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 ...

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...