whim, then maybe she would construct some happy memories to experience. Even if she didn’t, then surely she could tell, that once having come to, she would realise she was utterly loved by her parents, themselves. However, nothing could make up for this fact, that she was split in her realities, one leading forth, the other delving inside, confusion, never coming back, and it was with great sadness that Joey realised, her life now, was going to be hell, always. She wouldn’t remember what she had done, there would be times she’d think she performed the right actions, but then it was not right, it was wrong, and she’d be stunned. She decided to isolate herself from the world, and write, write, write, of her truths, as they unfurled.

    Her style of writing proved very unique, she snapped back and forth from the present, the apparent future, the persuasive inner dreams, and it was with her own version of charming haikus and soliloquy, other forms of poetry, reams of it, she slept surrounded by piles of paper, churned from her dreams. I’d like to say something came of her writing, something beautiful was formed, created, but you’d have to see for yourselves, to view her scrawled notes, and read the empathy and touching sentimentality for yourselves.

    What measure of success is there when the ability to write is present, when the desire to share one’s innermost thoughts succinctly, clearly, is the ultimate goal, to touch other’s hearts as they read your words, why, Joey learned of this desire and made it her truth, she had carefully learned, she knew what to do. With her life now focused, she didn’t spend time dwelling on her illness. It didn’t matter anyway, as long as she could project and promote a sense of inner wellness. Then surely through her art she would become well, and if not, at least she had nurtured her talent, and had expressed it in a manner she knew so well.

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


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  • Story: The Satisfied Jogger – 27/08/19

    Story: The Satisfied Jogger – 27/08/19

    Jogging deeply satisfied her. It gave her a sense of achievement, of reaching her goals. Each morning she would train, beginning slowly, and then speed up, feet upon the pavement pounding, now rapidly sprinting, for that high, endorphins flowing, and now back to a jog, her heart rate would slow, a quaint, deep patterning of heavy thuds.

    She came from a family of lethargic, slothful beings, her family didn’t see what the point in exercise she understood of, what she was doing, all they wanted to do was laze about being couch potatoes and watch television, while further laying around, eating on the couch or in the bed, calling upon her to attend when they wanted more to eat, drink, or of something else to call or send. It was as though she was their servant, unwilling, yet she performed their tasks, she knew that if she didn’t, they wouldn’t allow her to go for her morning jog. It was the only thing which calmed her, made her feel as though she had time to attend to herself, a mental switching off, a reaching for a goal. And the saddening thing was that if she wasn’t permitted her jog in the morning, her heart would slow to a faint disappointed crawl. It was interesting how her physical nature was affected by them all.

    Because, the jog was the only thing looked forward to, she wasn’t allowed to go to college, or spend time studying worldly issues in her room. It was as if her slovenly family were punishing her for being so different from them, why, sometimes in the quiet interludes of their madness she wondered whether she had been adopted from another family instead. There was nothing similar of them to see, nothing visual, personality wise, psychological, characteristic to be found, her mother and father, not worth mentioning more than they had given up on a healthy, useful life, instead now the scourge of one another, and her two sisters and brother, they just sat idiotically staring at their favourite television show of a great family of comical badgers.

    In her bare room, she sat counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until she was allowed to go out into the sun. She was suited up in her tracksuit pants, her turtleneck, and her grey runners that would allow her to be nimble, light-footed amidst her hour of fun, and with deep satisfaction she watched the second hand count down, and she called out, “Mama, Papa, you know the drill! I am going out!” Before they could shriek for more food – beef jerky and Cheetos were at the moment their favourite foods – she rushed through the doorway, she could not get out of there sooner! The escape was one of the greatest feelings which she relished, the wind in her hair as she jogged methodically, consistently, as she demonstrated her fitness prowess upon the hour.

    She often spoke to herself under her breath on her jogs and her runs, wondering what she should do, how she could escape essentially her hell on earth. She never came up with a conclusion, an answer, a systematic reason, but what she did detail were symptoms of the illness. The illness that her family surely had that she did not, the gene of laziness and entitlement, more often than not. Never once did they offer her anything useful, to lift a finger, perhaps a helping hand, all they did was take, ask, take, and this they did all day and evening long, wanting to only gain. It was so unfair that she was basically their slave, that they didn’t have anything positive to provide her, except the brief morning run escape, a single moment, one day, again, then the next day would be the same.

