Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose

Tag: writing

  • Story: The City of Neon Lights Hides Something Deep Within – 22/08/19

    Story: The City of Neon Lights Hides Something Deep Within – 22/08/19

    The city of neon lights welcomed deceptively. Visitors travelling from near and far could not shield their eyes from a welcoming so bright, a manner so garish, upon the eyes it was presented somewhat violently. The lights flashed on and off, their pleasing colour scheme dancing in the eyes of the visitors, like flame to moths, and into the entranceway they explored, into the darkness of the unknown. What would the darkness behold, the neon lights only partially and eerily lighting their way, weaving through tunnels and roads and laneways, dotted with houses looking exactly the same. There seemed no one here to be seen, it was as though it was a ghost town, so who were the neon signs being lit up for, it was unknown to those visitors, their confusion could be cemented, it could be assured.

    So they wandered the streets slowly, taking in the brightness, the signs declaring “Money money money”, and “Tap dancing lessons daily”, and “Enter here for some existential fun”. Another spouted the words “Do not dare proceed, begin to run”. At the sight of that neon light, the travellers became rigid, what could it be warning them from, why did the sign’s poster want them to leave? Surely there was nothing bad behind that house’s closed door, and understanding they should probably not explore they still stepped forth a few steps, then a few more.

    “Hey, what do you think we should do?” asked one male traveller worriedly. Another smiled bravely, courageously, and said, “We should definitely explore, it is what will cause my heart to be pleased!”

    “But, we shouldn’t, it’s bad,” the former counteracted.

    “Phooey!” another called out, “let us do what we wish to do with this.”

    And into the doorway they went, bowing slightly as the doorway was low, and covered with a smattering of old cobwebs of lurking large spiders and thick layers of dust particles, they travelled the darkened corridor, coughing and wheezing all the way, hoping for at least some future neon lights to soon light their way. Soon they reached their apparent destination, the room was small, wider than they expected for a house that appeared so small initially, but exploring the room now was of most import, there was surely something special about this area, it must be the truth, there must be something dangerous to view. They sat and closed their eyes now, ruminating on what they might find upon opening their orbs, and suddenly they heard a deep throaty growl, and of this the mostly excited travellers felt well pleased and wanting to see and hear more! A gravelly sounding rumble in the throat and a clearing of thickened phlegm, and now opening their eyes hesitantly, not certain what they would view, there was a gargantuan, a monster right before them. His eyes were bloodshot red, his pupils pin pricked, his hair severely cut, with green skin and terrible breath from abscessed teeth he was more disgusting than any other being in many ways, then he sniffed thickly, the sound of rapidly moving snot. He coughed carefully and levelled his gaze with the most excited traveller in the room.

    “Excuse me, lady,” he said, “Could you please spare me a pot of lemon, honey and tea? My throat is now as dry as dry as can be.” Her expression was startled, eyes widened like saucers, was this monster calling upon her for chores for this hour? With his polite request she didn’t know what to say, how to take it, but certainly he didn’t behave anything like a monster who looked like him, nothing like how she would have expected. She was sorry to express to him that she indeed had no access to pots of tea, but changed the topic of conversation quickly, and with ease did she. 


    “Why are you hidden here, guarded by the neon sign, telling visitors to stay away when you are simply lovely and happy, so utterly vibrant on this day?” 
    “Sit down,” urged the monster, “And I will share my tale.” Thus, the travellers sat upon their bottoms, crossing their legs as though they were in primary school again, and remained silent, listening for the tale to be revealed, it would surely be well outlined to them.

    And so began the monster’s tale of heartache and intrigue, of meeting the wrong woman monster, the wrong teacher, the incorrect master, he spoke of how much bad luck did he have to experience, in his life of such an up and down rollercoaster, for his lifelong work of inventing he’d only received a pittance, and his patent had been incorrectly filed and he’d lost control of the ownership of his prized invention. It was intended as his main source of future income. As each saddening fact was revealed, the travellers felt their hearts ache, and their understanding of his life become ingrained in them, they could actually feel his sorrows and his aching and how he felt and thought when the events were unfolding or being undertaken.

    Finally the monster said that he had been placed in this guarded room not for his safety, but for the outside world, for the Others, because he was far too intelligent, too superior, to be mixing with these non-monsters. The humans didn’t wish to be exposed to his intelligence because what came with it was the bad luck that was somehow interlinked, and being in the same vicinity as the humans, they believed the transference of the intelligence with bad luck was imminent. So they kept him within this tiny room until they could extract his knowledge and talent, and leave him with nothing, other than bad luck as his fact.

    “But, Monster! How unfair is this! You cannot be punished for being smart, for having a well wired mind, this cannot be, this completely breaks my heart!”

    “Ah, but the humans think it is right, it is so, here I will live until I die, my body will then rot and then go. Deeply saddened by this mental image, the travellers decided to break Monster out and here of their plans they could envisage, they would drag him through the tunnel slowly – it was almost not wide enough for him – and out and into the dangerous City of Lights would they bring him, only temporarily. Then he would be brought out away from the deceitful Welcoming sign, and taken into the fields, the hills, where he could live, finally being truly alive. They would take him on their worldly travels, they had nothing to fear, not even his bad luck, for that was for superstitious individuals, such as the ignorant, cold hearted people, in the City of Neon Lights where he was gladdened to have departed. It really should have been called the City of Broken Dreams, but at least the humans weren’t visible in the streets, ready to counteract Monster’s presence with a fight, this city was nothing like what it initially appeared and seemed.  

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

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  • Story: Bruce the Cheerful Dreamer Beaver Thinks Big – 22/09/19

    Story: Bruce the Cheerful Dreamer Beaver Thinks Big – 22/09/19

    During his break, Bruce secretively lugged his bags of water from the river into the night, in the depth of twilight he transported them to the colony’s dam without being within any other creatures’ sights. He relished this task, he had taken it upon himself, to add to the H2O to the family’s dam, to create a large area to rest and bask. Bruce, being a willing and helpful beaver moved through the rushing river water, capturing bagfuls, to expand the colony’s homely horizons where they could relax and feel no stressors their nights or days, thankfully this process was complicated by no other.

