Shancia Speaks: Short Stories Superb!

Did you know that just five minutes ago, I cried, wailing like an inconsolable baby who seems unable to find her mother in sight? Yet, here I am before you, my mascara neatly aligned back to normal, and my lipstick contoured to perfection, lips uncurling to reveal a beautiful white smile. Did you know that last night, I went to bed with nothing served on supper's platter because I had to choose between me and them and because of the heart caged within me, the choice leaves no question, it would always be them?  So, I watched them feast and that filled me up with happiness for a while because a mother walks proudly behind her young. She simply lets them have it, a good mother, yes! Yet, here I am rejecting your offer of lunch and boasting to you how great of a breakfast I have had, meanwhile the butterflies play tennis with gas rackets that bounce from side to side. Hunger! You believe me though, don't you, because I have learned to cry with my heart, lie with my eyes, and smile...

The little golden, naive bird truly believed that his wings were broken. Having never flown before, he just assumed that they were useless, an extension of his fear. Maybe a bird's life purpose was to perch forever in a nest. The golden bird's father had abandoned the nest before the little bird's shell cracked, and his mother could care less if he existed or if he was fed. So, all day he sat with downcast eyes and echoing sighs, leaning slightly over his nest full of curiosity, but not too much though, for he believed he could not fly. Then one day, after his mother flew in search of food for her selfish soul, a ghastly wind came knocking. Leaves rustled all about and rain drops plummeted in giant gulps that were too enormous for him to swallow. The wind pounded on his nest and its thunderous hands shoved the nest, causing it to topple. "Oh no," thought the little golden, naive bird. He had never felt such a sensation before, one of complete and utter dread. This...

 All this pain, all the struggle, all the hardships, really and truly what for? My mind is warped as I ponder that the inevitable end of this journey is death waiting at a not so golden gate. "I just spoke to him or her," people often say, and now they must find something black to wear to show their sympathy and help the family lay their loved one to rest. It is not fair, I protest. I am sitting in a loop right now, wishing I could push back the hands of the clock and bring it back to the point where you were healthy and free. When the news hits, it does not care where it slaps you or how deep it cuts you, it just expects you to eat it and swallow it, then digest it. I am truly engulfed in an existential crisis. Then comes the "I wish I could trade places," or "I hate God because He let you die," and "how am I going to tell my son." But would we really trade places if we were given the chance? Would we? Where does the balance strike in our lives?...

 As if I was not supposed to know that! Are you not her friend? This was so easy for you to unload; you are even foaming at the mouth, salivating, gossip tastes sweet. You enjoy this don't you? Sprawling all the details of her life and forgetting that you have sins too. But hey, let's cover yours and keep it sacred and expose hers, shall we? Now I am sitting here staring, and suddenly starting to feel afraid of you. Friendship should be sacred but maybe you missed that memorandum. It should be a safe space and calming energy shared along a bridge of trust, with signs pitched along that read "I've got you and you've got me." All I see though are shadowy creatures, lurking in the dark pits of competition, secretly hoping for the downfall of their "friends", yet beaming with smiles when they say "hello". All I feel is contention, because you believe I should not have attained before you or you just don't want me to have it because you do n...

Slumped down, shoulders drooping, she sighs. Surely, there is more to life than this. It is heavy, she contemplates, as she perseveres and weaves her way through the mountain of tasks that have inundated her soul. It has been heavy for over fifteen years, and she is not sure whether she can continue to balance under this weight.  Her mind now drifts along an ocean of thoughts and wide- eyed she stares, as she remembers the first time she reluctantly had a load to carry. Now that, that was extremely unfair. A little bird with clipped wings, was forced to fly but the wind she faced was harsh and cold. They saw her vulnerability, heard her cries screaming for help, no saviour in sight. They were all so cruel at that time, they never even lent her their wings, and so she was forced to cut through the wind, as load, after load, after load piled atop her back. Though her altitude reduced, she remained steadfast in the air. I'm drowning, she thinks, and I never learned how to swim. Would ...