Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: short story

  • Story example: Broseph the Car – 30/07/19

    Story example: Broseph the Car – 30/07/19

    Broseph was one of a kind.

    Cars rushing everywhere, no time to stop and think, for the cars are on autopilot in my world, they don’t even need to eat or drink. They are known as artificial intelligence, and wouldn’t you know this, that the human race is slowly becoming superseded, by robots and machines that cost barely anything to be programmed.

    Broseph the Bottle Blue Car was different to these inventions, he was of the old type of car, which responded to their driver’s manual movements and voice inflections from near and far. In fact, Broseph was incredibly sensitive to the sound of his owner’s voice that he often misinterpreted his earnest tone as being harsh, and this often caused him to weep, or at least shed a tear from one eye.

    It was not his fault that he was overly sensitive, for Broseph had not always been like this. It happened during lunchtime one day, by the pond, where there were other cars and men, three friends, two cars. Curious, Broseph ambled along up to them, as he loved to make new friends, but they shooed him away: “Go, you fool!” and this ruined Broseph’s day. His feelings were incredibly hurt, he did not know why he had been dismissed, although he did recall the men looking suspect and acting cagey, perhaps something about them was remiss? Broseph shrugged to himself and went along his merry way. He could find many friends for himself in the future who would wish to stay.

    Being on the highway frightened Broseph. The artificial intelligence cars were far too fast, far too skilled, far too dangerous to handle when he was simply an old, rundown vehicle, he could not reach top speeds steadily when his fluids often dangerously dribbled. Several panels on himself were dinted due to accidents completely of his own fault, they occurred when he and his owner driver did not get along together whilst they were conducting their driving work. Again, it was not his fault, he simply panicked in the moment, his anxiety rose the moment he reached a speed of sixty.

    He often wondered to himself why his owner did not trade him in, perhaps it was nostalgia for his past, the memories of what occurred within, the setting looked after with much care and trust. After all, Broseph was from the 1960’s, where one would have had so much freedom and enjoyment, of living without stringent commitment, and many moments of this Broseph would have seen them.

    One dreary afternoon, Broseph was on the main highway, travelling to assist his owner to obtain some weekly food, when all of a sudden: BAM! An artificial intelligence vehicle came directly into the right side of his driver, the one and only nostalgic man. The damage was done, there was a side mirror hanging by a mere thread, oh, how the pain throbbed in his side, Broseph wished for anything but this agony instead. The rider in the car obviously instructed the offending car to continue along its way, for during accidents, the AI was overridden to accept orders from humans who sat, ready, at bay.

    But the question of the matter is: why was there even an accident; surely the artificial intelligence was fool proof, that was why they were on the road to replacing us, but the fact of the matter is that there is still a failing point, even if one percent it were. And while the tow truck pulled Broseph onto itself, while he squealed with deep ceded anguish that everyone who heard could feel and almost see, he decided to imagine the images, colourful flowers and outfits that were experienced from the 1960’s. She’s got a ticket to riiiiide, he sung to himself, trying to self soothe, she’s got a ticket to riiiiide, and behind his closed eye lids he viewed the glory of the flower days, wonderful, spectacular through and through.

    At the hospital, when he was about to be put under, for minor panel damage surgery, one breath, two breaths, three breaths, four, and out he was like a light, perfect for that paining night. And awaken did he with certainly less agony, but he wondered where he was, it was all new to him. His eyes slowly focused and he laid them upon his owner, his caring driver, who had been there for the past four and a half hours. 
    “You alright, mate?” he enquired, giving a panel a quick rub. “You’ve been asleep for hours,” he added, smilingly.

    “Yes, thanks, feeling much better,” he replied, and went back to sleep.

    This is why we cannot rely on artificial machines to take our place. While with ourselves there is more room for error, the intelligence does not have any setting to be reprogrammed, they could be like robotic demonic soldiers. If they take our place, what we meant to do as a human race, why, temporarily they may make our lives easier but in the long run? I do not envisage much fun. Internally I view a dystopia, where we are expected to worship and work for vile, cruel machines, who never take no for answer, do not allow us time, not even a second to ponder.

