Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: writing

  • 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: 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: The Peculiar Kookaburra – 26/08/19

    Story: The Peculiar Kookaburra – 26/08/19

    The peculiar kookaburra had been slathered with many colours, by the children of Blue Heath, down the road. During his sleep they had quietly and carefully accosted him, and made him brighter and newer, covering his grey whiskers and whiter feathers, which betrayed him as being rather old. Their reasoning for doing so was to allow them some joy, that they could easily spot his coloured feathers every day, without having to look too hard, it was perhaps a selfish decision, but Kookaburra accepted his new colouring with great charm and no sense of anger or friction.

    This kookaburra was like an alarm clock, at five in the morning each day he would rise, and open his beak so very wide, ka-ka-ka-ka-ka ka-ka-ka-ka-ka! he would emit, like a birdy siren which he possessed deep inside. Then the other birds woke up, he was accustomed to this, to providing them with their morning song bliss, and together they all sung their beautiful songs, then up rose the children from the farm, their eyes catching his colourfulness and the association with his song, their cacophony, a visual and ear splitting explosion.

    Kookaburra was known for his quirky looks, his different spiky punk hair, the looks he’d attract, the jealous and approving stares. Although his form was characteristic of others of his kind, his colouring and hair made him different, some might say he was one of a kind. He was a role model to the other birds, who were still of their fledgling status, little tiny grey birds, with wispy little feathers coming from their faces, nearby their beaks, near their noses, to them Kookaburra was an example of truly being oneself.

    Surely these grey birds would develop their colouring as they matured, but in the meantime, they associated with him more, until, their hopes of ‘catching’ his colouring failed to ring true, they didn’t know what to do except wait until their feathers turned bright pink, yellow, and blue! But Kookaburra failed to share with them his secret, that his hues were unnatural, they were man-made, so to speak, and because of this sham, the birds grew up disappointed, utterly, incredibly sad, at not having realised their dreams of being as bright as Kookaburra was, they were now not unlike their more plainer mums and dads.

    “Kookaburra, Kookaburra, where have you been?” called the children from Blue Heath, down the street. They had not seen him for many hours, ever so many days, nearly a week, it was as though he had been in hibernation, and because the birds were lacking his morning calls, they had been stilted in their morning rising and songs meant to be heard by all.

    “Nowhere,” replied Kookaburra obstinately. “I just wanted a break. I don’t look anything like the beauty of me that you once made.” And to the children’s surprise, they realised the paint had washed away, dripped or fallen, and now he was a mixture of mainly grey, brown, white and dark blue mottling. The colours which nature had presented him with, his natural hues, he didn’t know what on earth he should do.

    “What to do?” Kookaburra wailed. “I was so used to being different! At having the other birds and animals and children look upon me with admiration, keeping their eyes upon me with great insistence!” A tear fell from his right eye, and then another, one more from the left, and he began to wail, “Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka, ka-ka-ka, I have failed.”

    The children were aghast, they didn’t know that the paint had made him feel so special, from the others, so apart, and they rushed home to their Father’s garage, to fetch his artist paints to create upon Kookaburra another layer, make him once more a man-made work of art. But to their astonishment, his paints were gone! In fact, the entire corner of the garage was stripped bare, nothing to see, an empty space, a broken heart, poor Kookaburra’s long face, when they relayed the news to him, his expression grew ill.

    “I shall be like the others,” he said saddened, eyes now downcast. “I will not be highlighted for what or who I am, I will be forced to conform, like your concrete, uniform pavers.” And slink away did Kookaburra, into his private area, and rest all night, and all morning, for a week would he until he realised that the false colouring should have meant nothing to him. It had merely been a means to brighten the children’s eyes, and effectively it had brightened his mood, and now that he had been rained on unexpectedly and cleaned, he knew what he needed to do, now and always.

    He would soldier on, he would perform his morning tasks with great style, with his previous flamboyance which still was within him, he would wake the county up with confidence, all the while. There was no need to feel inferior, just because he wasn’t the same, when in actual fact he had always been the same, a kookaburra was a kookaburra, no matter what his colouring, or his name. Beneath the surface, where his true heart and character laid, he would know this, and he was the confident, not so peculiar kookaburra with the utmost of singing prowess. He would not think of himself as anything but more, not less, and when his voice awoke the county, he sung his very best.