    What made them think that this was enough, what happened to mental stimuli? Being made to sign away their lives, this was what they were trying to avoid. For their secret was not that they were inherently lazy, no, this was obvious in itself, but the reason they were forcing her to be their slave was because of their immense hidden wealth. Their secret plan was to work her to the bone, until she had enough, took off, left the family home, then they wouldn’t be obliged to leave her name upon their will as their main beneficiary when they would inevitably die.

    By law, in their small country, they were required to have as their beneficiary their closest living, next of kin. If they left the family premises, the next of kin would be written in. Because of their poor eating habits and lifestyle choices, they knew their passing would occur sooner rather than later, and they needed their more skilled daughter to fly, fly away. They felt her undeserving of the wealth, for she was selfish, leaving them each morning, apparently to take care of her mental and physical health. It was not on; it simply just would not fly.

    One morning, she was running past the lake nearby to her home. Spotted at the surface were two white ducks, each one on their lonesome. With a smile, she called out and waved to them, jolly tunes she sung to them quite freely, “Oh, Ducky, oh, Ducky, where have you been? What have you done, and what have you seen?” And then suddenly they took off with a great frightening scene. Her heart lifted, her lips curled into a warm pout, and she thought to herself, “Why can’t I do that, this? Why can’t they go without?” They didn’t truly need her, they were simply accustomed to being lazy, and now she realised that freedom wasn’t a dream. With a sprint, she pushed forth, her arms flying like one of those freedom seeking ducks, and basically, generally speaking, she deserted her family that day, never to return, there was nothing further left for me to say.  

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


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  • Story: Memories of the Niceties of a Narwhal – 26/08/19

    Story: Memories of the Niceties of a Narwhal – 26/08/19

    I once knew a narwhal; he was debonair, gentle and kind. He travelled from the wide open seas to visit me, he loved to pop in for lunch or afternoon tea. His favourite meals were salad sandwiches, which we would laden with many condiments, it made them all so tasty, and devour two or three would Narwhal, the whole lot of them.

    While this narwhal was dedicated to visiting me, he was chasing a certain dream, a certain understanding, and a certain figurative being. He didn’t know who I truly was, deep inside, a broken, shattered little being. But he was drawn to this, to me, somehow he could sense this, with his strong sense of empathy, and perhaps he and I weren’t so different, beneath the surface of his grin, did there lurk a paining so wild and free?

    I knew from several conversations that Narwhal’s home life was troubled, he had a sister of the age of thirteen who was going through some monumental changes. The crowd in which she associated herself with were curs and thieves, and every Saturday and Friday evenings she would invite them around to her house, and there they’d plan their future missions with craftiness and ease. Narwhal’s parents disliked their daughter’s friends being in their part of the sea, where they resided somewhat quietly, murmuring thoughts shared over pots of steaming tea, and when the evening arrived, boy, how they were gritting their teeth and were apprehensive, because for their daughter and her friends, what constituted fun was nothing but illegalities and running entirely amok.

    Maybe Narwhal escaped this situation by seeing me, he didn’t have anything else to occupy him, except the idea and company of being near and with me. We often sent each other seaweed letters, in which he would sign off his love. This made me uncomfortable but I decided not to say anything, for fear of breaking his heart. Because I knew what it was like to be broken too, smashed into pieces, for feeling something for another being that was not reciprocated by them, an overwhelming feeling of being blue. And if it meant playing along, to allow Narwhal to feel warm and tingly, and then some, I was willing to do so, if it meant he would feel happier about himself, I knew it should be so.

     And then the strangest thing: the more time I spent with Narwhal, the more that I began falling for the debonair being that he was, with his sparkling personality, his gentle sense of camaraderie, his notion of what was right and wrong, and how to share in his love that was projected so longingly. I had once only thought of him as a friend, and now, my feelings for this special whale were growing, outright blossoming instead.

    Slowly, with growing trust, he began to share with me his inner thoughts and feelings, and my, weren’t they so touching, so beautiful and ponderous, his utterances made my heart become a-fluttering. And then his tales of sadness, of how he longed for a better life, for opportunities to become more than he was, something with substance, more serious, less fun. I was sorrowful at hearing these words, and carefully, gently, would pull him into a hug. This narwhal was a being of whom I was slowly falling in love.