    Who wants to be around machines which need to be programmed, that while they can perform the work of a human, they cannot feel emotions, empathy, happiness, all these things may be forgotten, as we slowly make ourselves into artificial intelligence ourselves, with frequent and newer upgrades, an alteration of our health. Who knows, perhaps one day we will become like the future Them, only operating on codes and scripts that other skilled, talented coders have written. I hope this day we never see, for if so, you, myself, Broseph and his driver, may soon be completely forgotten.

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


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

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

    The Luminescent Bug was very generous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Amelia was passionate about Drama and dress ups.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Ghouls can be viewed in differing lights.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

    Beneath the surface bubbled rage.

    The Magic Potion sat upon the table, stewing beneath its surface. What was is that making him so darned aggressive this day, when the reality was such anger was pointless? What was causing his inner anguishing and upset, why, let me tell you, my precious pets. Alice will show you yonder, Alice will show you how, Alice will map the way for you, for I know how. Let me weave the story line for you…

    One day, in mid August, when the wind was gusting gaily, doing as it wished and pleased, a small potion was being concocted in Manstonian Lane, Apartment 1/303. The nimble fingers of the chemist danced as though possessed; adding this ingredient, then that, then this, then a touch of that. After much adjustment, the potion was now complete, a green, slimy offering, for someone who will soon no longer speak.

    For, this potion snatched away any means of self expression, thieving the partaker into a slice of dumbfounded heaven, it stole away the ability to talk, and what’s more, it ruined the ability for their feelings to expressed in a manner of being written.

    The truth of the matter is that this potion was extremely dangerous, it was only intended for one’s worst enemy, given the depth of punishment dolled to the user, it stole the moments in life where one could be free.  Instead one was left mute, expressionless, nothing to share, not even through their eyes, living became pointless. The ability to feel and the ability to see became far less intense, there was no loving within them, nothing to view, nothing to be.

    And because of the intensity of the chemist’s emotions during creation, the potion absorbed some of his personality and increased his degree of poison. He could now feel and hate like the chemist did, it aided their cause, it was plain to see that the target was in grave danger, most certainly, of course.

    While this potion should never have been created, the chemist had one user in mind, Simon the Spook, who became bitter because Chemist failed to rock his socks. Simon then instead chose to indulge in a brought bottle of red and upon Chemist’s sofa and fresh new white carpets spill his bottle of magnificent merlot, his favourite red. It was his favourite because this particular wine never went to his head.

    Simon acted as though the spillage were an accident, that during this first online date this was simply an incident, but the chemist knew spitefulness and rage when he saw it, and within Simon’s eyes he saw these bubbling.

    All because Simon had leaned in for a premature kiss, and the chemist had backed away hesitantly, not ready for this. And bitter and twisted had become Simon, or so it seemed, that he wished hateful rage upon the chemist from him. In a moment of sheer audacity, in slow motion it seemed, the chemist saw the bottle become a-knocking, and falling, falling, slowly, drips and drops spilling everywhere, suddenly, moment of impact: blood-like red wine everywhere.

    “Oh, I’m so sorry!” he proclaimed, hand facade-like held to an open mouth, “Let me get that for you, I’ll grab a cloth…” he trailed off.

    “No, you most certainly won’t.” Chemist would deal with the mess himself, not with a cloth that would rub the stains in. Simon nodded in agreement with a slightly visible smirk, then growing into a grin. Chemist hated him for that.

    With a sharp glance to his damaged, thousands of dollars worth of carpet and with the potion in hand, Chemist now waltzed to the doorway of his apartment, unknowingly not realising that this would be the last time his evil nature would be seen again, for in an accidental moment, when he visited Simon the Spook and served him potiony goodness, he mixed up the glass his with his own, wouldn’t you know it?

    Luckily for him though, the potion did not take effect, in his creation of it he had missed adding the catalyst. His voice would remain, his happiness at self expression would be there to save him throughout rainy, miserable days, and now he learned forgiveness most haphazardly became he had been allowed to properly live.

    He almost snapped out of a mood he hadn’t realised he was in, and understood plaintively and guiltily that he had cruelly, willingly, intended for Simon’s suffering. In the moments prior to this poisoning, he had experienced some apprehension, and thank goodness that internally he had the space for that. And when it came to remorse and regret he had much to contemplate of that.