    Bruce was a young beaver, only three seasons old, he had mighty big dreams, they were so very bold. To create a wild yahoo land of a colony, with rushing water slides and miniature pools to be seen, this was his lifelong passion, his far reaching, ambitious dream. His aim was to become older and study as an engineer, where he could realise his water theme park dreams, and cause the younger beavers and older beavers the desire to cry, wail, in an excitable style, enjoyment would be available, on display, everywhere to be seen.

    For he wanted to cause nothing but joy within others, this was his ultimate aim, this was why he worked the normal night shift at building up the dam with muds, sticks, trunks, bits of hay, with several break periods where he sneaked in some water for their comfortable stay, and then after the shift rest for a few hours, and rise again to transport more water throughout the day. That way, the pond caused as a consequence of the blockage in the river, would mean that it would remain deep and silent, and allow a place for them to build upon their little compact homely home, of which their efforts had delivered.

    Their home, The Sleepy Lodge as it was called, was constructed with walls which were firm and of woven, weaved bits of moss, sticks and grass, and here the group of beavers rested for the majority of their day, the colony of beavers who thought they had everything perfect, a relaxation house to rest all day. Then off to the dam again, to make it stronger, more detailed, with its design, the beavers were busy every evening, the lot of them, understood what it was like to create and make magic outside of the normal working day.

    Bruce, being a perpetual dreamer, while transporting the water bags, he understood, knew that while his nightly and daily tasks were secretive from the others, he was still risking being viewed, but how could they not understand, surely they knew, that when they awoke to work in the night, the waters levels were more than replenished, and Bruce was resting now for a couple of hours, out of their sight. How could they not compute what Bruce was performing for them, the arduous back and forth work, the back breaking task done for the lot of them, for their comfort, their security, of the perfection of surroundings of their large domed Lodge, the sleepy beavers needed to appreciate whoever was doing this water moving task – because if no one did it, the water would never be replenished, nor would it last. Their eyes didn’t ever catch him during the night as they worked, as he carried water during his rest breaks, they didn’t notice him in the dark. Perhaps their eyes were far more attuned to the textural sticks and such, that the lurking figure of Bruce in the shadows didn’t show, he was far off anyway, somewhat of a purposeful outcast.

    While working Bruce dreamed, of the interaction of this future slides and pools and how they would intersect freely, he relished the time he had in this thoughts. There would be no height restrictions, there would be no rules about certain ages only allowed to enjoy these, the beavers would be allowed to do as they pleased. The rides would be safe for all ages, you see, and with the correction of linked slides, they would obviously be able to ride, ride, ride, and then safely leave, there would be no dead ends, no scary rides upon to be sent, it would simply be a water park of great joy and this was what Bruce had his heart upon greatly set.

    Sneakily, the cogs started to turn in dear Bruce’s mind, for he had been working too hard and without enough rest that his thoughts were beginning to chang and chime, ringing here, ringing there, everything was setting off, his ideas becoming outlandish, and of his ideas he did dare to think of them possible, right here and then! So in the pond of water by the dam he stood, ankle deep, tail thumping, thumping, as his thoughts were tossed and turned, and he began to realise, it was being understood, that he didn’t need to wait to become an engineer, he was already talented enough from constructing the Lodge with his other beavers – he should not have any construction fear. He rushed into the lodge, into his back room, where he shared with three other beavers, known as being from the Brotherhood, and he pulled out a few sheets of blank paper, began furiously drawing up plans, by the end of the evening, he had enough to work with, he would do this, this he knew he could, complicated construction after all wasn’t only known to Man.

    So instead of transporting the water during the day, while the others rested, he began the construction of his sliding tunnels, he shaped them with mud and twigs and lined them with hay, then he made them slippery with the liquid of a special plant, only the beavers knew of its existence and boy, was it made to last. The other beavers soon noticed the construction going on though, they wondered at who had become crazed, they didn’t understand how whichever beaver was responsible could be so maladjusted in the brain. For the maker had obviously lost the plot, there was no sense, riddle or rhyme in the making, it didn’t look like a lodge wall or domed roof, or thick dam, it was a strange undertaking. Still, they left the construction there by itself, wondered each night at how it had become more and more grown, and then slowly they understood what was being made, maybe for them! A world of fun and fantasy, sliding and pools, endless fun to be had.

    Now Bruce cheerfully returned to moving the bags of water, filling his pools, allowing the drains and plumbing he’d created in the slides to be flowing and new, the water rushed consistently down the tubes, and proudly, he presented his fun water world to the rest of his colony, his family, his crew. Oh, how they cheered, they could not be more appreciative, of their daily slumber and relaxation they would be freed of indeed. Instead of lying around during the day, being somewhat useless, they could be happy and joyous, and experience all there was to do in the Land of Bruce for his crew. This was what he called it, simple and sweet, just like the smiles he would soon be seeing, from the youth and the adults, how fine their time here would be, they would never, ever tire of the result of Bruce’s dreams.

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

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  • Story: Dragon the Maddened Punk Rocker and Roland the Skilled Tiger – 21/08/19

    Story: Dragon the Maddened Punk Rocker and Roland the Skilled Tiger – 21/08/19

    Dragon the Maddened Punk Rocker held endless sold out shows. Wherever his voice would crackle and growl, endless dragons and other appreciative figures would go. They loved his deep throaty talent, his ability to generate energy from the crowds, but most of all they appreciated his vocal percussion, he was skilled at what he could do, this he was endlessly told. Crash bang here and crash bang high-hat there, the percussive effects he could showcase without concern, effort or care. He was self taught of this skill, he never needed his very own drummer, for he was a drummer punk dragon unlike any other.

    However, what Dragon was also equally known for was his ability to rock, he’d thrash and throw himself around the stage, throwing his segmented Mohawk hairstyle to and then fro, he was such a lively entertainer, a great performer, he could generate the very essence of what was deemed as punk rock. Despite him having styled his Mohawk to within an inch of its life with basically hair superglue, it was still movable, and this he despised, he wanted a hair stylist who would know what to do. Basically, he had been doing his hair and makeup all on his own, and one day he realised, to himself, that he could afford to have his own stylist and makeup artist, all for his own. He was a millionaire many times over, why was he doing his own styling, it was outrageous, it was crazy, it was simply embarrassing.