    But how could we make it work? He was a sea creature, and I lived here on earth! He could survive for only a few hours upon land with the breathing apparatus on his back, but how could we make a life for ourselves when we were so very clearly different? I couldn’t live beneath the sea, and so too he could not easily breathe the air above land for me. It was a perplexing notion, and it really made me think, but the most I could do was suppress these thoughts, they made our relationship far too much, so serious to think. So it seemed that all we could do would indulge in sandwich visits, and hanging out for a few hours, reading books to one another in my bedroom. We would sit together, so cosy, as I read our favourite novels and magazines. Then would come the saddening time for the end of his visit, and wave me off would he with his little fin, and my heart would ache, oh, how I wished he would come sooner next time, for his next visit again.

    One day, I was waiting for Narwhal, he had promised he was going to visit last week, yet I had seen nor heard of anything from him, not a seaweed correspondence to read of nor speak. Usually he was prompt with his letters and responses, he always signed them off with three kisses and two hugs, but now I felt he had drifted away, why? I did not know, perhaps the reason was simply, “just because”. There could be any amount of reasons as to why he had decided to remain in the sea, to no longer visit his favourite human, little old repaired me, for his quiet love had changed me, made me whole again and of this I did know, that Narwhal, my dearest friend, was never again going to show. I could feel it in my bones, a few days ago I had felt the breaking of a type of an emotional cord, as though we were now on own, separated, nothing keeping us together anymore.

    The memories we had were precious, and I would keep them in my mind and heart always, but what happened to Narwhal, had he deserted me or been taken, harpooned, or even stolen from the ocean by humans to be tamed? I didn’t want to put a potential label to his apparent desertion, even the thought of his wide brown eyes and smiling face hurt myself so badly I wished we were one and the same. However, it was meant to be this way, I supposed, how could a human girl live with a whale, and the utmost despairing thing about it was, we had fallen for each other, and helped repair the broken parts of one another. Through acceptance and friendship, and emotional moments and times of quiet healing, Narwhal and I were in our own places of solitude and dreaming. Though never again would we meet, I would always recall my pleasant, gentle, debonair Narwhal with the fondest of dreams.

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


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  • Story: Lucille the Innocent Minded Street Thug – 25/08/19

    Story: Lucille the Innocent Minded Street Thug – 25/08/19

    Lucille the Street Thug was used as sparkling bait. In her resplendent sequinned outfit and sparkling with jewels on every finger, she drew the attention of the rivalling, warring gang members in the hours of late. When they would be drawn to her attractive appearance, and pulled into her welcoming presence, Lucille’s gang members were waiting, with baited breath, for the others to drop to their knees, now as quivering cowards, intimidated and frighteningly scared. All it took to quell their false bravado was a few words – “Get down now!” and a levelling of a magical yo-yo near the gang leader’s nose. For this object was known to cause a great catastrophe, if one was to unfurl the entire string, it would emit a nasty scent in the eyes, and squeak with the loudest of swings. The decibel of this noise was terrible, such a horrid ring-a-ding-ding. With demon eyes, the rivalling gang members would glare at Lucille, for tricking them, drawing them in, into a situation which for them could cause great ill moments and a vapid chill, as they understood, inherently knew that they would never forget her face, she was on a list that was not wise to be listed on, it was dangerous, the consequent chase would never be her thrill.

    But why had these gang members been lured in by Lucille? What could they possibly provide, when they had nothing upon their persons, or so it seemed, until, they were made to empty their pockets, remove all their layers, and now in their underwear, the clothing revealed Lucille’s gang members’ true desires. There, before them, lying innocently on the damp ground, were rounds and rounds of ammunition and bracelets, rings, necklaces of pure 24 karat gold. The leader had the most of it, draped around his waist, a chain secured, then hanging from the links were chains of gold, thick links of them, and he had always believed this method of disguising would never go to waste. Silly him, and silly them, they had spread the word around of their good fortune with too many members of the streets, a secret can only remain a secret if it is infrequently or never told, these members should have listened to the understanding that silence is gold. While the search was underway, revealing now nuggets of gold sewn within the hems of their shirts and pockets and slacks, Lucille stood stoically behind her leader, watching carefully, observing the facts.

