Short Stories

A collection short stories from the Wordsmithz:::


by Whitney French

Marcy’s heart beats in a peculiar way. The thumping against her chest is strung together as one sound, like a gentle hum or a pigeon’s coo. It never bothered her before, it is polite and even as her older brother Samuel holds his hand across her chest protectively, he can’t feel a beat.

Doctors say she eats too much, without asking about her diet they fabricate this conclusion by poking her round belly with their pencil ends. Marcy giggles a bit when they do this but eventually she to continues pick at her scab on her shin that she’s been working on all afternoon.

Samuel grunts at their diagnosis. “Nothing? You won’t do nothing about her heart?” and one by one the doctors from all parts of the town collectively shrug. They don’t deny she is sick, they simply don’t care to fix her. This is unfortunate because that night Marcy’s skin glistens with sweat, her breath quickens at a disturbing rate, and her belly inflates and deflates like a dark balloon.

Beneath the fingernail-shaped moon, long after the cold wash cloth grew hot with failure, Samuel prays. Aloud and loudly, with as much sincerity he can muster up. When he runs out of words to say he begins to sing. Some how, the lyrics of gospels from scattered Sunday services collect on his lips.  Christmas carols proceed but silence soon falls upon him. The stillness spreads thinly across the night with Marcy’s panting as its sole chorus. The two hang on to the hope that someone is listening.

There was no thunder or lightning, the clouds do not part from the sky and no booming voice shakes the earth, but Marcy’s breathe slows to normalcy and in turn so does her heart.

The wind pulls the clouds across the moon and two silhouettes crawl up the wall of a barn. In relief, Samuel falls and dugs his knees in to the hardwood, the floor boards squeal rejoicing. Pearls of sweat tumble down Marcy’s face. That morning, she finally finishes the scab on her shin.



by Miss Cola

‘Call now I’m off the phone.’ These words wake me from my sleep. I stare at those words over and over only to realize that the message wasn’t for me. Cause see the message came from the phone of the man that I just hung up the phone with. And see he told me he’d talk to me another day because I laid there sleeping and unable to speak. So you see my dilemma the message wasn’t for me. At 12:35 in the morning that message came and I immediately thought It was a girl cause that man don’t really eva be talking to dudes so late. Almost instantly I felt like I was having a déjà vu. First year university I sat in my car parked at school me and dude was fighting. I suspected he was talking to another g and sho nuff when I clicked that phone in his ear he sent me a text. The moment I read those words they stung my heart like a thousand daggers. The message wasn’t meant for me.

Now back to the present I sit here listening to the smooth voice of Anthony Hamilton trying not to cry cause I don’t wanna be a pussy. This feeling! This feeling I feel wont allow me to put my pen down. Water flowing like a river the ink flows outta my pen.  An like a madd women I write as this man rings off my phone. This man, this man was supposed to love me yet he sits here tryna make me feel guilty and tries to ignore the fact that thee was a text send to his phone. No explanation given atleast not a proper one, just excuses and lies, but I am tired and four years later I refuse to go through troubles again. I refuse to be lied to. I refuse to be pushed aside. I refuse to allow a man to have control over my emotions because I am a strong women and I refuse to put up with this cause I deserve better than this. “Call now, I’m off the phone,” that’s what he said.


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