    He bid Simon farewell and erased his number from his phone, there was little point in pursuing anything of the like with him anymore. Each time he saw the faded red stains, he growled to himself but then calmed, he had to learn this again and again to become a habitual behaviour that utterly tamed, calmed his mindset, flooded serotonin and relaxants into the brain.

    Simon has now found his own boyfriend, they met on an exclusive dating site, they share the love of the theatre, comedy shows, computing, and most especially chemistry on quiet, cold nights. Chemist has learned his lesson, on not being malicious with his physical potions and explosions and keeping in check his emotional conditions, and never more has he or will he misuse his knowledge anymore, no matter what the situation.

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

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  • Story example: Shower of Superpower – 26/07/19

    Story example: Shower of Superpower – 26/07/19

    The Shower helped you slip into an outfit more comfortable.

    It was a little known fact in the town of Wertferdshire that the public toilet and shower block possessed much power. Only among the adults was this subject made privy, for their children and other younger folk, the fact was unknown, and to share it with them would be unforgiving.

    In Shower Block C, with its scummy algae scale and potential living disease lurked a shower that was most potent indeed. While its water was painfully cold, the powers it provided were available for the wise and old, for a day, the shower would transform one into a superhero or super character, their dreams becoming vibrantly real and bold!

    The type of superpower that the Shower would provide was determined by the depth of hope and courage one possessed inside. For example, for the courageous Mr. Skin, he stepped into that spurting wash of frozen water and left with a second, impenetrable scaly green reptilian skin. Whereas Mrs Meek, while hopeful she were, she shook and trembled at the idea of being something else that was usually not within her. And escape did she, as a large, powerful Mouse, Mouse Woman she was known of that day, and didn’t she ransack her enemy, Mrs. Shingle’s, house!

    One morning, Mister Fire Chief’s son followed him to work early. He loved to skip school, and play hookey. And witness did he, his father entering the seemingly abandoned, derelict shower block, and exit as a Marshall with hoses strapped to his chest, fire extinguishers upon his back, and a trailing fire truck behind him on a string at that. Aghast, yet amazed, and utterly impressed, his son giggled to himself, and decided to keep this secret close to his chest. The next morning he would follow his father inside quietly, and learn and watch the magic develop and change him. Then he could be a superhero, if only for one day! He would attend school and wow the schoolkids away.

    But the Shower of Superpower was an intelligent sort. He knew when he had been detected, and when he was about to be caught. He did not want the young children to have this escape, for it was only for the tired adults with their monotonous lives that he wanted to assist and allow their stresses to vacate. If all the children knew, then what would be the use in their ability to daydream, to write silly stories, to draw as they pleased? Most adults of this town weren’t afforded that right, they were required to work, work, and work, most of their lives.

    So the Shower, quietly at night, decided to up and leave, of this town of Wertferdshire it was time to be free. To seek another town, to set up premises and become known from utterly unknown, the curiosity and joy the adults would feel from exploring his power providing style on their own.

    And when the Fire Chief’s son crept into the shower block, he saw nothing different, nothing out of sorts. Simply his father having a quick free shower, because the price of water was far too expensive at home, with disappointment and sadness, the son softly groaned. Perhaps the image he saw yesterday was but an illusion, perhaps he had fallen down and suffered a concussion, or maybe he slipped into daydream and fantasy and imagined his dad in a fire-fighting superhero way, either option, his uncertainty would remain. He kept this secret to himself, fearing judgement, until his dying day.

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

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  • Story example: Christine the Curious Crab – 24/07/19

    Story example: Christine the Curious Crab – 24/07/19

    Christine explored with her special, unique skill.

    Christine the Crab was an adventurer. Her heart leaped at the promise of exciting exploration and wild adventures. She tried to investigate the sand dunes but they were tiresome and boring to her, miniscule grains of sand upon a million more, what point was there to continue to explore? Besides, the climate of the dunes was far too scorching for her, she’d become a pickled, bright red crab meal if she weren’t careful enough, of this she was most assured!