    So he placed an advertisement in the paper, as Dragons are wont to do, calling forth a stylist and a makeup artist for a client who he simply described as “well to do”. He knew not to use his real name, nor to make mention of his own occupation at all, because he didn’t want to attract those wanting fame from his presence, he wanted those humble, and willing to perform the best of their work. He found three potentials: one called Amy, a shy lizard who had a great hairdressing portfolio, then Sandy, who was more focussed on making him endless coffees and providing compliments that made him roll his eyes and want to send her away with her little famous dreams, scurrying off home, and finally, the perfect candidate of them all, Roland, the tiger who was skilled with makeup and hair, who seemed to know it all.

    During the interviewing process he had had bad feelings, of course, about Sandy, she was seemingly only interested greatly in the job now that she had met Dragon and knew how famous was he – and potentially how famous she could be, Amy was rather bland in her personality, she lacked the fierceness he wished his staff to have, but Roland was perfect, they chatted about music, percussion, hair gel and styling mousse, and everything from here to there. They actually got on like a house on fire, and of this Dragon was forced to admit, that Roland was everything he could want and expect to prepare him for his nightly shows, making his image into that of a punk dragon king. He asked Roland to style him as a test, and perfectly made up was his segmented Mohawk, it was presented as its very, utmost best, and then and there he was hired, the others would be called by his secretary, informing them of their negative news of that hour.

    So now Dragon was free to rock, never bothering his head about whether his hair was falling side to side nor splitting apart, he could expressively percussively sing, throaty rumbles, clever rhymes, tunes, and Roland, of him, he was taken everywhere around the world where he loved to experience the cities outside of the borders and then within. On the tours that Dragon would like to take, he found out more about Roland’s habits, his dreams, his soaring feelings about punk rock, and other things, such as his dislike of dried fruits, especially dates. For they stuck in his teeth, and made him feel greatly at unease, but this information is useless to most people, it does not inform of much, nor please.

    So we move on to discover that Roland was a talented singer, he was classically trained, most especially in opera. He had been trying to find his feet, his way, in the classical world, whilst chasing his other dream of hairstyling and makeup artistry and it so happened that the ad to him had called, the simply written advertisement calling for someone of his skill set, to showcase his talents, techniques he knew best. Then it seemed fate that he was paired, working for, rather, a dragon of immense fame and incredible skill, it didn’t matter that he was of a different singing style, what mattered was that he was within the right ilk. He could practice his arts and so too learn from Dragon, from observing his own unique style of art, his music he soaked up every night from the side of the stage again and again.

    And finally one day he admitted to Dragon that he was highly skilled at vocals, being classically trained. With shock, a startled Dragon said, “Let me hear your voice, it must be showcased!” And with great nervousness, Roland opened his mouth, and out came a melody so delicious and skilled, the surrounding beings’ hearts melted, their minds screaming for more, of his voice they became devout. The listeners wanted more and more, and with each vibrato, trill, turn, arpeggio he would sing, oh, how the surrounding world shivered and shuddered, he was that amazing. Dragon made certain to incorporate Roland somehow in the show, his talent would not be wasted, no, he would not allowed it to be breathy, breathed out, he would not let this tiger go. When it came to Roland’s debut night, Roland understood that he could not allow anything to cause him a fright.

    “Just calm yourself,” he said, “Allow yourself to think pleasant thoughts in your head.” With a beating  chest he thrust himself forth on the stage, and percussive mixed with operatic style was then presented for the listener’s minds to be heard, interpreted, and saved. How they whooped and hollered, they had never heard of anything so innovative, so amazing, so different this was from what Dragon usually presented, his normal sound, it was like two musical lines were clashing but weaving, and so eloquently the differences were as they were being presented deeply and shrilly. One melodic, the other crash-clash, and an operatic finish, from tenor to falsetto, Roland had performed his best. Dragon the Punk Rocker was over the moon, their duet should be featured every concert from then on, Roland was now known of as incredible, amazing, he would famous so very soon.

    But he shied away from the crowd, felt it too overwhelming and cumbersome, perhaps he would sing behind a curtain, this is what he had decided, until he could grow less awkward, of being ogled and stared at. He was a shy young thing, and he wasn’t used to the raucous environment, from the sidelines he was happy to have his time spent. So Roland had had his few minutes of fame, perhaps one day he would grow courageous again. But for now, he was happy to be behind the scenes and tend to Dragon’s makeup and hairstyling, this was enough of his chosen talents that the world would be seeing. Occasionally though, he sung the duet with Dragon, from the sidelines though, he was an unknown tiger to the lot of them. To the concert goers that had viewed his debut, they remembered him fondly, but never knew of which way he had decided to go, to pursue his chosen truths.

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

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  • Story: The Frog King Kisses Many – 20/08/19

    Story: The Frog King Kisses Many – 20/08/19

    The Frog King had kissed many princesses in his time. None were to his liking, his tastes, the flavour of human was too overwhelming. He had no idea why he was required to couple up with a human being, when of his own species he felt an overwhelming inkling, a great fondness of feeling. It had somehow been programmed into his royal family that he was to rule the Primitive Pond Kingdom with a regal lady, not his frog princesses that he witnessed each morning playing with tadpoles so merrily. He felt an inner angst when he walked by them, in the heart of the pond’s town, he was regal himself, majestic, well grown, he was strong enough to be firm with the rules, make them unfold. But he couldn’t go against the manners of his sovereign state, he knew he had to conform, lest the kingdom fall into ruin, saving it from mortification and embarrassment, it would be too late to relearn.

    Every morning, he was required to parade to the Crossroads, where there was a chair, a small table, and a little umbrella, the frogs called it a Dating Brolly. Here he would sit, for hours on end, meeting human princess after human princess who would apply to be seated with him, but then – when they leaned in for the inevitable kiss, which should alter the right one into a hopeful Princess Frog or Queen, he could not help but pull away, disgusted of this practice he was, of this be assured. Leaning in closer, their lips made a smmmmack! And no transformation ever was there, this was a blatant fact. Now Frog King had to deal with saliva upon his lips, wiping away the remnants of their unwanted kisses, and then oh wait, would you look at the time, it was nine o’clock – or some such – he would claim he had another engagement at a quarter past nine! And toddle away with the brolly would he, wherever he desired to go, feeling the heavy breathing behind him of the human princesses who downright refused to go, they stalked him, they followed him, displeased with him, yet desiring him, they simply would not take the obvious hint. So with a great bounce and a hip-hip-hippity-hop Frog King would be gone, of their presence disappeared, completely flown.