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


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  • Story: Dream Crawlers: The Experimental Treating Team – 25/06/19

    Story: Dream Crawlers: The Experimental Treating Team – 25/06/19

    He was the last person I saw as they put me to sleep; I was terrified, they were going to crawl through my dreams. My days as of late had been incredibly disturbed, I was seeing things, hearing voices, and my sanity I could not be assured, not so sure. My doctor, Mr. Celephelump, advised me of this certain procedure, where they could place me into an induced coma, and intrude upon my rapid thoughts of delusions, grandeur and paranoia. For my nightmares had shifted into my daydreams, they were not separated, nothing was what it was meant to seem, and the images which terrified me into the night continued on existing in daylight, a shadowy corner here, a creaking there, a BUMP, goes the fright in my day and night.

    As you can imagine, I was not so certain of these proposed intrusions, I wanted to keep some of my thoughts private, the embarrassing ones, the special ones, the private ones. Would they like their thoughts being read like a book, how would they take the endless openings into their minds, allowing others a firm, scrutinising look? I expressed my concerns with the doctor; he simply laughed all of them away.

    “Why, dear Penny, there is nothing to worry about, we will not use these thoughts against you,” he said with a smile. Under my breath, I muttered, “You may.” Thankfully though, he didn’t catch wind of my apparent insolence, and explaining the process again to me, yet more thoroughly, I understood that I had little choice in the matter of this. Because I was so out of control, unable to take care of myself properly – why, I was eating toast only thrice a week as my weekly meals because I couldn’t manage my finances – I was addicted to buying cigarettes, alcohol free beer, and full cream and flavoured milks – my mind was spinning all the time, bouncing off the walls, it seemed I was crazy, without even a sip of my favourite richest strength dessert wine.

    My alcoholism had been the trigger of my mental downfall, and that was why I now only consumed alcohol free beer, I thought of this solution it would fix me, all in all. But it didn’t, my thoughts centred around how gravity was the answer to everything, how a burning bush that I would light meant the created reference and celebration of Biblical story telling, and my little toy dolls, who I played with giving cups of tea every night, despite the fact I was now thirty two and no longer five, I would talk with the sweet girls well into the morning after midnight. I exercised fervently every morning, to wipe the sweat away with glee, weight dripping off me with every moment, then once home, I’d dehydrate myself further and set my heart racing with a teacup loaded with five bags of tea. Such utter chaos was in my land, visibly by my doctor when we finally did meet, that he was so very severe and concerned that he must enter my dreams.

    “You will be fine,” he finished off, “Allow me to make an official time, we can book in for two weeks from now, at a quarter past nine. Please fast from midnight onwards, only a small amount of water permitted, and come in relaxing clothes, with an overnight bag of several changes of outfits. You may need to stay more than one night, but we shall see, from your dreams, what will become of them.”

    With a presented hand to shake, I formally took his hand, wondering what would happen when they viewed all my secretive, locked away dreams that presently only I could command to come at hand. How embarrassing would this be, if they could view my exact hopes and dreams, when I was but a patient who couldn’t even take care of herself, needing others to decode my heaven sent thoughts and dreams? How could I help it if I had taken the available clues and figured out my true identity, the one which was forced upon me as I grew, as a wee embryo, a little baby inside, I was bound for greatness, this my middle name did decide.

    I was given the name of my great grandmother, we had never had the chance to ever meet, yet when I was taken to her former home by my father, the streets and surrounding courts and roads were the words I used into my dramatically written screenplay scenes. Astounded, I asked my father how did I know these strange otherwise unknown words, had I been here before, for if not, this was all rather untoward. With a twinkle in his eye, he shook his head and said to me, “Darling Penny, you are special,” then he fell silent, that was all he would explain to me. I found it rather peculiar, if you were to ask me.

    Then came the date for the dream crawling, I had been dreading it for the two weeks, my stomach had been perpetually churning. What if they saw, the being they didn’t realise or understand who I was truly was, my great grandmother’s soul transported within me, living now upon the Earth with me, rather than resting in the sparkling stars? They would, have and did call me delusional enough for the thoughts I stupidly shared, the ones which I possessed, wanting to be honest, truthful, forthcoming, as they required me to be, no less, because my mental health team apparently only wanted what was right for me, but now I wasn’t so sure, and of these hospital grounds I wished to leave. It was too dangerous here, I was already easily enough read like a book, what would it mean to give the final, private details, my true identity could never be accepted, and the notion that I was incredibly unwell would be spoken of with great concern, again and again. This treating team shouldn’t treat this way. They should simply leave me be.