    The truth was that she didn’t like being so deceiving, deceptively undertaking dangerous missions such as these, if she had been in another vicinity or country, she would have felt safer because afterwards she would be permitted to leave. Her face would not be placed upon any mental kill list, and her life would be safe. But the more that she lured different gangs in the neighbourhood, no matter how often she changed her wig colour or makeup or outfit, she felt the rush of danger in the air, and truth be told this was not a sensation of which she cared. She longed for her days when she was younger, not walking around the streets, having been dragged into this lifestyle by the leader, her boyfriend, Little Ol’ Pete, he didn’t seem to understand her hesitancy at being the apparent prize, of the hungry victims’ wandering eyes.

    Did you think she enjoyed walking around barely dressed? With her man seemingly caring about her welfare, when she knew otherwise, she knew best? How could he watch her approach these men without care or safety for her, nor concern, why, she could unexpectedly be attacked, and then wouldn’t his aching heart then learn? She knew she had to leave this scene, quickly, quicker, before she became less free, less herself, attacked and made to suffer inherently, due to the actions which seemed to be her own, but were in actual fact the orders of Little Ol’ Pete. He said he loved her, boy, did he not show this as truth, but she was not strong enough to walk away when she knew nothing of freedom, how to grasp it, take it, taste it, within her view. She was the only woman in this gang and while she was afforded the luxury of her other gang members giving a damn, she disliked the attention because she knew it was only for her visual appearance, not her interior, and this shallowness caused her great apprehension.

    She made a decision and planned to leave at twelve midnight on the hour, returning to the gang’s share house with the excuse that she had a headache and needed to rest, she couldn’t handle the current mood, the fervour. For her group was excited by the next attack, where they would thieve the belongings of another gang, the next suburb over, and then that would be that, but this time was different, they had planned it without the need for Lucille, so she was permitted to return home, and rest with great zeal. The reality was she would be on the next train to the furthest town in the province, St. Bastaile, with her safety, her mind would be at rest, permitted to heal.

    Hurriedly she threw her belongings into a duffel bag, she didn’t reach for the gold and jewels in the safe like others would if they were to desert this house, and prove their essence as being utterly devious, terribly bad. She threw a trench coat over her outfit to protect her modesty and at the train station not draw any eyes, and with that, she escaped with a run, high heels clicking, as she sprinted away, the approaching sounds of cars did not frighten her, nor dismay.

    She would never be found again, she changed her appearance too much, lived a secure, quiet life and such, until she grew old, always wearing her jewels as a reminder that too much wealth could made one far too greedy for power.

    By now, she was a grandmotherly woman with two granddaughters and a grandson to love, and they loved playing dress ups in her costumes that she told them were from the dance troupe that she used to perform in, and would later own. Such a little white lie, she believed, to throw them off the scent of other untruthful things, and with a smile as her granddaughter Priscilla wore her favourite pink halter, she reminisced about that night she escaped and was permitted the opportunity for freedom, safety, and the chance to grow older. Never did she wonder again about Little Ol’ Pete, he never loved her truly, only used her as a lure, and treated her unfairly, as though she were a mere floozy. She knew better, and the life that she had made for herself here, the life that she owned, was far more precious than anything he could have promised her, this was exactly what she had known.

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


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  • Story: Daydreaming About A Better Life – 24/08/19

    Story: Daydreaming About A Better Life – 24/08/19

    She lamented for what she didn’t have, in life she was seemingly missing everything, including love. The feeling of emptiness experienced was a paining from deep within, nothing could alter it, not even a power from above. She had been taught of the concept of self love, but what could she understand of this, when she had no feeling of positivity, nor happiness about herself? She could not hate herself any more within.

    Why would she loathe herself though, what could there possibly be to have a feeling, so detrimental, such as this? The proof of the truth here, was that she barely was able to subsist, unable to survive she was a shell of a person, worn down after years of mistreatment and overwhelming reactive emotion. The mental abuse she had suffered at the hands of someone she had greatly loved, caused her seismic trembles and tremors, her heart could no longer love. For the man who broke her inner core, daily, hourly, upon the minute, denigrated her, spoke ill of her, made her feel like garbage, a woman of no worth, simply because of her former chosen path. She had been a promiscuous girl in her teenage years, flirtatious, her words and flashing, delighted eyes knew no abounds, although she wasn’t entirely as such, for she only teased the boys and felt that avoiding physical contact with them was a must. She felt this was right, and righteous, noble, a meaning of truth, something that was a must.

