Shancia Speaks: Short Stories Superb!

It is perhaps the greatest human mystery and acknowledgement, that we truly do not know people. For the majority, who they are is dependent on circumstances of the times, which has led society to embrace this misleading psychological facade of "different versions of oneself." Therefore, they shape shift according to what society expects and have overtime, debunked their authenticity, letting it lay waste at the expense of the soul wandering the wilderness. Who do you show up as, when no one is looking? Who are you when the blinds fall and the moon glistens, shining upon that image which faces you sternly in the mirror? Who are you when you are happy and who are you when you are angry? While emotions and feelings are human and yes, of course, we must honour them, and while they constantly dictate how we react, it is time to take charge of that voice in our heads, the one that narrates the self- fulfilling stories, it is time to silence that voice. By doing so our authenticity ...

Mr. Monday rushes ahead of the rising sun to violently wake you and shake you out of your weekend dreams. He laughs heartily as he shoves the alarm clock of routine near your ear so that you jolt upright, angrily too. As you sigh as loud as the clucking roosters strutting by, the rays of the sun smack you upon your smudged face, blinding you with even more taunting rays of "get up." Out of bed you drag, feet heavy and weary, and your heart pounding sharply at the realization that you must endure another week.... of work, of children, of friendship, of parents, of studies, of doing and doing and doing and doing. Mr. Monday embraces you without your permission and this vile assault upon your life deserves the most brutal punishment. Where is Mr. Friday when you need him? Mocking you, Mr. Monday whispers, "many days away." Your soul eventually begins to weep. How are you going to persist? That is the question you ask while you desire to go back to Sunday and plead for ...

  Before the rooster crows to signal the approach of a new day, the women of the village are already there by the well. Plastic basins balancing atop their heads, pails with handles swinging eagerly in their hands, and tears running down the faces of young children trailing the dangling cloth of their mothers’ garments. The children always dread waking up so early. The women quickly separate the laundry and begin to full bucket by bucket until they are satisfied with the swelling of their basins. Young children run around their mothers and their tiny hands make shapes with the suds that explode like lava after their mothers add the soap powder. The clean, fresh scent always makes the children go wild as they inhale the white powder that travels miles across the ocean in wooden barrels on massive steamboats. Their distant relatives who were fortunate to leave the village and go to “big country”, would always send the soap powder back home, in big, cardboard boxes.  The women wa...

Welcome to the clay pot! Something is boiling, but it reeks of partiality, so you best be careful not to touch the pot, for you shall burn. The goose and the gander have been at war for ages. The goose complains that the gander can do it, but she cannot. The gander stands proud and declares that his blood is more refined because of history in the clay pot and so he deserves a blind eye cast upon his transgressions.  Therefore, if Tara, who historically comes a lineage of toilet cleaners, housekeepers, and menial job doers, dares to involve with a man who is not her own, the clay pot will brew and steam, and possibly explode, for the mere accusation of, "how dare she." If Lana, however, a saint by tradition, whose family owned the land and cows, or owned the first television, or had the electricity first, dares to do the same as Tara and a whole lot more, then the clay pot spews giant bubbles of praise and unequivocally reveres Lana. She becomes a goddess. Tara's sins are ...

One day, you're riding along happily, grinning from cheek to cheek, absorbing sweet lies of "I love you" and "you mean the world to me", and then suddenly next day, you find yourself spinning violently, your head connecting with the dashboard of reality, and you have no idea how to stop yourself from crashing. You pound your head so violently and it jolts your nerves awake. Blood rushes from your forehead, and the tainted love gushes from your wound, leaving a trail of scorn, so salty and bitter. It dawns on you that you have just been involved in the worst kind of accident, and now it surely feels like you will die. A hit and run that shatters your happiness and drains you of all your love, until you are all dried out, with no desire and absolutely nothing left to give. You thought it would last forever, didn't you? Now you, with your inconsolable, teary face, painted white, with a big red nose in the middle, pleading with time to bring you back to when sen...

 The evolution of society has conditioned us horribly. In the name of friendship, we keep our mouths shut to the atrocities of the ones we call "friend". Somewhere along the timeline, we have misconstrued friendship and have come to make it synonymous with supporting everything our "friends" do, whether we acknowledge inwardly the possibility that it may be cause more harm than good. We become either too afraid to speak up, or we cast a blind eye because in our minds we believe that the sustainability of our friendships depends on us never disapproving of any of their actions. What if I told you, though, that the truest, safest and most secure friendships are woven baskets of "I do not think you should", and "maybe you should consider this further", and "you really need to take accountability for your role in this situation". What if I told you that the friendships which have withstood time itself stand on foundations of criticism that ...

 At times, we tend to pursue things, not necessarily because we believe in the cause, rather, the bag of pride sits so heavily upon our heads and the cape of entitlement wraps so tightly around our blinded wants, that we chase what we know deep down in our hearts does not belong to us. In our quest to prove to those who we think we must please, we step onto an invisible battlefield, and we are ready to crush anyone or anything that we deem as an enemy or an opponent, standing in our path of the insatiable hunt for power.  We practice deforestation of the most treacherous kind, using our malice to uproot what stands in our way, becoming vile in our thoughts and our actions. We become blood thirsty hounds who bite through bones and spit out caucuses along the way. "It's mine, I deserve it," is what we tell ourselves at night, to comfort our tainted egos and to bring forth self- comfort, we search for all the reasons in the world why it should be "mine". There'...