Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: story

  • prose poetry: the turning tides – 26/02/22

    prose poetry: the turning tides – 26/02/22

    fighting against the turning tides, the waves rise and crash upon the open shore, begging for appeasement, begging the waves for more. The fish and seashells and mermaids and mermen crawl from well beyond the shore. There’s barely anything left upon the seabed, so tumultuous it has become indeed, from tridents these waves of terror have been sent, and wreaking upon my life the charlatans and evidence of danger all around, whose going to reinstate that purple crown? That glowing iridescence that lingers above my head, once there, once gone, and once again now dead, then revived all around?

    There are starfish lingering in the bed, in the crevasses, and one large, large star within my head.
    “I am terrific,” it says, “I am here and now, won’t you reveal, won’t you remain unashamed, somehow?” I smile to myself, for this pink and yellow starfish is actually amazing to me, she’s how I see, I breathe, I be, through the very evidence that is wrought deep within me. Myself as a mermaid, no, that is not right, I need to be five pointed and note-worthy, without means of a fight. And toss and turn now, deep within my rest, I grin widely now, because I feel blessed for having entered into this scene, this amazing joy it does bring, the tides crashing upon the shore, shall I ask for more, for more, for more?

    And now these dainty little crabs dance up from beneath the sand, left way this and right way that, they don’t want to hold hands, instead a conga line they proceed, with no difficulty, of course not, please, under the sea is where they will be, under their sea indeed. The tides will evermore change but they will still irrevocably remain the same. Precious beauty and pink and blue, with danger zones nil, just a rapid wash of hues. The sun shines down brightly today, this very day, and escape, escape I shall not, come whatever may.
    © 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
    Image from Pixabay
    (26/02/22)

  • Poem: An Early Arrival – Spoken Word and Text – 11/08/20

    Poem: An Early Arrival – Spoken Word and Text – 11/08/20

    Audio: An Early Arrival
    Death says, “You’re early!”
as I walk onto the stage.
My guillotine sharpened and ready,
media smiling while clasping notepads,
pressed pens upon page.
 
I was not expected for years,
this is what Death’s exclamation explains to me,
but I am a spectacle,
I am here for the hungry crowd,
they wish to view the macabre,
this audience is here and ready to see.
 
What hastened my arrival?
I could not tell you for sure,
even I am shocked into disbelief,
though of my end, not frightened to the core,
because I am here to promise a show for them,
I am here with the promise of a song and dance,
a strummed tune for them,
I will present until the final drop of the blade for them,
then off I will roll, and that’s the last I will reveal to them.
 
It’s hard to entertain when all I’ve been doing my whole life is just that,
not out of practice but tired of performing,
it drains me so to have to always be alert
and on show,
but the fact of the matter is,
I took this role,
and Death gestures as if to say,
“If you’re ready, off you go!”
 
I gingerly test the guillotine, pulling slowly,
allowing the blade to rise far earlier
than my life, my neck, would ever have expected
to have nestled beneath,
I try the blade, it is sharp, it is harsh, it is mean,
it is everything that is promised by a weapon from Death
who now seems so keen.
 
He is no longer shocked into submission,
he is encouraging the crowd to rise with their applauding,
and I wonder why he is so wild with their energy’s encouragement,
perhaps he wants me to go out with an enthusiastic moment.
 
But, I decide I don’t want to perform a song and a dance,
no, I don’t wish to partake in this solo show expected of me,
in fact, I have decided from this stage I wish to leave,
and quite frankly, I’m done with being this expected version of me.
 
Thus, from the stairs I clumsily descend,
scurry away with a glance over my shoulder,
apprehension in my eyes,
this is not to say of Death I am afraid,
but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I am unafraid, even brave before him either.
 
My courage simply wilted the moment I stepped off stage,
out of view from that hungry, cruel crowd,
I think I’ll stay well away from Death’s clutches,
I want to remain alive for far longer,
I don’t need to hear his grating, formidable tone,
myself, I know I have saved,
with my will and personal power.   