    Her former partner was one of the boys she had flirted with, and playfully teased, however he had broken through her barriers she’d always had up, and then they began dating, getting to know one another with great ease. He shared with her the details of his life, and in turn she opened herself up, and there was no feeling of angst, no need for any moment of strife, because another reason she closed herself off from most of them had been because she had been betrayed frequently by a great man. Her father, the one she’d ultimately loved the most. But that is a story for another time, all we shall say is the physical violence she was subjected to hurt less than the worthlessness she was made to feel, why, sometimes he claimed she was so stupid that she couldn’t even make toast.

    But then, as with her relationship with her father, there had begun to grow insidious hints that her relationship with her former partner was not what it wholly seemed, there were some indications, that she was being mistreated, and then she commenced her contemplation. Simple phrases, accusations, from him, here and there – “Where is my beer, woman? Have you drunk it?”’ “Don’t glare at me, do not stare!” The infrequent put downs became somewhat more constant, and her self esteem began to rapidly plummet. She was essentially reminded of how her father had began to talk badly, so ill of her, when she had been unable to please his requests, such as attending to the evening and morning meals, fetching the mail, making his toast, or answering the frequent callers at the front door.

    It was as though her relationship with her partner was beginning to mirror her relationship with Father, with the ultimate him in her life, a replication of what she had been subjected to, with great strife made to suffer, and the problem with the situation was she believed that this was all she deserved, because if Daddy treated her like this, then why wouldn’t others? While we think, how could these men have such nerve?

    So, this woman was viewed of as damaged, and this she was reminded of daily, by her partner who was meant to be loving, who assured her that if she left no one would be with her willingly. For she was apparently broken inside, she was treated the way she was meant to be, and with disgust we read his words, and wish to punish him sternly. How dare he treat her like nothing, as though she had no use in the world than to cater to his every whim, physically, mentally, being with him was draining, and perpetually she felt being with him filled her with sin. She didn’t need his garbage words, she didn’t need his rubbish beliefs, but the problem is she was only upstanding and courageous when she thought of her words, she wasn’t strong enough yet to leave. Somehow, he had a mental hold on her, and she didn’t think she could escape his tormenting world, this was something she sadly but firmly believed.

    One evening, she was enjoying the one chance in the week where she could pamper and look after herself, because her partner, the great twit in her life, attended the pub for darts and a chat and a yell. As she painted her toenails in the colour of a fiery flame red, she suddenly realised her period was late, and with a fright, she jumped up from her comfortable space at the end of the bed. But she calmed herself, didn’t allow herself to dwell upon something that might not come about, and quietly, sombrely she headed into the bathroom, for her spare box of pregnancy tests. She had known that perhaps this day might one day arrive, and while she would be ecstatically happy if it were positive, she did not know how her man would take the news  – would he be joyous, furious, or bottle his anger deep inside? She honestly didn’t know, but she needed the truth to be viewed, not surmised.

    She waited the obligatory three minutes, and opening her eyes at the announcement of the end of the timer, with careful eyes falling upon the two lines, her heart began to beat faster and harder. Finally, something created from her, made by her – and him, she begrudgingly thought – could grow and be filled with and experience her love, and so too provide love from him or her! But what would she do, she couldn’t bring a child into this unfair world she was so sunken into, she knew, she understood, she needed to get away, somehow, from the man who behaved in a manner that I can only describe as of a brute.

    She made her plans, four and half weeks in advance, telling him that she was planning to visit her mother in her villa in the south of France. She had been dying to see her, and now, this presented the opportunity, to actually prepare to up and leave him, and also seek the advice of her dear mother, who would speak candidly and freely. Her mother would tell her what to do, she would provide the advice that she so desperately needed, and maybe lend her a bit of courage too.

    Though her partner did not take the news well, he reluctantly allowed her a brief holiday, a reprieve from him, with the firm understanding and assurance from her that she would return, and this was not an attempt to leave him. Of course not, was the firm wording of her, and away in a plane did she fly to her mother. Upon hearing the news of the future arrival, her mother was fantastically blown away, and wept tears of joy that streamed down her face, smearing her thin layer of makeup, gently pressed upon her complexion to face the day. Then she queried about her partner, asked what did he think of the announcement? Her daughter shared the important news that he didn’t even know, and how, what to do, how to phrase the wording in a manner that was perfectly presented?

