Shancia Speaks: Short Stories Superb!

I was heading out the other night to embrace the dancing lights and to let the sweat play heated games along the canvas of my body. I had always hated the hallway though, and everytime I had to pass there, I would do it so quickly, as to always avoid the glare of the mirror. I felt like he was always so scornful, judging me with his bright soul-staring light, beckoning me to expose what I have laboured so well to shield, my entire existence. But damn that mirror....he was so good, penetratingly so.  As I hurried past, eager to escape his gaze, he caught me and I was a forced to face him. Unhurriedly, I turned to confront him, expecting his derision and his retribution. With quivering feet, I met his gaze and I let him scrutinize me. He looked at me, piercing every fibre that carved my body and right there I was....... unadorned. In the middle of the trial of "me", I caught the sliver of grey close to my forehead and I saw some wrinkles greet me with a smile. I saw some places...

Rough week huh? You know what, do not even answer that because no answer could fully explain to the world the cyclone of your life, with you always desperately trying to find the eye, the calm, the epicenter, the balance. You could answer in tears but even that gets heavy when it lands in a pool at your feet, maybe you might sink. So, no, not tears but I know......a pen. Then some paper, to pen that letter that only your soul can read.......written in a language of obscurity that only your deepest emotions can feel. Only by the might of each shaped letter can you begin to release what you have carried through a life spent walking upon nails yet dodging, not to be pierced. Who designed this anyway? So, yes.... pen that letter!! Whisper to the paper sweet fonts, revealing everything you have survived this far and make sure you bend the words in the same way life has contorted you. They deserve it! Swerve that pen in twists and curls and let each word reverberate the echos of your sighs. ...

An exclusive event, unreservedly out of the ordinary and riddled with bursts of laughter jumping across the effervescent corners of the venue. The choice is always the river, where burdens are laid down. Sandy ground, feet clawing in, with backs leaning into the calm, simply serve to plunder the weariness of the day into oblivion. This is the face of peace, and he smiles "hello". The comfort of familiar faces and the sound of repeated banter that never tire the ears consumes the environment and echos give resounding "amens". Only one thing though, they never asked the river for permission. How scandalous!........the audacity to even fathom they could just come. And as if some wicked deal had been concocted between the clouds, thunder, and lightning, on a round table meeting of scorn, they all convene. The clouds are the first to protest. They swoop in unannounced and knock rudely. Their darkness bring sullen faces and worrying beads of sweat. As daringly as the clou...