    So she travelled in time to her forest friends and their luscious greenery to view, their little crevasses, mossy undertakings, so much more to sniff, touch and view! But I hear you think aloud, “Did she say time travel?” Of this, Christine was most proud, to have developed the ability to rush back and forth into time and certain areas that she’d already visited quite cheerily. Merrily, she showed off, showcased her talent, it allowed her to widely explore, where did she learn it, I also hear you wonder, why of that I’ll not breathe a word more.

    There was one area she could not handle, of this she was slightly embarrassed, for a creature such as a crab must surely have certain habits. One such being accustomed to being around and freely entering water, but this little hermit crab left much for the listener and reader to ponder. Was she a land crab, or an underdeveloped marine crab who unfortunately had missed the day of learning the skill of being comfortable inside the watery depths that were begging to be had? She was disinclined to answer, for the truth she will never know, her heart beat intensely and frighteningly when she viewed the watery depths of the Great Below.

    Still, she could explore everywhere else she wanted, time travelling little crab was she, flying before someone’s dinner, and taking a bite and a sip of their tea. It is ridiculous, it’s ludicrous, how skilled Christine could be, whereby she understood her life was pretty damned well great indeed. What did it matter if she could not enter the water, her hermit crab friends could come out to welcome her, they’d meet her on her own planes and she’d show them her talents, by gosh, were they amazed.

    Encouraged by her close friends to chase her dreams of exploration, she became a true fledged adventurer with a university education. Weekly, the students would set off in the pursuit of adventure, and learn the craft of being resilient and appreciating all the world’s wonders. Strictly enforced by herself not to cheat and use her time travelling skills, Christine learned the abilities she’d missed out in self learning with persistence, strength, and a decided yearning to know more to experience and view.

    Now I see her on the television daily, she has her own instructional show, how famous has my little curious Christine become that I’m so glad to have detailed her story just so. An open time traveler, a non marine hermit oddity, why, types like her would rarely be seen. But she has made it against the odds, created a name for herself, educating the world with her knowledge, and assisting other creatures such as herself. A role model is she, and I am so very proud to say, Christine the Curious Crab has certainly and essentially found her unique way.

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

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  • Story example: The Spinning Top Who Couldn’t Spin – 24/07/19

    Story example: The Spinning Top Who Couldn’t Spin – 24/07/19

    I just couldn’t spin…


    I’m just a little baby spinning top. I’ve come into the world and flourished and grown magnitudes, from the size of a wee little finger to a baby size of ‘still most large enough’. My striped colours of beauty were splashed upon me through childhood, growing in richness and vibrancy, my ordered rainbow speaks volumes, not of a creation made daintily.

    Despite my appealing appearance, I have a secret to admit. It is a shameful thing to share with you, this I will readily admit, these words I plan to share with you, I will duly commit. When it comes to commencing the start of my movement, I’m too scared to start myself, for I cannot bring myself to move in circles, this is a delicate and difficult moment in itself. The very first time I attempted a spin, I became so nauseated deep within, I felt as though rats were scrambling in my belly, frantically searching for cheese and red wine, their teeth biting, paining in me in every way. For this was a special type of sickness, only known to me, the rats continued their running, running, running, as I hurled empty air regularly.  

     My mother instructed me to stop, shared her thoughts that perhaps I was born in the wrong body, that spinning was not my style and to cease, for she’d had enough, of watching her precious baby Spinner try to unintentionally remove her dinner, why the fact of the matter is, I was questioning myself, why wasn’t I born even a participant let alone a Spinner winner? My sister was the family champion, she could spin nonstop for seven and a half days, Father was a champion in his heyday: he lasted five and a third days. Even Mama was skilled, she took the pudding at moving for four days and three quarters, and here I was, only being able to take a cessation order.

    I could not spin for let alone a minute, yet this did not sadden me, for I had other dreams for my life and that essentially bolstered me. Being forced to be static, I could perform many things, I could sing, I could play the trumpet, I could write, draw art, I could do anything! Not living up to the pesky family name of having spinning in the skills and spinning on the brain was in fact a blessing in itself.

