Story: The Hot Air Balloon – 16/09/19

See this giant hot air balloon? my darling asked of me. It’s all yours for the morning, he smiled.

Me? What about us? I queried. He wanted me to enjoy myself wholly and without distraction.

But darling, you are not by any means a distraction, why, you are my star attraction.

He blushed deep crimson now, rarely was he used to receiving compliments, mainly playful little cute insults which he knew were full of love and meant nothing of which others would use them as.

Run along now, he urged me, run along and have some fun, enjoy yourself. I’d never been in a hot air balloon before. I had always come up with some excuse: too expensive, I would have to awaken too early, it would be too cold, what if the weather turned dreary? And other some such, or whatnot, excuses which masked the true reason: a fear of flying.

I’ll be right here, he reassured me, pointing to the grassy knoll by the evergreen trees. I’ll be reading and researching, it’s important I do so, but I’ll be watching out for you.” He reached forth, pulled me into his grasp, placed his lips full upon mine, passionately. Surprised at his action, I withdrew slightly, then warmed to his embrace. I melted into him because it was rare we expressed ourselves physically.

Thank you, my love, for thinking of me, I said and reluctantly extracted myself from his grasp.

The hot air balloon operator was incredibly kind. He could see I was tremble profusely, that my hands could barely hold onto the edge of the basket which held us as we ascended into the perfectly blue sky, tinged with coloured clouds that twinkled with differing shades in our eyes.

It’s okay, he said reassuringly. First trip in the air? he inquired with a warm smile.

First trip in the air in anything, I replied, I’ve not even been in a plane. What got me the most was the noise as we rose, I was frightened but I knew there was nothing to be afraid of. Balloon accidents were very rare, and this operator seemed to know his methods and flying to a tee. I glanced down at my love, he was reading on his phone, making notes in a pad to his right, his mind set upon certain equations and problematic formulas all of his own. I called to him, waving and attempting a false smile. He looked up, delighted that I was enjoying myself and fervently waved back.

Then, something seemed wrong, there was more strength from the flames which allowed us to rise, we were on an errant path, rocking from side to side. With horror I looked up and realised that the lower flames from the burner had extended far past where they were meant to be and were situated up near the exit hole of the balloon, exposing the likely flammable material to excessive heat, now what could I do? I was too high in the air to jump, but above it showed that we were going to fall anyway, what could I do but scream for my love, to tell him how I felt once more, before I might become gone, gone, gone, away my life would go, crushed or flown away.

I shrieked for him to hear above the burners that scolded the air for listening on its firm intent on destruction, I stared at his bowed head and willed him to raise it, to captured my attentions, but I could smell the acrid scent now, a certain plastic-like melting odour in the air, then a rapid whoosh, and away we dropped, into a group of sharp, gnarled bushes.

I heard him scream my name in the background of the silence which was the result of our inevitable, heard him breaking through the bracken of the bushes, clawing to see if I was alive, for himself. The operator and I were shocked beyond belief, he now was shaking, his hands trembling, telling me over and over,

This has never happened before, this has never happened under my attentions, it has never happened before.

My love finally reached us, I was not damaged, but I was frightened beyond repair.

Oh, my sweet, how did this happen on my watch, my choice, I’m so glad you are here, alive, I will never leave you again, remain by my side. I am so sorry, for this stupid, idiotic choice, in leaving you in there without me. I am glad this operator was there to guide the balloon down somewhat safely.

After helping out myself and the man from the wreckage, my love and I walked away from the scene which never would cease to amaze me. So thankful I am that he was there keeping watch, but never again shall I ride into the air, no matter within what contraption, not even under another expert’s watch.

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


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Story: The Fantastical Court Jester – 14/09/19

The fantastical court jester had a multitude of skills. Though he felt that life and himself were a cruel joke, he still amused those in the court as he was willed to. He threw up a rabbit from a hat, danced with his feet flung up and down this way and that, he grabbed the sparkling stars and the moon from wherever he could, out of thin air, and then  he would throw them into the area where the King and Queen and Princess were watching with a great sense of enjoyment, yet the parents still projected an air of judgement. Because they couldn’t act too impressed, they needed the court jester to know that he always was required to up his game, as they do say. To perfect his show, better each time, with more elaborate skills and tricks, while the King and Queen quietly sipped their glasses of red wine.

The princess, though, utterly divine she was, was forever exuberant about his skills. Though, secretly, just between yourselves and I, the Princess had a great crush on this fantastical court jester who didn’t really appreciate his wretched life. And how could he, where he was hired as a mere spectacle, there to amuse and be laughed at, by beings in the court who he felt were buffoons who liked to belittle him. Princess never said a thing about her secret love for him because she knew that nothing could come of it, besides she was already promised to Lord Chive. She hated that obnoxious boy, yet her mother and father had picked him as her future husband because his family had much wealth hidden and also on display. They didn’t shy away from living the life of extroverted billionaires, and this fact made the King and Queen feel very pleased with their selection, of their daughter’s future man.

