Shancia Speaks: Short Stories Superb!

 Mother thought she was doing us a favour by hiding the scars and black bruises with elongated sleeves and sunglasses but we never looked at her skin, we looked at and searched her eyes. We felt her pain in the lashes she delivered whenever we would slightly shift from the perfection she expected, which she never achieved herself. Powerless to father, we became her portal for anger transference, all the while absorbing trauma that would take us a lifetime to unravel and dismantle. Father's food had to be served first and hot, just like his temper, for he was the king of a broken home, with stained fragments of dysfunction splattered all the across the fragile wooden walls. Some days it felt like the house would crumble. They felt they were raising us right but instead we were tainted by the blood of their unhealing, heavily pouring and seething into the obscured slivers of our minds, opaquely teaching us that abuse is love and wiring into our being that unless pain is felt, then lo...

Jera and Tom spend the whole night dancing, opposite each other of course, desperately wanting to caress each other, staring intently every now and then but being careful not to call the attention of the rest of the crowd. Drinks flow like white waterfalls but they are careful to save some of the white mist intoxication for later. No one else knows of the passion that flows through them, and to Tom and Jera, that is the thrill. When Tom looks at Jera, she finds herself in a trance, and imagines what it could ever be like wrapped in his embrace. She squeals at the thought that it might be tonight. Across the room, the tension stacks miles high, and he dares to approach. Looking left then right, like a giddy child, she feels the air escaping her body. Tom asks Jera for a dance. She enthusiastically agreed. "Gosh!" Jera thought. His touch was electrifying, enough to jolt her waist to move, following his every rhythm, his every beat. They feel alone in that crowd, no care for wha...

Not in a solitary prison cell, yet Bria felt confined. The claims of love he professes are starting to feel like murky, running, water and Bria certainly cannot swim. It is always the same prelude to them meeting. Numerous telephone calls a week in advance, saying how much she means to him and how much he yearns to be in her presence, while Bria shivers and smiles and squirms at the thought of being wanted. She plays out them meeting in her mind countless times and can already feel the warm of his touch, the luring tug of his perfume and the vulturous pull of her waist in his direction as he sinks his slivering tongue into her parched mouth. Tumultuous explosions of the volcanic kind, but the lava scorches. As Bria packs her tools of enticement, especially that red lipstick he loves, she cannot help but wonder why a love so marvelous had to be kept a secret. Even diamonds must shine, should they not. With a bit of guilt and a little regret, she cunningly makes her way to the arms of th...

 It is sunset, so you cower as night lurks closely behind, forming a shadow of mockery over the fate that life has destined you. Your transgressions bang harshly as they tug at the chords of your mind because tonight you will beg again. You are not homeless, or out scrambling the cans looking for nourishing reward, oh no!. You are rather, caged in your mind by a disgusting chain of expectation that continually whips you and scars you, causing you to denounce your worth and beg for everything you deserve. A beggar of the haughty kind, for that is exactly what you portray to a society that has timelessly provoked you into morphing to suit their demands. Yet, behind the opaque curtain, you are tirelessly on your bruised knees, begging, pleading, forever beseeching for the invaluable things that you have yet to learn to give yourself. You beg for love, beg for consideration, beg for acceptance, beg for inclusion, beg to be seen, beg to be heard, beg for happiness, beg for freedom, beg ...