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Richard Duijnstee from Pixabay

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  • Story: Wide-Eyed Elven Pixie – 20/10/19

    Story: Wide-Eyed Elven Pixie – 20/10/19

    There was once a wide-eyed elven pixie. Let’s call her Hannah. Beneath the surface of something great, there lurked Hannah’s terror. Because underneath the façade of her perfectly manicured life, in the forest there dwelled something – a horror! – that would and could cause her much strife.

    Hannah was an unlikely host to this being which attached itself to the one it fancied the most. This creature was shudder-inducing, this creature caused others to weep and wail, because this creature was abhorrently unpleasant and stank to high hell.

    Upon Hannah’s back this creature was firmly attached, sucking, sucking the life from her. Because like a leech it drank from its victims, feeding more and more, this was the creature’s system.

    The creature, Norbert, was a cruel thing to behold; he only thought of himself and how he could benefit from another’s pain and suffering twofold. He was selfish, uncaring, and manipulative as he rode on his host’s backs, and Hannah was suffering greatly from his presence, I cannot say anything less than that.

    Oh, how she tried to remove Norbert, with a thick stick to poke and slide against his gooey form. Oh, how she grabbed at the awkward place he was situated, and tried to pull him off her aching back. And oh, how she managed to shift him just a little, with a shriek and a squeal Norbert know his days were likely limited.

    Then Hannah had a wondrous idea! She leaned against a rough tree trunk. Holding the wood either side, hands behind her hips, she grated her vile pest against the surface’s bumps.

    “Nooooooo!” Norbert wailed as he came away in pieces, like the innards of a bag of shredded three-cheese mix for Pizza night’s meal. Soon only the suckers with their strong suction remained, her lower back felt much better, perfectly lighter all the same. The pieces of Norbert tried to reform themselves into their former being of parasitic venom, but they would not be permitted, because Hannah decided to quickly eat the lot of them.  

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


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  • Story: The Lion Cub Who Knew He Could – 10/10/19

    Story: The Lion Cub Who Knew He Could – 10/10/19

    Lucius wasn’t like every other lion cub. While others simply wanted to roar and eat, he wanted to achieve a special dream.

    Lucius wanted to soar into the clouds, heady as could be, and reach the moon, in a space-travelling machine. He wanted to be the greatest Lion cub astronaut the world had ever seen.

    But how the others guffawed, how they cruelly laughed. “Lucius, don’t be silly, don’t be daft. You cannot achieve that!”

    Their words harrowed him, despite him being a strong Lion cub in himself, he felt the trickling of tears come from the corner of his eyes, a salty wealth. They ran down his furry face and into his mouth, the salty taste a sign of defeat within themselves.

    Lucius almost felt inclined to hide away in his mother’s den, but when he skulked to its entrance, she shooed him away, “Son, take time to yourself, under your shady Acacia tree, take leave of, here and then.” But when she noticed his damp tear-stained fur, her heart melted, for her son how it ached, “What has happened, my darling, what has occurred as of late?”

    With a deep sigh he heaved himself onto the dusty ground, and began to expel his sufferings, of the cruel words of the neighbourhood bullies, in the Savannah in which they had surrounded him. How he was being mocked for his dream, even though many decidedly assumed it could not come true, and how he knew, that with the right amount of know-how, social connections and training, that his great desire to become a Lion-astronaut would almost certainly become truth.

    His mother listened carefully, her ears cocked, her eyes contemplative and bright, and said, “We shall have to do something about these bullies, and this will happen tonight.” With widened eyes, Lucius wondered at her plan, but he said nothing, because he knew that his mother was ultimately secretive when it came to any cunning plan.

    But he didn’t want to focus on revenge. He wanted to focus on achieving, being, flying, reaching the skies. He quietly left his mother’s den as she slept and wandered off into the sunset.

    What to do, what to do? he pondered. “What to do?” he wailed, “why won’t the world hear me?” Suddenly, he had an idea. He gathered his necessary supplies from the deserted camping grounds that the humans who had visited years prior, selecting basically everything; for he would find some use for them.