Still, Princess dreamed of her jester, his smiling face, his painted, decorated eyelids, his twinkling bells on his costumes that when heard, caused her tingles and shudders, in the only good constructionist way that was known how. A tingle here was enough to make her heart leap and bound, and cause an ache deep within her stomach that no food could appease. She needed to view his shows again, over and over, because he was her living drug, the thing she most desired. How much she hated that wretched Lord Chive for being promised as her man for the rest of her life, why, she was only nineteen, she had eyes, ears, a heart and mind, surely, she could select for herself. She would choose her ironic court jester, who had recently been catching her eyes.

The jester wondered whether there was something going on with the Princess, for she stared at him with such hunger and intent. It wasn’t as though he was undressing before her, to a tight bodysuit to showcase his pasty skin, but with bulging muscles and a well-built chest. Occasionally he caught her stares, when he dared to look at her beauty which he’d just realised was there, a wide-eyed glance into her brown docile eyes and slowly, over time, during his shows, he, too, began to fall in love. Before each show he would be nervous now, whereas before he couldn’t give a damn, prior to this, a show was just a show, but with a special audience who actually appreciated his skills, and perhaps more of him, he felt a warmth in his heart that made him fulfilled.

Then, one morning, when the court jester was ready to perform, he took a deep breath and walked before the King, Queen, and daughter. He was wearing a brand-new outfit, selected especially to please the princess, he wore hearts plastered all over his front and his back. And as he danced slowly, sensually, catching the princess’s eyes often, the King and Queen were outraged, they couldn’t believe this treason!

“What on earth is going on?” demanded the King. “I want to know right now!” Suddenly, the jester snapped to, what was he doing here in this love-suit? What on earth had possessed him to create and wear such a thing, when he knew that his feelings for Princess needed to remain hidden? He was just a mere jester, a slave of entertainment, nothing but a speck of dust in the eyes of someone as noble and wealthy as Prince Chive. Abashed, embarrassed and mortified, the jester hung his head, apologised profusely and walked off the stage, proceeding to cry. He wailed and wailed and wailed, knowing that he’d likely be dismissed, into their lands of the forest, where those who committed criminal acts against the royal family lived. The last time he would see his beloved princess had already occurred, it had passed, and her facial expression of confusion mixed with acceptance and love for his visual love proclamation would be what remained in his mind, forever there to be drawn upon and observed.

But, the jester was not banished to the forest, instead he was locked up in the dungeons. Which would be a worse ending? he wondered to himself. Still, at least he could see his princess; every morning she snuck into the chambers of prisoners, and fed him her elaborate and rich breakfasts which she’d refused herself. There she told him of her love, which had blossomed before he even realised, of how his irony at life and means of still projecting happiness were what drew her to him. He would then share his brightened realisations, the moments that he knew she loved him for him, and the moment that he decided to proclaim his true feelings with the heart-suit, before the Queen and King.

Eventually, the jester was freed, and was allowed to remain in the castle. Instead though, he was assigned a different role, and it was within the kitchen, deep in the mass of passageways, where King and Queen believed their daughter wouldn’t find him. The reason they kept him in the castle was a very simple fact: once he had received enough punishment for his behaviour, he could return to his jester role, because he was extremely talented at that.

Love still secretly blossomed though, and whispers of their emotional affair caught wind of Lord Chive’s ears. Mortified by Princess’s lack of loyalty, he withdrew from their arrangement for future husband and wife.

“If she cannot remain loyal, before we are even wed, why makes you think I’d like to bring her wholly into my life?” said Lord Chive to the King. Outraged at the scandal which had still unfolded beneath his very nose, he summoned his daughter and growled at her, with great anger, and he expelled her from the castle at once along with the traitorous jester. They could fend for themselves for some quite time. Of course, they would be allowed back, for not for a decent amount of time. Punishment needed to be observed firstly as something of a permanent kind. Instead of being desperate and feeling betrayed, the court jester and Princess were overjoyed at what had occurred, because now they were free, to love and be, without any need to hide from the eyes of her parents or the world.

The King desperately missed his daughter and soon realised the error of his ways. She was the light of his life, and he had simply flung her aside, because her heart wanted to know another, not the man he had deemed as the correct, wise choice. Who was he to decide who his daughter should love? Was it his role – no, never! – to force her into an alliance that would benefit the Crown, but not the girl? He felt ashamed of himself, and sent out troops to welcome her daughter and her new love back into the castle. Once found though, they didn’t wish to accept the invitation. The irony of the situation is, sometimes a forced freedom is exactly what one needs to realise their own slice of heaven.

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


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

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: 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 Tenacious Little Bumblebee Who Found His Dancing Way – 09/08/19

There was a little bumblebee as cute as cute could be, he travelled far and wide so of the world’s pollen he could see. He collected it, and shaped it, and made it into liquid gold, he was tenacious, he was determined, he was everything good that could be shown of and told.

Tenacious Bee was a fan of most things, which were upbeat, lovely and jiving, one example of this was he was an enormous fan of Latin dancing. The Cha-Cha, he’d cha-cha-cha away, as he collected his pollen for the day, the Rumba, the Tango, of how these dances with their rhythmic meters made him feel alive! The only problem was, he knew there was something missing from his dance. A lady friend, a bee of this land, to couple up with him, to grasp his hands, to tap. tap, dance!