    Despite his high intelligence, Frog King didn’t seem to completely compute or accept that he could alter the rules of his neighbourhood, that he could rewrite the laws, make them plain and easy to see, that this current Frog King could decide to be single and no longer forced to mingle, he would not be required to kiss many who waited each morning in a desperate, heaving, heavy breathing crowd, for goodness sake’s he now realised that he had kissed some more than three times on consecutive days! It was difficult to keep track of the women when he was utterly bored and still lonely, their company was nothing of interest to him, for their human lives were tedious to hear of, and complete garbage, useless baloney! Even when the thought faintly crossed his mind that he could change the world, make it more positive for him, more divine, he dismissed the thought as soon as it appeared, he did not wish to displease his great uncle, who he most certainly feared.

    Uncle Scott was large, he was robust, he was strong, and Frog King knew he wouldn’t hesitate to clip him across the face if he even breathed a word that was wrong. He claimed he was over protective of his nephew, but the truth of the matter was, he was decidedly jealous that Frog King was the King, and an uncle was all that he was. It was a terrible thought to have, to hold, that being the uncle of a wondrous being, disciplined frog was not good enough, that he was desperate for to provide him a serve, whenever he could justify this it would be done, and soon of this ultra disciplinary life Frog King wanted to run!

    As he passed the tadpole area of the pond one day, dismayed at the upcoming events of his morning he was swayed toward a cute little group of youths, blue in nature and swimming consistently in their group, now one led the others, and follow did the rest, such a delightful view. Then Frog King noticed a little damsel dressed in a vintage dress, white, and cream with brocade lace, hem down there, and corset up to there, with cascading brunette curls framing her face. She looked delightful, so charming and when she opened her mouth to speak, to greet, she sounded so insightful and enticing, she was such a living dream. They stopped and chatted for a while, apparently she did not know of his ranking in the great kingdom of his world, and this he found utterly refreshing; she knew that he was simply a beautiful moment of truth in a first place sash, they could barely contain their excitement at their immediate connection that Frog King decided to do his dash. He would not hold himself liable to the throne’s rules anymore, he would take this damsel on a date, one that he actually wanted to partake in, be on, and they would have the most glorious time and then some more. And even if Uncle Scott would not approve of his new lady friend, he did not care, he would simply glare and stare, and take the physical serve.

    But to King Frog’s great surprise, Uncle Scott was not upset at all, in fact he welcomed the damsel, named Lilac, into the family home.

    “Come wine with us, come dine with us,” he welcomed her, and with a smile, he explained why he had been so hard on Frog King all the while. It was out of complete frustration at the rules dictated to him for his nephew left by the former king in his will, that would mean Frog King was forced to marry a human princess, even though she would be inclined to perhaps make of her king into a juicy, leggy meal. The former king had been of the incorrect understanding that a Frog King’s kiss would transform a lady into a royal froggy lady to be seen and heard the pond all over, and Steve couldn’t deviate from that formal will. The former king had been  misled by words whispered by human ladies as he had passed them in the marketplace, he had believed the things they’d said.  

    As Frog King had discovered, none were transforming, not any, none of the others, and the fact the he had found an interest in this new lady friend made Uncle Scott so happy he wanted to call the world over, announcing the words to be transported upon the wind, in their clouds they would sail, there they would sing. But devious was Scott, he knew of a loophole in the will, if Frog King ended up with another native frog, Scott would reign true leader, just as he wished,his ambition would prevail. When it came to the throne or true love, months down the track, Frog King was willing, more than happy to give up his throne, for his damsel who was never, ever distressed.

    King Scott ruled over the pond with a stern nature and a forcible fist, but the animals and frogs were allowed to live rather independently, and some even wished to continue to coexist. All became regimented and well until one afternoon a human princess attacked him, grabbed forth his face, and kissed him until he became violently unwell. When he came to, he opened his eyes to sternly glare and viciously seethe, but sitting there in front him was the most beautiful of froggy things. A lady, a real stunner, her eyelids flickering at him lazily, he could barely believe his eyes, here was his new, real life Froggy Queen.

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

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  • Story: Egbert the Excitable Echidna Soars in Leaps and Bounds – 19/08/19

    Story: Egbert the Excitable Echidna Soars in Leaps and Bounds – 19/08/19

    “Weeeee! Look at me!” called Egbert to his friends, one, two and three. He was spinning on his feet, pirouetting as elegantly as could be.

    “You go, ‘Bert!” called Lucy.

    “Yeah, keep going!” cheered Brody.

    “Why do you always have to be so showy?” groaned Danni. Danni was the moodiest of the four, she didn’t want to join in to the cheering antics at all. She didn’t like encouraging her friends, only wanted to be miserable and moan, this was the life of Danni, who didn’t want to know anyone at all. In fact, the only reason she was there in the group was because the others had taken pity on her, her internal anger often lead her to self combust, and they wanted her to learn to be friendlier and trust. But here she was, as always, breathing heavily, sighing strongly, upset that she was not being attended to, and that Egbert was the one being observed in a manner very happily and lightly. What did she expect, being morose, how could others look upon her with joy, and most of all she needed to understand, that to be approachable one needed to be open and willing to share, speak well of others, and perhaps occasionally lend a helping hand.

    “Never mind her,” Lucy muttered under her breath, and she continued calling, encouraging her friend Egbert as he performed the movements of his ballet scene’s choreography. He had been working on this for more than two months, every spare second, every spare minute, he was practicing, rehearsing energetically, his excitability calling, he would leap, prance, breathe deeply, gasp, for his ballet dancing took precedence in his world, to gain a place in the National Ballet Academy it was a dream he would work to make truth, to unfurl.

    A slight problem with Egbert was that a lot of things made him excitable, and this had a tendency to take attention away from his goal, provide many distractions, such as that ladybug he found behind his ear, he would name her Philippa, and provide her a terrarium home, or the colours painted on the wall of the alleyway, he would stop to admire them for an hour on his way from secondary school to his home, or the blades of grass, so tufty and firm, he would play with them, giggling, with his claws pressing them to and fro so firmly – he was easily distracted, and this was a problem to him. He knew how to be focused, and he tried his utmost on being like this with his choreography, his routine so well developed and fantastic, but he had to draaaaag himself away from the distracters, in order to refocus.