    He constructed a contraption – resembling as much as he could – a spaceship, with all the bells and whistles. He adorned himself with loose fabric, made a helmet from the remaining refuse of the humans, and there he was, at NASA, where he “needed his space”, he had reached the home ground.

    It was all perfectly well and good to have made his own space station, but now he needed to show others, to have the word spread, to become an internet sensation. He could lord over his bullies, show them his hard work, and wait until the next safari exploring group attended his land to allow him to be viewed and at large.

    With any hope, he would be photographed and videoed, swooned over by the crowds for being so adorable and innovative. He’d likely reach the media outlets online, and soon be seen by NASA itself, oh, what a dream.

    Some might call this plan farfetched, but Lucius was being rational, and realistic. Because, after all, the safari troupes came in basically two by two groups every month, sometimes every two weeks.

    He simply would have to wait and see.

    Lucius knew that he could. Lucius knew that he would.

    And Lucius achieved all he wanted, because:

    Now he’s the first Lion cub astronaut, at least in his neighbourhood.

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


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  • Poem: The Comical Tragedy of the Dismayed Clown – 17/09/29

    Poem: The Comical Tragedy of the Dismayed Clown – 17/09/29

    To some it might be ironic, to others who are cold-hearted and cruel,

    The comical tragedy of the dismayed clown, will, once told, play on your mind for many moons.

    He wanted to be a clown soldier, to fight for the continued freedom and rights of his fellow hilarious women and men,

    Yet,

    When it came to enlisting at the docks on those given days,

    His entry was

    strangely

    unpermitted.

    His grandfather had left behind a courageous legacy, dying many years before at the hands of the serious cut-throat businessmen of Shanty Shore,

    It was his grandpapa that this clown wished to fight the bravest for, and his family he wished to show his allegiance for.

    Yet,

    One look at him, and the government officials

    rudely slammed

    their

    doors.

    Now red faced and highly embarrassed, the now-comical clown burned from within, such mortification and dismay,

    He couldn’t face the other clowns, now successfully enlisted,

    He wouldn’t dare

    show them

    his

    face.

    Once home, he bypassed his mother, flung himself face-first onto his bed,

    Wept for hours,

    At the dismay of his confused mother,

    She hadn’t known what he had set out to achieve that day.

    Yet,

    After the violent battalions,

    Where bloodied clowns and bloodied men were found lying, injured or deathly ill on the fields,

    A formerly dismayed clown was living,

    Positively thriving,

    He was thankful for his near miss, his rejection from the troops.

    And didn’t he learn that whatever had turned the officials off had likely saved his life,

    The irony of the situation would remain with him

    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: Sorrow the Bulldog – 14/07/19

    Story example: Sorrow the Bulldog – 14/07/19

    Sorrow always hoped for more…

    (c) By Alice Well (LMH)

    Sorrow the Bulldog was always hopeful for more. More treats, more pats, more walks around the park, more trips to the pet store, “More for me!” she always thought. The pet store was her favourite for it held so many things, so many items, foods, treats, even collars that were bright and bling bling. 

    Sometimes her owner didn’t have the time to play, or take her out on a particularly boring and rainy day, for he had work of his own to perform, Sorrow was made to wait, and she didn’t want to accept any other terms than ‘now’, let alone ‘soon’. 

    So she’d plonk herself before her owner, glancing up then deeply into his eyes, her permeating sorrow more than visible, watery worlds swimming in her eyes. She had been cooped up for the past three days, surely it was time, that this was the day, for an outing so sweet, perhaps a new treat?? Even browsing would suffice, it would lift her from her grumbling mood, but wait, wait, made to wait, it made her stomach nervously churn, caused her to feel unwell.

    Then her owner gathered his documents in a pile, arranged neatly, in a punctual style, and rushing forth emotions of joy from Sorrow, the joy did fly, they were set to go out, patience had paid off!

    That afternoon Sorrow was sporting a new pink collar, fitted with fifty seven diamantés, she was the height of fashion, worthy of a pet magazine cover, and the sorrow had somewhat dissipated, at least for the day, grumbling and sadness blown clean away.

    by Alice Well (LMH) (c)

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

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