    Because, her partner had made disparaging remarks in the past about children as they cried in the mall, presenting forth his irritation that the parents were unable to of their children control. “Why not keep them at home?” he would wonder aloud. And it was with her own sense of irritation that she held it deep inside, pushed it down. What would his feelings surrounding other people’s children mean for their future child? How would he react, would she be forced to give up her baby once it had been born, to another family? Or was she being catastrophic, over thinking rather than becoming knowing, she supposed she had to speak with him, or, she had the option to up and leave. And courageous she was, in making the decision, to remain with her mother for three more week’s time of thinking.

    By then, her partner was furious. She had broken her promise to him, and stayed on with her mother, it was an act of rebellion to him, an unacceptable process. So he smashed all her breakable belongings, threw her clothing, shoes, electronics down onto the road, and with a sense of macabre justice, he watched as strangers sorted and took her belongings from the ground.

    “That will teach her,” he stated firmly, “To never lie to me.” She could stay in France for all he cared, she’d probably be far more happy. Besides, he was bored of her, so meek and obliging, he wanted a woman who was outspoken and fiery. And he had found her, in the form of a lady from the pub called Belinda, they had been secretly dating for the past few weeks, and knew much about each other. It was time for him to move on, with his new sheila Belinda. Thus, he informed his former partner, by letter, that she had nowhere here anymore to rest her head, she may as well stay in France forever.

    Finally having received the envelope of snail mail, she realised she’d been handed a ticket to freedom, she could raise her son or daughter however she liked without his disgusting behaviour or words to hinder them. And so on March the 20th, at two fifty nine, she gave birth to a beautiful child. Patrice, she would call him, and like her and his future, he was so very bright and alive.

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


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  • Story: Crystal Ball Tells Charlie-Sue What She Needs – Or Wants – To Know – 24/08/19

    Story: Crystal Ball Tells Charlie-Sue What She Needs – Or Wants – To Know – 24/08/19

    “Gaze into me,” telepathically called Crystal Ball, “View into your future, where I will tell all.” The calls lured Charlie-Sue, toward the table where Crystal Ball sat upon her holder, ready to be viewed. She knew this was the working room of Esmeralda the Gypsy, who told fortunes for a living, to men and women seeking assistance in their lives that seemed unclear and needing revelation and introspection. Where the gypsy was at the moment, Charlie-Sue did not know, but quickly she wanted to view her fortune, before she’d be ushered out, hurried away, told to go. She narrowed her eyes as she gazed inside, and what did she see, but herself receiving a large prize! It was incredibly pleasing to see. It was a trophy, golden and tall in stature, with a universe sitting atop of the pillars, and from the outside where she viewed herself, Charlie-Sue felt she had achieved much more than she’d felt capable of. She knew not what the prize was for, but she wanted to celebrate her future achievement, of this she felt there was much more in store, a future where she would have much to celebrate, more and more!

    Charlie-Sue was talented at many different things, but most of all she was a prize winner at gymnastics and high jump and other such activities. On the athletics track she burned away the ground, from sprinting so far away from her competitors; smoke was almost viewable to be found! But where she shone the most was on the poles, the high bars, where she would twirl and twirl herself, then onto the higher bar she’d be thrown.

    She was ultimately the best in her club, where she trained six days a week, with the seventh spent stretching extensively at home, unwinding those tight muscles that almost could groan and speak. Some of the kids in her school were jealous of her skill, they would not accept or understand that her talents came from working extremely hard, until, they witnessed her activities in the gymnasium one day after school. A group of her classmates had snuck by the building, and now they realised she worked so hard, that calluses came with her determination, and that she worked intensely to maintain and advance her skills.

    Charlie-Sue continued to look intently into the ball, wondering whether this was a sign she would win the upcoming championship of the world. She was known as astounding the world over, for being a girl of merely twelve years old, for being entered, as a special case, to the adult championships of the entire world. The competition was known as Mister and Missus Gymnastic Champion of the Universe, she had trained so immensely well, that her coach even offered her to take a week off to relax with the understanding that she was so well practiced, she could afford to take off from training for a spell.