    It wasn’t his fault, he had been diagnosed with a condition years prior that deemed him as having problems with his attention, deficits from this, a disorder, but his mother wouldn’t provide the pharmaceutical medication as she wanted to heal him holistically. She provided him salves, natural tablets, herbs and all, to rectify the problem, and initially it proved to be useful to him, in every mental zone. His attention soared, his eyes were pin pricked focused, he could dance for hours and it wasn’t a problem.

    But then something happened, his mother lost faith in her cause, to provide him natural remedies, she simply gave up, and upped and left the mission, hiding in her bedroom hole. Word flew around the community that she was suffering from depression, but she didn’t want to be seen, looked at, viewed by anyone, not even a doctor, she just wanted to rest and sleep, then wake, repeat, sleep, again. So Egbert was left to his own devices, he treated himself the best that he could, it turned out that his best wasn’t enough, he needed to educate himself of the remedies, and do this soon. Surprisingly, his friend Danni, showed an interest in this topic, it was strange, given that she was morose about basically everything she encountered, and together they set out, procuring all research they could possibly find, dumping the literature in a corner, they sat together, and began to furiously read, through the pages they dived.

    “Hey, would you look at this?” uttered Egbert excitedly. “Look at this information, this plant, it’s a dandelion, perhaps it has a place for solving?” Then his eyes flittered to another page, darting left then right, then now to another fact!

    “Egbert!” Danni exclaimed. “We need to focus!”

    After reading solidly for three and a half hours, Egbert and Danni were far less wired, they had lost the focus they had previous harnessed, and now their eyes were becoming heavily lidded.

    “Let me fetch you a drink,” she said slyly, and with a secretive smile, Danni darted out to the kitchen, to view was on offer, what was available. Not seeing the ingredients that she would need, she quickly darted out to the Australian natives in the backyard, gently waving in the breeze. Collecting what she needed, she prepared a herbal tea, and providing it, steaming hot, to Egbert, she carefully observed him. He sipped cautiously, carefully, so as not to spill it upon himself, and tried to ignore the strange taste it had to itself. He could not stay silent, he didn’t know what this was, but whatever it was, it wasn’t making him in any way, shape or form excitable, and he wanted to know, why, because!

    “It’s a mixture I made, an antidote, a potion, from the information we’ve saved, and look now! Your eyes are focused again!” With happiness, he felt himself aligned, with everything he needed, he now wanted to dance for hours, to fly! But when he rose, he didn’t even want to try, he just wanted to focus on other things, for a while.

    “Hmmm, this is in an interesting problem, an unforseen moment, with no explanation,” Danni said, stroking her chin. “We want you focused, but we want you about your dancing excited still to be!” And with this, she consulted the yellowing pages of one book, parchment paper, as old as could be, no one need know where the pages were from, where they have been taken, now free to be viewed, and to his tea she added a sparkle from her fingers, click, with a smile, and with a final sip, Egbert was excitable and focused, for all the while! Now with this antidote, his condition was controlled, he needed not pharmaceuticals, or the missing natural remedies his mother used to make for him when he was younger, and now that he was old, and wiser, and with Danni’s assistance, she guided him, medicated him, and their friendship became firmer and more consistent.

    They saw each other more often than usual, they spent time together in his breaks from dancing in the stairwell at school, they confided in one another, and wouldn’t you believe it? Danni was miserable only with a group of others, but one on one she was confident, friendly and all knowing. She simply had had secret issues with being bullied in primary school, that she didn’t like being around more than one person at all. And now that both their problems, for Egbert and Danni were addressed and out in the open, they had the freedom to pursue their dreams.

    Egbert obtained the place he most desperately wanted in the National Ballet Academy, in his audition he danced through the air, flitted so freely. No one could have believed that an echidna would careen so eloquently, and he had everything to prove to the panel members that his skill was there, beamingly, to be seen. Danni buckled down, and began studying incredibly hard, at understanding the principals of using vitamins and herbs, and other natural products, and she realised that she had a great passion for pursuing and researching these things.

    She set her sights on becoming a natural doctor, she accomplished her dream of obtaining a place in a naturopathic college, and for the next three years she studied heavily. By the time the three years were up, Danni graduated with honours, presenting her thesis to the honoured animals and natural healers of the outback, and Egbert was known of by all, a household name, an elegant creature in the Natural World Ballet. Their other two friends had fallen by the wayside when Danni and Egbert had decided to knuckle down and become more studious, although still successful in their own right, their friendship group was no longer in sight. Danni and Egbert are married now, three kids with great minds, they live together, a natural healer and a ballet dancer who was more of an excitable flier, and of their lives, none in the outback can compare. All of this began from being a little more excitable than the others, and a female echidna who decided to try, to dare.

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

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  • Story: When The Wind Changes – 18/08/19

    Story: When The Wind Changes – 18/08/19

    Nana playfully grabbed my nose as I made a cheeky face.

    “You know, Alice, if you continue doing this, your face will stay the same when the wind will change!”

    “Nonsense,” I replied emphatically. “That is nothing of the truth. I’ve made faces for years now, and there is nothing to show that what you say is proof.” Nana shrugged now, with a wise expression in her eyes. “I don’t know how else to tell you this, but you’ll figure it out deep inside.” And returning to making her home made cabbage rolls did she, smiling to herself, occasionally grinning freely.

    Nana was a trickster, she was hilarious and loved to prank. She gave me a mouse for my fifth birthday, presented in a box apparently procured from our local bank. I had been so excited, thinking I was set to receive a money box filled with coins, notes, and other treats, but open the box, and jumped out, what did I see? My future pet, Charles, in all his beautiful glistening capacity. I’ve had Charles for two years now, according to my morose brother Sturt he has not long left to live, the end of his life is not far off, soon he will go. When Sturt says such things, I scold him and make a prolonged mean face, I poke my tongue out, bulge my eyes, and wait until he does say, “Stop that, Sis, you scare me so!” and then upturned my mouth becomes, I have achieved my goal. Off I would trot to achieve another task, off to another task I would run.

    I’d heard from others that when the wind changed your altered facial expression could stay the same, but I did not believe it, I welcomed the common sense telling me otherwise, the rationale in my mind, my intelligent brain. For why should I, would I, believe that some occurrence such as this was possible, I’d never seen or heard of anyone else who’d been frozen. This notion was surely impossible!