Still, he did not allow this to bother him, he could go happily on his way, for he was a persevering bee and he had much to dance for and much to say. He was the local member of his Hive and of this committee that he was part of, they spoke every month of which new dances to embrace and love. This month’s new introduced dance was the Jive, its movements made all the gathering bees come alive.

The point of assigning a monthly dance to the pollen collecting crew was to create joyous melodies and workers through and through. To create resilient insects who could work tirelessly all day, distracted by their monthly dance to keep the blues away. So the Hive took to dancing the Jive, in the month of August, its strength was potent, the equation of rhythm, music and dance was a most desirable way to  recommence the happiness process.

One morning, while Jiving away, something caught Tenacious Bumblebee’s eye. A female form, long, thin, nothing there to cause a detracting from his wandering sight. She was most beautiful with her elongated, pointed form, was this the Queen bee, he wondered, of his dances did she wish to learn? Slowly, slowly, she made eye contact, a knowing wistful look within her eyes; it was as though she were beckoning him, with the emotions tumultuously intact, held inside. The seductive look, perfect for introducing the tango, one, two, three, one, two, three, she lunged forth, clasped his legs and began to dance Bumblebee’s dream.

“But Queen Bee, why are you so far from the hive?” he asked with astonishment. She smiled and quietly said not to worry the pretty mind he had inside. To enjoy the dance, he finally had a partner, she knew he had been quietly calling out with great ardour.

“But, how did you know?” he asked. “I’d not breathed a word of my desire, of my unrest.”

“Queen’s do know, Queens know best,” she replied knowingly.

After their dancing, she welcomed him back into the hive, where he could view her chamber, and the living larvae inside. “These are my young children,” she said, and wasn’t she so very proud? “Perhaps I’ll make more of them, with someone I love, this I will allow.”

And rest now did the Queen, she was tired from the lengthy dance, after all, she barely moved these days, she had so much responsibility to take care of in her life. However, she was most gladdened to have found a dancing partner, who could come and go as he pleased, and who she knew would never leave her entirely alone, for he was known for persisting in his pursuit of love, ardour and personal power.

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

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Poem and Drawing: Jacqui’s Worldly Beauty – 27/07/19

Picturesque Jacqui striking a pose.

When Jacqui looked into the full length mirror that day,

What did she see that led her astray?

Was it the small bump on her nose?

The purpled birthmark above her left toes?

Or the misshapen right eyebrow that needed delicate plucking and multitasked managing?

Everything Jacqui could see before her, of herself,

Caused her to be displeased.

Nothing was perfect,

Nothing was right,

To her she needed a reimaging, an overhaul, a makeover,

To match her insides.

She knew that internally, she was a beautiful, loving, caring person,

This her mother would reflect each and every morning saying,

“Jacqui, keep being loving, keep being kind, everyone sees you for the beauty you have and are inside.”

Yet these words halted her,

It was as though she was visibly unworthy of her inner truths,

That her personality did not match the outer appearance,

And it was as though her mother was hinting at that too.

So when Jacqui looked in a reflective surface,

Desperate to find something visible to adore,

She could only find faults, problems, wrong, wrong, wrongs,

Nothing that could be appreciated and admirably looked upon and mentally stored.

But Jacqui was lovely!

Jacqui was fantastic!

She wore her head bald and proud,

A statement to the world,

That she was different from the crowd.

She knew how to pose for photos,

In a most inventive, imaginative, photogenic manner,

And with false bravado,

She could even break into runway modelesque behaviour.

It did not matter what flaws she believed she had,

For these were so minute they were small, of such paling insignificance,

That I could squash them with my forefinger and thumb into disappearance.

For the truth of the matter is Jacqui was a wondrous being, inside and out,

And she simply needed some convincing,

Some cajoling,

To know that she was wonderful, and the world was better with her,

Not without.

 And one fine day, at the park she happened upon a lost dog,

 “Are you lost, dear honey?” she asked, bent at the knees and gently patting his scruffy fur.

“RUFF!” the dog ruffed, and led her to her future love, a great star.

With wonder, Jacqui approached his presumable owner,

And reflected in his big brown eyes,

She saw herself, awe and star struck,

Trembling quietly inside.

Was this her love, her future man, was this who she was meant to be with for life’s tumultuous ride?

Struck with a similar feeling, the man smiled at her knowingly,

“Jacqui? I’ve heard of you, beautiful, intelligent, kind and lovely You,” and with a wild anticipation, she pictured herself with him forever: him, her, and Ruff the dog, living at the house across the street, number twenty two.  

I shan’t suggest any further,

Whether Jacqui had met the man who would help her understand,

With his reassuring,

That she was perfect,

Internally and externally.

But if you have a certain hunch,

That this man at least asked her out to lunch,

You’d probably be right,

And the answer would be some positively worded muttering or uttering of such and such.

The rest was for Fate to decide.

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

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