    For, I could do whatever I wished, and not be questioned about spinning failure any more, or anything else. It was accepted I was an oddity, that I was a family anomaly, and I was fine with this, I was multitasking daily, who wanted to be only able to spin daily? Not me, no more, no how, not me. I was the Creative Spinner of the Family.

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

     
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  • Story example: Horace and his Beach Side Predicament – 23/07/19

    Story example: Horace and his Beach Side Predicament – 23/07/19

    Horace was aghast – would this be his last scene?

    Horace panted as he turned the page of Time Magazine. It was far too hot in this alleged land of paradise, too much heat within the grains between his toes, this scorching sand screaming to be felt, rather than simply seen. It did not help that he was slightly, a tad bit overweight, when he was at this size he couldn’t tolerate the heat as well as he could on slimmer times and dates. Yet he inhaled sharply, told himself to relax, he was here for a bit of ‘time out’ as his wife called it, more like of Horace she wanted to be without. Still, at her requesting of his trip, he had feigned knowledge of her secret she kept pretty, and pretended to be unaware of her secret habit of flying go-go bats, of this he was proving to not be privy.

    Then, from the waters, in the waves there came a sharp groan, as though as a massive creaking ship had appeared and was expressing its greatest fears to be heard, to be well known, a sharp CRACK and a WOOSH, and Horace raised his eyes, a cursory glance, then panic became of him, a tidal wave had appeared. He essentially needed to hastily escape with a rushing and frantic dance.

    Move not could he, he was stiffened with fright, the tidal wave rushed forth, threatening his facade of a life. His thoughts turned to his loyal yet preoccupied little Aniseed, his wife, how he wished for her to be here, holding his hand comfortingly throughout his strife. Horace now heard a cackling, now a deep chortling, morphing into a maniacal, gravelly cacophony. His eyes darted upward, and what did he view? An evilly clouded sun witnessing its fill, of Horace’s shiny form, about to be taken by either the wave or her enigmatic storm, he was, how should we say this, soon to be gone.

    Poor Horace, he hadn’t even wanted to take this trip, it was only because of Aniseed’s selfish secret dream. For she wanted to be queen and leader of the world’s team of fastest flying go-go bats, and now potentially never again of her husband would she see, would she regret unintentionally planning that? Any caring wife would be concerned, would have investigated his destination with much drive and personal style, to ensure the dangers were minimal for travel being undertaken, but research she had performed, her motives were interwoven. Perhaps the tidal wave would relocate him, allow Horace and Aniseed fresh new starts, or, who knew: Horace may even return humbled and this would be a wondrous view of a new life together for them to start.

    For the current Horace could be mean, and somewhat cruel in his manner, looking down upon apparently unworthy, lesser others, and this irked his wife Aniseed to no end. She knew that almost every being had goodness within her or him, and was equal to any other man or woman, no matter how much fortune or stature was held within, it was the character that she prized more. A dichotomy of differences, between this wife and man, all she wished for was excitement and appreciating others for their inner worth, and Horace was a simple, yet calculated man. But in this moment, when he glanced into the malicious eyes of the clouded sun, he knew he must feel this remorse for his past behaviour, that he must change for the good, from morals of almost bare nothing or even none.  

    Some might say it was an epiphany, that God had touched his soul with his very hands, but what I think it essentially was was the fear of dying an unforgiving, callous, cruel hearted man. He may have been loving to his wife, but to the others in his world, he caused them much sorrow and strife, and now in the moments before his apparent death, he had the moment to relinquish his nasty means to his ends. How he prayed to the Lord for the curtains to open, for the wave to be dissected and fold away, gone, forgotten, for the sun to clear into sunny delightful times, and suddenly – his end was no longer nigh.

    Was it all a dream? he wondered, looking into the clear blue skies, his heart was pounding, surely it meant he was a prospect to die, then shuddering, he was left wondering if it were simply a daydream or perhaps his entire reality. Nothing in this land really was what it may seem.

    Horace returned to Aniseed a changed man. His character, of his previous preposterous nature, he no longer gave a damn. He naught felt the need to uphold a character so displeasing, not when he had quite possibly been a man who’d experienced a miraculous saving.

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

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