    And the Doctor was the last person who I saw as I slipped into my dreams, falling, flailing, helplessly trying to keep my head above the pool of consciousness, paddling despite failing in every manner, I would sink further, it would seem. And then blackness, an overwhelming silence, and there was nothing, nothing like I had ever known it. But I could feel an icky sensation of someone filing through my thoughts, as though they were arranged carefully in a cabinet, from A to B, to C to D, each pull making me feel tenser and more taut. Instead of being able to unwind in the murky scene, I felt myself angering, agitation growing within.

    “Ah ha, we’ve found it!” I heard my Doctor call triumphantly. An exiting motion, a sliding sound, and apparently this meant the selected memory was freed. I suddenly felt emptier, like something was missing, something important, something that couldn’t again be derived, its former presence within me was so potent. It was an original, and saddeningly, I realised that a part of me was no longer alive. I fought now, I kicked and screamed to be freed from the deepening darkness, and swimming desperately to the surface, I broke the air of consciousness with my gasping breaths.

    “Penny? Penny? Are you okay?” my doctor called from far away.

    “How dare you?!” I seethed, grabbing the small folder he held in his hidden hands, attempting to keep my eyes at bay. I ripped open the paper and what did I see? The details of my great grandmother’s life: her name, her birth date, certificate, her portrait, staring right back at me.

    “You disgust me!” I spat, and with that I launched a physical attack, but the other medical staff were ready, within seconds they firmly held me back. But my heart was frantically beating, the adrenaline keeping me still ready, I was panting and flailing and groaning, why wouldn’t they leave me alone now? Deeply concentrating, as I closed my eyes, I reabsorbed Great Grandmother’s facts, taking in her details, her knowledge, her love, her life, and now once more she was again close to and within me, Penny and Great Grandmama together, our names intersected so freely.

    Never again would I trust this doctor, and his treating team, I wasn’t ill, I was blessed and enlightened, and this could have all ended in a terrifying dream. Where I would have lost all sense of the layering of who I was, and who I was born to be, my family member’s soul atop of mine, providing me love and protection, and additional creative energy. I avoided all members of the medical professional of psychiatry from here on in. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust them, I simply didn’t want to be treated for something that I felt belonged within me. Eccentrics and dual lives aside, I was happy with who I was, am, and who I have always been.

    © 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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  • Story: Patricia the Snow Bunny With A Hidden Agenda – 23/08/19

    Story: Patricia the Snow Bunny With A Hidden Agenda – 23/08/19

    Patricia the Snow Bunny’s company was in great demand. She was eloquent, witty, sophisticated, gentle, she knew she was highly requested to be at functions, intimate dinners, group gatherings, parties, wherever she could be, mixing with women bunnies and men. With her presence the room was lit up, the others almost star struck, and with her flirtatious banter, her witty charm on the hour, she spoke of politics, feminism, the economy, she was well versed in many topics that could be discussed and mentally and verbally devoured.

    Whenever Patricia made her plans to holiday in Mount Hotham, she packed her suitcases full of books of great knowledge, old and current newspapers and journals, and a wealth of information to share with the lot of them. For Patricia was not only charming, she was wise, she loved to share her education with the public domain, it made her feel appreciated and lively, so very alive. For there was nothing more satisfying than sharing a good old yarn with a collegian graduate, or a journalist who was here for a rest, therein they could exchange and share knowledge, their lives currently social, she was sparkling at her best.

    What Patricia was most known for, though, was being outspoken of the moral crimes occurring in the Tunsidrab, a land far off, near South America, where buildings were dark, lonesome, appalling, and their interiors were incredibly drab. Therein lived the exiled refugees of the country just near to their door, they had been persecuted and unfairly tried for imaginary crimes by their tyrannous government, and thrown out into the desert scene land of Tunisidrab to fend for themselves. Packed into the buildings like sardines they were. Patricia was most passionate about assisting these poor people, she was hoping to allow them asylum, for each individual. In this country of her freedom and equal rights, they would surely flourish and grow in society with a sense of strength and determination. However she needed to create ties with dignitaries, prime ministers, secretaries, and the like, and during her socialising at Hotham she managed to perform this without being noticed of her motives by them.