    Of course, Charlie-Sue and her mother made the unanimous decision to continue on with her training, the very thought of temporarily ceasing it caused her head to become drained and paining. For, if she made a mistake, say she slipped and fell off the bars in the championship, before thousands of eyes on the stage, she could never forgive herself for allowing the lapse of judgement at accepting the week off to relax. She knew it would be a dramatic moment, and one she would regret for the rest of her life. For that was how Charlie-Sue was, of gymnastics she was dedicated, and would be for the rest of her life.

    However, now the competition was in two weeks, and Charlie-Sue took the recent fortune of the crystal ball as a sign that she would win, so, slightly, here and there, she slacked off on her practice, for she already felt, no, knew, that she was going to win. But how could she feel so confident when she was competing against adults who had trained for as many years as she was old, however, the confidence of this little girl was an ultimate potent potion, she was so very steadfast, and very bold.

    Then came the moment, her section, of which she was incredibly skilled, the high top bars, not one, not two, but three, stacked and angled in a row. Oh, how high she swung, around and around she tossed her thin frame of a body, well toned, muscled but not overly so, and with a large loop-de-loop, as a final manoeuvre the crowd gasped, as she lost her footing on the landing, the crowd was dismayed, but not as much as Charlie-Sue would be! As the moment flashed and replayed in her mind, over and again, never ending, now presented as stills, she was devastated, ashamed, and from the throbbing pain felt greatly ill. Her ankle was shattered in three places, she would later discover, and a painful recovery and physiotherapy daily, for many hours, and the worst part of it was that she couldn’t continue to train, to prepare herself for the next Missus Gymnastic Champion of the Universe again.

    Why did I listen, why did believe? lamented Charlie-Sue, of the fortune telling crystal ball, that had merely reflected her dreams. Why did I think that I would so surely, easily win? She cried and cried to herself, from the lonesome bed in hospital, while her mother stood outside, head against the door, wondering at how to console her daughter of her shattered dreams. She simply didn’t know how to address her, to care for her, when she was so despairing and couldn’t be made to feel that it was okay, to have made a little mistake, despite what she would later say or claim. Charlie-Sue believed she had made the biggest career mistake of her life, but how could her mother rectify her daughter’s thinking, when gymnastics was her entire life? She could feel her heart perpetually sinking. Saddened at the moments, of hearing yet again more tears from her daughter fall, she quietly walked away to the communal seating outside, and proceeded to make an important phone call.

    “Yes, I’ll hold,” she replied, in a most formal, important tone. And then a pause, and she commenced talking, arranging something that was very important to her to create and of this to have it known.

    The very next day, a woman who was surprisingly familiar to the eye entered the doorway of the hospital.

    “Where can I find Charlie-Sue Morgan?” she asked the receptionist girl. She pointed behind her to the left, and automatically muttered, “Room Three-Oh-Three,” and off the familiar woman bounded, with something in her backpack bulging, begging to be seen. When she entered Charlie-Sue’s room, her eyes bulged in amazement, at the sight of this woman now in her world!

     “Amy Ladanz! You won the championship! I’m such a fan of yours!” was all that Charlie-Sue could call.

    With modesty, warm, twinkling eyes, and a smiling face, Amy sat by Charlie-Sue’s bed and proceeded to say that she had heard of her most unfortunate event, that she was sorry that it had occurred, and how was Charlie-Sue feeling, was she okay? Amy had been away from the stage during the Charlie-Sue’s fateful moment in the championship, unable to provide a few comforting words or a hug to provide some comforting sense to the devastated girl during her hardship. Gossip and rumours about the twelve year old girl’s accident had been carefully and temporarily suppressed, by the media who believed depressing news of this nature should not be spread. Afterwards, Amy had only heard of the accident through Charlie-Sue’s mother, and when she had been entirely informed of the disaster, she knew she must make it to the girl’s bedside, at her next available hour.

    “And I have something for you,” she said, her mouth curling into a genuine, heartfelt smile. From her backpack, she presented Charlie-Sue with her first place trophy, with a flashy, eloquent style. How Charlie-Sue sobbed, but now it was with tears of gratefulness and delight, a display of acceptance at how her fortune had turned out one and the same, just slightly different, and now with her prize held high to the sky, she was a champion in her own league, for being so brave despite her injury, today and every night indeed.

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


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