Boo

I have a horrible joke to tell
I’m not sure
If it’s horrific in form
Or content.
And I’m not sure where the joke comes in either.
I just know it was funny to me
And I laughed
And laughed some more at my laughing.
That was the joke-
The easy compulsion of converting fear
into laughter.

Like being tickled
With the only conspicuous gag being
Voluntary laughter.
Knowing after all
How important it is to breathe
But prioritising instead
A giggle.

Written by Ishani Pant

Edited by Saadhya Mohan 

Featured Image via Ambika Narang

Perspiration

The two blood red, bulging eyes shone directly at me from the corner of the room. I hugged my pillow tighter, pulling it closer to me as if it would screen off the danger looming over me. The figure made a move forward. Quickly, I squeezed my eyes shut. Beads of perspiration appeared on my forehead, even though it was a cold wintery night. A few moments passed. Nothing. Unlike the previous rounds when the shadow would smother me, this time it didn’t. I slowly opened my eyes in the hope that that pair of hazard would be gone. Phew. I looked around the room which had turned into nothing less than a claustrophobic chamber. Nothing. I got down the bed, one foot at a time. I went straight to the window to let this air out which was thick with fear. With a clack, I unleashed the lock. A gust of breeze caressed my tresses. Thump. There was a loud thud behind me. My heartbeat accelerated. Sweat trickled down my nape. I turned around and squinted through the darkness of my vicinity. The curtain fluttered with a wind not flowing through the open window. A silhouette brushed close to my face. I tried running to my bed when it seized me violently by my waist. I tried screaming but to no avail. The grip tightened. I mustered up all my strength and let out a piercing cry…

I sat up in my bed, breathing heavily. The same dream. Again. I looked around. No bloody eyes. No silhouettes. No shadows. Ever since that night, this dream was my daily visitor. Every night, I would wake up, all soaked in sweat. I had started taking nerve tonics, which had no impact whatsoever. That image kept replaying in my head. I hugged my knees to my chest. Flashbacks of that night crossed my mind. 

I was walking alone on the already deserted road. Overtime. I checked my phone and sighed. No network. I continued on the path when a loud thump came up from nowhere. I stopped dead in my tracks. There was no one, nothing around. A faint flicker of light at a distance caught my eye. I don’t know why, but I found myself walking towards it. There was a shack. And a van. And ropes. I froze. A perfect setting for a mishap. A kidnap. My hands shaking, I took out my phone and tried dialling a number. Screwed up signals. I walked closer to it. A blood curdling cry from inside churned my stomach. I peered in through a slit in the shed. Men. A group of men. And a girl. Young. She looked horrified. Disheveled. One of the men yanked her hair and pinned her to the murky floor. 

My mind rolled and I felt nauseated. I felt like throwing up, and lost my balance. A glass sheet shattered near me. I couldn’t get up. This is the end. I heard quick footsteps approaching me. All I could think was how helpless we women are. One wrong move, and it’s over. I froze in the moment.

I realized that the whole night had passed and day was breaking in. Getting off my bed, I looked towards the window. I had escaped that night. Miraculously. Somehow. But the whole episode haunted my mind, my soul every day. Every night. 

Funny how people turn out to be the horror of the night; goblins and devils of the dark cease to be any more frightening. At that moment I realized the real terror in this world is neither the dark nor the night or the supernatural, but a human . Who looks just like me.

Written by Shikha Chandra

Edited by Pakhi Pande

Featured Image by Athira Raj

Hey, Read This Before You Go.

Its 11:30 at night. You, lovely you, talking about killing yourself while all I picture are your loose fitting shirts and dimples.

If dying was simple, everybody would have done it.

Nobody talks about the truth of overdosing. You’ll be on the floor, puddle of vomit underneath your cheek, the last meal you ever ate stuck to your face, you’ll never have felt so weak in your life, even when downing a bottle of downers. Hallucinate until you suffocate on bile. Or your heart stops beating. Or your lungs breathe themselves backwards, inside out. Your brain will be alive for 3 minutes, just enough time to regret it, 100 times, outside your own cold, twitching body. Mom will find you, fall to her knees, call dad from downstairs, and black out in grief.

It’s not pretty. Your funeral will be messy. People you barely remember (a girl who had a crush on you in kindergarten, the person you told you were depressed that couldn’t bring themselves to listen, didn’t want to believe it, the girl who taught you to cut your wrists like that) will cry over your body like it was their own. They’ll feel tears soak shirt, after shirt, after skin, after shirt.  They’ll feel your voice on the back of their neck in cold spells and hot flashes for years. Mom will wake up from nightmares, call dad, he’s drinking.

And here you are, thinking it wouldn’t matter.

Written by Ananya 

Edited by Zoya Bhargava

Featured Image by Noor Sharma