    My favourite face was poking out my little tongue, like a clever happy gecko on his morning run, and then crossed my eyes as tightly as I could, I’d walk around the school yard and playground, bumping into things and people, feeling as happy as I could. It gave me great joy to be silly, and Nana, my darling Nanni, was surely only tricking, this was my understanding.

    But then one day, I was pulling a grotesque face, mouth twisted into a snarling opening, eyes rolling here and there, searching for something, and then a gust of wind blew from behind me, near pushing me forward into a nearby tree, and it felt so beautiful, wonderful, that gust, that I went to laugh with great delight and glee. But there was a problem, I couldn’t move my face! It was as though I was frozen here upon an expression in a book, a certain page. I tried to mould my face smoother with my hands, wipe out the wrinkles that came with scrunching my face upon command, but nothing! Not even my eyes could stop rolling and searching, there was nothing I could do, despite me considering everything. Hopeless, hopeless, I felt, I wished I had listened to Nan, my dear loving Nana who was trying to obviously help the best that she could, and with her words floating in my mind, I travelled back to my home, to hide from the world, forevermore I would, never resurfacing ever, not even from time to time.

    I stared into my reflection in the mirror. I was an abhorrent sight. I was grotesque, horrid, how had I allowed myself to permit this to occur, simply because I believed Nana’s words warranted no truths, and arrogantly I had pushed them aside. I pulled out book after book, frantically searching for an antidote, a reversal to my truth, and suddenly, after three hours of perusing, I knew what I could do. Apparently I needed to reverse the occurrence by wishing for something the opposite of abhorrence, something filled with beauty and that I could present with utter assurance, then entering a dream-state of mine, I became in the right frame of mind to be sure of this. I closed my rolling, now paining eyes, and heavily focussed on what I wanted to happen, the expression that I wanted to come undone, and thinking of Nana’s smiling face, I proceeded to let the process happen, a wishing, wishing from afar. I pulled out my electric fan and began to let it run, an artificial breeze, the air produced was a replacement for the natural breeze that made me look like this. I muttered special words under my breath, I chanted for change to occur, making these words, wishes,  stronger and stronger until I could believe, and then suddenly my face slackened, and I felt myself become me once more, with a great sigh of relief, I exhaustedly threw myself to the floor. One look in the mirror confirmed my delighted truth, I had returned to myself, my face was presented its usual view.

    These days I listen to Nana’s advice now, no matter whether she playfully or seriously presents it forth to me, for she is much older, and far wiser, than I could at this age hope to be. I still poke my tongue out at her, don’t get me wrong, I haven’t ceased being a child, but I only perform my expressions for a second, I don’t allow them to remain long enough for a change in the wind or clouds. I have learned my lesson from the frightening event that had occurred, and as with all lessons in life, they needed to be appreciated as worthy moments, and in my memory the feelings and event are stored. I’ll be as wise as my Nan one day, and I’ll hopefully show my grandkids the way, but until then, I need just be myself, and listen to wise advice provided from trusted others, and nobody else.

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

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  • Story: Will Steve the Super Thief ‘Come Good’? – 17/08/19

    Story: Will Steve the Super Thief ‘Come Good’? – 17/08/19

    Steve was skilled, but he was questioning the morality of his practices…

    Of his craft he was superbly skilled, Super Thief knew every emergency evacuation and drill. What would occur from the moment security was called, to cease the activities which Super Thief had honed since he was not so old. If the manager came racing to the safe, Super Thief knew which precautions to take. He was incredibly well trained when it came to avoiding the negatives of being held accountable for his tasks, but rarely did these occur anyway, because he was so calculated with his security wire cutting, his lock picking, his safe drilling, he performed these ever so fast. No one could barely breathe a breath of knowledge of his sneaky back views, he understood, even though his conscience occasionally pained him, asking himself if robbing was the correct thing to do.

    Aside from his possessing his developed thieving tricks, Super Thief had not developed any positive life skills, nothing to add to his lifelong language, no little bricks of knowledge mortar to add to his foundations, his walls, to cement, to concrete his positive path in life, the way that his parents had always schooled him of doing, as he would grow from little to old. Those who knew him intimately, as former friends and such supposed it were not his fault, he had been surrounded by bandits after school, they were the company that he ultimately chose. From those one surrounds themselves with equates to how one could then become, and soon, the growing thief – we shall call him Steve, for now, his real name  – was filled with a burningly bright spark. He had listened to his friends boast of their nightly antics, and proud as punch were they, speaking of their gains ill gotten as so fantastic, and slowly, morally, Steve then proceeded to come undone, it happened slowly, day by day. He viewed his friends as people to look up to, after all, they were ‘cool’, they ruled the streets at night, and their ‘exploratory skills’, as Steve’s friends would call them, at the expense of others, aided them into gaining monetary and accumulative benefits.

    The first time he went out with them at night was when he was twelve years old. He was much younger than the rest of them, who were upwards of fifteen plus years old. The seasoned crew broke into an empty home, and squatted there for the night, just to give Steve a taste, to keep him away from his exemplar parents and warm, loving home that night. The rush he felt when he entered the premise was nothing compared to when he first picked a lock to a cage of bantam hens, freeing them, releasing them back into nature, their world of wild, until out from the brush snapped a fox, and consumed one of them whole. Then the fox attacked the other, purely for sport. Dejected, Steve left the poor hen laying there, feathers strew about, he felt saddened this was caused by him, and that this second hen died not for food, but simply the fox’s thrill of the kill. And then he decided to lay down by the hen’s side, comforting the gasping animal as it slowly drained of life.

    The cruel fate of nature, this occurrence which happened without any hint of reason or rhyme, the randomness of it all made Steve wonder at life. Why, if this fox could steal this hen’s life so easily, so powerfully, so freely, shouldn’t Steve so too look out for himself, before others stole from him, beings so utterly greedy? And what about those who had far too much, who weren’t concerned about sharing with others, at all, their greediness more than enough? They needed to be taken down a rung. Whoever they were, they should be prepared for Steve’s nightly antics and exploratory fun. While this reasoning made little sense, to a prepubescent Steve it did, and learn from his friends did he the tricks of their trade, but one by one they all began to leave. Some to juvenile detention, others punished and sent away by their mamma and pa, slowly, after Steve had learned all the skills, he was the only one left illegally driving in their hang-out car. How lonely he was, so he thrust himself into work, he picked this lock, he entered this safe, he did everything required to take the sadness away from his enslaved brain. All he could think of were his missing social connections, his dear mentors of his friends, until suddenly, an epiphany, it occurred to him, he was substituting this emptiness with this ‘work’, puttying his absence of happiness, the missing friendship borne spark. Never once had he been caught, and he supposed this was a miracle, but then again he was far too skilled to have that happen to him, but still, he realised he’d performed far too much ill, and taken from others, only justifying the steals for the thrill and implying that the victims could afford it, for he never stole from anyone singular any more, only companies and corporations that could afford to lose at least two or three mill.

