Shancia Speaks: Short Stories Superb!

The shadows on the wall leap mockingly, across the mind's dancefloor, and tango, gyrating under the pulsating rhythm of the nails constantly pounded by the construction man called Trauma. Pain after pain resounds but the shadows pirouette, nonetheless, ending with grim smiles that poke and bore holes into the fragile tiles of the dancefloor. They are relentless, and every time they dance, they become garish and reckless. They tip their glasses, with bellowing laughter and spill their poisoned drinks all over the floor, so much so, that no amount of wiping could ever cleanse their chaos. Fara screams.... Migraine.... Again.  She angrily fumbles for the black dress which hangs lifelessly in the dark, dusty closet. She came close to wearing it one day, but courage and fear fought a deadly battle that grappled and severed her throat, suffocating her, leaving fear to conquer and courage to bolt in anguish, to hide, to cower. Fara is enthralled, seeing its black tip between the hinges of...

He was the hardest thing to resist. A gold- plated halo of lies and deception yet she continued to be consumed by his shine. Blinded, really. So here they were again, this time, at a new location where the birds chirped happily about what they were about to witness, and the breeze rushed slyly to slice the tension that had stacked like a high, brick wall. Her wall. He was about to break it. Again. It had been two weeks since. He knew the exact tools needed, where he should apply pressure, and where he should nudge. As he pulled her closer and greeted her with that coveting smile, she gasped, and before she could muster a defense and a retreat, the sword of his tongue cut across the lines of her neck, with blades so smooth and wet, that she collapsed in his embrace. Territory had been marked. It always intrigued her when they met, the hunger that filled his eyes, teeth protruding, waiting to devour, the way his breath salivated upon the tiny, frozen hairs that spiked in anticipation al...