    As Patricia’s charm was overwhelming, it was most certainly her strong point, something worth mentioning and saving, and henceforth she was able to get in the ears of the other important bunnies, women and men, telling them the sorrows of the Tunisidrab’s tribe quietly, again, then rephrased, emphasised again. Soon they all were aware of their plight, this they knew firmly and well, and when Patricia announced that she was wanting to gather a stockpiling of rations to deliver via plane and helicopter to them, there came a whooping, a hollering of public approval, her thoughts began to thicken, to gain wind, to set sail. Next move she knew would be to woo Jerry Springfard, the International Secretary, to travel to far off lands and create firmer ties with other dignitaries, and with this Patricia was greatly pleased with herself, for she was performing what was most important for her in her life – to save others with her ambition and effort, and make it look like it was a breeze.

    So as Patricia continued to socialise, during her holiday, she pulled out papers, journals, and other holders of facts, allowed her conversational partners to surmise, for themselves – this was important – that they came to their own conclusion, that it would be best if they donated to the charity of Patricia’s choice, in order to assist the asylum seekers to be approved by the majority of the gathered group here and then. For what these well known politicians and highly ranked officials did not know was that they were slowly being manipulated by this snow bunny, for a good cause though, but slowly, more and more the seeds would be reaped, of which she had sown. She would quietly lament of their fight, she would wail of the conditions in which they lived, and by the end of the evening, everyone was discussing the very same thing. How there must be a change, the government must take action, do this again and again, until all refugees had been flown out of that desert setting and taken to their own sense of freedom.

    There was no point in leaving them there, baking in the dry desert wind, suffering without the majority of the world’s care, for their government had suppressed the information regarding the exile of the large group of their citizens, almost the lot of them, and soon it would be time for their government to come to justice. Patricia spread the word, for she knew of the situation from her journalist father who was stationed in Bosteroo, a nearby country, who would trek toward the clan of people daily to make sure they were okay, despite their paining.

    Because of her wit and her style, Patricia won them all over, they were lulled into a sense of security, quickly, not in a while, and then promises of pledges, and new charities being formed, and all hum to do it was a wonderful moment, for this precious clever bunny girl. By the end of the each evening, a committee had been formed, with a president, a secretary, and someone to take the future minutes when they held a meeting with their board. In the future they would discuss how quickly they would and could be able to save these disadvantaged peoples, and integrate them into society, where they would be known as being of the same stature and equality as the citizens who had been born here, migrated here, lived, born, and living life as they grew old.

    By the end of the snow season, Patricia’s dream had become complete: all displaced refugees from the tiny country had been placed within planes, jumbo jets, and been sent to a land of greatness, where we live so free. They were so grateful to be given this lease on life, this second chance to grow from strength to strength, live a life of safety, and become like Patricia, their hero, more knowledgeable and wise, and at the monumental banquet where the new citizens of this land were brought, wined and dined and celebrated, their hearts swelled, their eyes widened and grew damp, they knew that they had received such a gift, from a little bunny who knew how to properly and tactically present the saddening facts. And they all thanked her, swarming around her, holding her in their arms in a bundle of love, they would never forget what she had done for them, she had provided them a life that, without her, they would have never experienced or had dreamed of, let alone known.

    And as for the rouge country, the brutish government of Tunsidrab, their official members would be rounded up and brought before a formal panel, a version of a royal commission, where their crimes of this world would be held before them, their guilt was so obvious, so strong, now became so well known, that never again would they be permitted freedom within this world. Instead they would be locked away, it was them now tried and punished, but for actual crimes, naught of their pleas would be listened to, nor bargained, they would be punished forevermore, behind the jail’s walls would they live, rot and die.

    The world felt so certain that imprisonment was the right thing, moral and correct, of this they were sure, their fates were delivered and signed by a judge of the greatest achievements to speak, his utterances were never ignored. His final words of the case had been these: “Beg you not for your freedom, for you have consistently lied through your teeth. Learn for yourselves inner peace and pray for forgiveness, for we cannot provide you with these. I find your entire government guilty, on all accounts, be certain to ruminate about what you did to your people who, to you, were originally so devout. Imprisonment for life.” And his gavel had met the wood twice. Silence, then a moment of positive and passionate outcry.

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


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