    Once home, he stripped himself of his thieving garb, removed the mask that had shaded around his eyes, dropped the burlap sack and the backpack, and with the knowledge that he was rich beyond belief, he needed to make this less of a strange immoral dream, and donate all the proceeds of his thievery to charity. His mama and his papa were shocked to see him without his garb, they knew of his practices but couldn’t stop him because, they were powerless, or so they felt, in every moment that they attempted to change their almost adult son into something better, something right, someone who created a legal profit, someone who knew better.

    Formerly Super Thief Steve gathered all his belongings that he had procured from his many missions, and into piles he threw countless pieces of gold and diamonds, and silver, and platinum and cash and rare coins, and assigned a pile to one charity, a pile to the next, and so on and so forth until his efforts thereafter were well spent, the finality of the divisions he would firmly decide. He even decided that it was time to turn himself in, not in the manner though, that most people would view as appropriate, to be seen, but rather offer his services to the security officials and CEOs of the companies he had targeted over the years, and teach them of the vulnerabilities in their security systems, such appropriate knowledge he felt worthy of sharing. If he did so, they could improve their vulnerabilities, cease having individuals such as the negative former character that was he alter their apparently tight securities, and with Steve’s capacities out on show, his motives would be clear, his past then translucent, and wiped by those who would now know who he was and where he had gone to thieve out of principle and somewhat overthrow because they simply had too much.

    Steve knew that his plan was correct and right, and he would proceed with implementing it in the morning, and for the first time in many years, he crawled into bed before nine in the evening and slept there, baby-like, until ten in the morning. No more would there be Steve’s Super Theiving.

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

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  • Story: Miss Veronica the Piggie Goes To Market – 17/08/19

    Story: Miss Veronica the Piggie Goes To Market – 17/08/19

    Miss Veronica liked to look her best.

    Miss Veronica was a showy piggie. She loved to dress up in ostentatious outfits, so pretty. Her little blue hat atop her porky head, her frilly neck collar around her neck, her dainty bow around her tail so curly, why, she was as gorgeous as she could be. With a slick of red lipstick upon her smackers, she was perfect to be presented to whomever she was pass by or wander. No one could ever imagine within was an introverted piggie who was trembling at the drawn attention. Her dress ups aided her in being more confident and self assured. Forcing herself into the limelight, she would squirm inwardly, slightly, but then bolstering herself in these moments, she hardened herself, and became stronger, an outer shell presented so protectively. And the more she wore her attention seeking garb, the more confident she felt, the garish outfits soon became a second skin, and she felt calmer, reposed, and appreciated within, a sense of personal growth throughout.

    Miss Veronica the Piggie enjoyed going to the market on Wednesday, for it was her one day off, and there was much fresh produce, knick-knacks, jewellery, and foods on sale and display, for a pig, more than enough. She enjoyed walking along the aisles, taking in the feverish atmosphere that sometimes accompanied some stalls, the fervent scent of an imminent sale, as the seller and buyer called. She grinned to herself whenever the stall owners’ gaze would flicker to her, taking in her outfit, her confidence, heart and pride would swell more and more. Then she would move on, to enjoy other food or observe other knick-knack delights, she drew the attention of many others, but never caused a startle nor a fright.

    Veronica’s favourite part of the market was where they deemed which animal was best in show. This was one of the other reasons why she dressed up, secretively, why she spent time upon her appearance the most. And the reason she went to the Wednesday shows was because she was only just beginning participating in such shows, the Saturday versions were much larger and of greater competition, and the thoughts of such a larger crowd and amount of competitors admittedly scared Miss Veronica, even though she was such a pretty sow. When she had commenced entering the competitions, she had been greatly lacking in her self confidence, but this had been fine, she was working on it through the Wednesday show system.

    Firstly, the animals were lined up, presented forth to the crowd by name. Then they were weighed, and measured for girth and height, and allowed to perform up to two tasks or impressive tricks to the crowd to be seen. Miss Veronica only had one finely honed skill, and this was to hoola hoop around her portly hips, for over five minutes, this was her drill. Although the crowd was initially impressed, by the two minute mark they were lulled into boredom, but blessed was Veronica to be able to hoola hoop for so long. Instead of wasting the opportunity of presenting a second talent, as an impromptu, she took upon the stage and sung her favourite song by Pig Schneider, “Back in the Habit”.  

    She didn’t win the talents round, and she didn’t win the show, but this was not worth mentioning other than in passing, for the show caused Veronica an outward glow. The ability to stand, being presented, on stage, when initially she was so embarrassed and shy and ashamed, now being here in her garb so unique, showing off her eccentric style, her goal was complete. And ready herself to depart the market and show, when a little piggie, tiny in stature, approached Veronica, so daintily.

    “Excuse me, ma’am,” he emitted, for that was only what one could call it. His tiny little voice sounded like a tiny verbal beacon for an ant army. Veronica did not notice him and turned to walk away.

    “Veronica? Miss Veronica?” he pressed more forcefully, tugging on her tail’s finery. Startled, she lowered her eyes to him.

    “Yes?” she asked kindly. She was never approached at the market, never addressed, this was strange to her, a certain feeling caused an appreciative tingle within.

    “I couldn’t help noticing you in the show,” he went on to say. “You were admirable, fabulous, I loved your song choice. Do you think I could take you out on a date?” His eyes shone with hope, and he wished his request had not been made too late. For he had seen the way the other members of the audience shone with admiration, and something else too, which he could not put his finger on, he would have to perform some research.

    “Oh my!” Veronica said, placing a trotter, shocked, before her mouth. “Of course, I would love too, I’ll meet you tonight at the pub down south.” Little Piggie grinned a grateful smile, he would be seen with this beauty, for much of a while, and together they would eat, and sing, and hopefully dance, why what a glorious evening that was promised, perhaps they’d hold trotters as they pranced. As they parted ways in the crowd, each saying they greatly looked forward to meeting one another in the pub down south, near Vermouth’s Mouth, Little Piggie overheard a conversation between two farmers from the show’s crowd.

    “That winner, mmm, I’m looking forward to that bovine for dinner,” one growled. The other chuckled in return. “These silly animals don’t know they are sending themselves in for assessment, why don’t we just make the process more obvious?”

    “But then they wouldn’t come,” the other exclaimed. “And it would be less fun, at least we are allowing them a final moment to enjoy their Life’s run.” Then the men cackled together most evilly, and headed off to the van which provided hot drinks for a spot of peppermint tea.

    Shocked, aghast, utterly horrified, Little Piggie rushed around the market trying to decipher what he’d heard and seen with his very ears and eyes. From what it sounded like, the show wasn’t an innocent play on the notion of a beauty pagent, it was instead a sinister means of procuring an animal victim for human consumption, a means of fooling the lot of them. He must spread the word now, it must be so, it must be done, and rushing forth to the marketplace’s microphone, he screamed this aloud:

    “Fellow animals, LISTEN TO ME! Do not enter the human’s show ever again, unless you wish the chance to never again be seen. They are looking for victims, to grace their plates for lunch and tea! Now, come now, leave, leave, and never here again be seen!” With this came great confusion, animals running here, rushing there, here, there and everywhere, eyes bulging, obscenely frightened, a catastrophe, a cacophony, and then Little Piggie was swooped away by unseen arms, and taken to a darkened, damp holding room. He was held there initially for the night, then questioned harshly for three days and nights, and ultimately missed out on his evening date with Miss Veronica.

    He could not contact her, he did not know what to do, all he could do was imagine her sitting sadly, eyes wistfully flickering to the doorway whenever movement could be seen. And then by the time the kitchen would close, he imagined her dejectedly leaving, her stooped shoulders a heavy pose, and returning home sob sorrowfully would she, whilst she removed her precious fineries.

    But they would meet again, coincidentally passing by one another in the street, and Little Piggie would share his tale, and over coffee, many others, of his life’s goals and inner dreams, and the more that Little Piggie opened up to her, the stronger their connection did grow, appreciative at being trusted and her company wanted, Veronica’s heart now felt utterly replete, she was one joyous sow.

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

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  • Story example: Billy the Cheeriest Rainbow Whale – 16/07/19

    Story example: Billy the Cheeriest Rainbow Whale – 16/07/19

    Billy the Cheeriest Rainbow Whale’s life was grand.

    By Alice Well (LMH) (c)

    Billy the Cheeriest Rainbow Whale was happy, joyous as could be. He loved to smile from awakening, through the day, to the evenings, even during his breakfast, lunch and tea! He had much to be satisfied and grateful for: a wealthy relaxed life, a happy contented wife, but most of all his rainbow colouring pleased him so much that with each shimmer and sparkle he felt unique and wanted to view more. 

    They were the colours that flecked in his eyes, the abounding beauty that brightened his mood and caused a loving sigh, for wherever the rainbow would be, Billy would be most happy. He felt electrified each moment, knowing that during any ill mood a glance at his rubbery bright blubber would solve it. 

    Billy was the only rainbow coloured whale among his pod of whales, the only whale who could light the darkness without a chance to fail. He lit the way for so many wayward young male and female whales, when he redirected their poor life choices by reflecting their disabling inner lights by shining his onto theirs, assistance to rectify themselves. 

    He was a leader of sorts in the pod, without it being made official, yet one day his role here was taken down due to a useless past principle. He had performed some shameless tasks in his former life, one such an eating of pearls and clams that were others though he’d claimed them loudly as “MINE!!!” It was a secret occurrence that he was embarrassed to reveal to anyone, but a nasty such and such from his past revealed it to everyone, and thrown from grace was Billy, and now outcast from the pod, utterly saddened and alone was he.

    His wife stood by his side but the rest of the crew were beyond forgiving this Billy and chose to side with the such and such.

    So off Billy and his wife went, in search of more pleasant waters, where his efforts at reschooling the wayward youth would be appreciated, and his past neither revealed again, nor pondered. 

    In life one must preach and teach forgiveness and practice it with zeal, while others may have lived or been living with mistakes, of their current lives these mistakes should no longer be judged or frowned upon if they are living with positivity, humility and good will. If the lessons learned match the lessons which have been taught then move from the past will he or she, acceptance and self understanding and forgiveness is of most import, it is a personal locket and key. 

    By Alice Well (LMH)

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

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  • Story example: Stacy the Conjurer – 15/07/19

    Story example: Stacy the Conjurer – 15/07/19

    By Alice Well (LMH) (c)

    Stacy, the Conjurer possessed powerful sorcery skills within herself. These she had gleaned from her mother, Sandra the Grand Master, her spells she’d share while a baby Stacy would sleep upon the bunk bed’s fashioned bed shelf. She learned how to conjure a baby mouse from a little frog, she knew how to teach it to hop, skip, and yelp a mouse song. She could alter water into honey and oats, and a greedy Stacy loved this spell for herself. She knew how to transmit thoughts to the mind of another, this particular spell she kept from the prying eyes of others.

    As she grew into a toddler, then a little munchkin youngster, the spells became more convoluted, and much more complex. She studied hard and true until she knew, a spell of an ultimate test. While she was at the skill level of allowing another to fly, her final, ultimately skilled spell was to create a purple aura of immortality, with this she would never, ever die. Only she knew this spell, she had crafted it well, and with a saddened knowledge she understood it could only be known by herself.

    She watched generations of families begin, build, grow, multiply, the older generations becoming elderly, then with tears in her eyes she watched them die, and while Stacey remained at the age she had gained the aura, the town was growing suspicious for she did not appear to grow older.

    The townspeople cried, “What is this sorcery? Are you a sorceress?” At the stake a mound of oak trees burned brightly, hungrily awaiting a demoness. For that was how they viewed sorcery: evil, wanton spirits, filled with blackened misery. But Stacey was nothing but the opposite, she was loving light herself, and in the moment of the townspeople’s rage she shed the cloak of immortality from herself.

    Without it she grew older rather quickly, time had caught its way up to her, and in three short years she passed away from the world so quietly, so gently, with her loving kitten-daughter Pearl curled in her arms. 

    By Alice Well (LMH) 

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

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