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  • Advisory Notice: These works of fiction contain explicit content and adult themes regarding sexual encounters and behavior that may be upsetting and offensive to some readers.

     

     

    Gallows, Gas, or Chair

     

    A trail of filthy water, seeping from a pipe leading to a septic tank, shines like specks of diamonds glittering on the body of a gliding serpent. I look up and see the morning sun’s streaks filter in through the single ventilation and wonder how that enigmatic disc commands the power to create beauty out of ugliness.

    Lying on a dirty cement floor, I keep staring at the magic that dispels the murkiness inside my cell; sheds light into my world, rendered dark by evil.

    It feels like years since I have seen daybreak. Yesterday’s pain has nullified any notions of brightness, filling my world with a domineering darkness. When hurt sears your asshole, ego bruised, your libido becomes scalded. You feel like your impotent tool has been scrubbed with burning coal.

    Your mind takes you back to distorted images of the past traumas that landed you in the present predicament.

    Inside the pipe, her shit gurgles. The water gushing down carries her core’s stench, her asshole’s taste, and rushes to seek shelter inside earth’s womb, its intrinsic hearth.

    The prison’s backyard, a melee of dirt and stenches, remains a reminder of my past sins; crimes I reveled committing. The leaking pipe serves as the conduit. Cracks in its belly allow filth to seep in shameless streams to collect in the yard, to suffocate the inmates.

    Pains nobody knows…

    She wields the leather belt, her whip; she lashes out at me, her slave. A vent to exhaust her frustration I am, in the dark nights from where she returns abused and tired; legs wavering, soul bruised.

    “Sonnova bitch,” she yells at me.

    A bitch, so I call her; only a bitch births a son of a bitch, no way I can be wrong.

    “Son of a bitch…” Her screams echo in my ears.

    As I lay, exhausted from the beating, the hermaphrodite warrior descends from Heaven.

    “Prince Shikhandi?”

    The valiant soldier, born a girl, brought up as a boy by his father, King Drupada, later to become a man; he kneels by my side. “My reincarnation,” he says, “serves a purpose, fulfills my vow to annihilate Bhishma, the legendary warrior, leader of Kauravas’ army.”

    With little education, I’ve never been quite familiar with the Hindu mythology, but from what I know, I realize that without Shikhandi playing a pivotal role, Pandavas will not have been able to win the Kurukshetra War, to reestablish dharma, the recourse to righteousness.   

    “I was a gift of Lord Shiva to my father,” the legend, who belongs neither here nor there, says. “My peculiar gender did not hinder me from performing my karma.”

    I stare into his eyes, unable to comprehend what he means.

    “I have become a man too, shedding my queer identity.”

    He abruptly disappears; a misty apparition dissipating in the air, leaving me alone to fight with the demons that cloud my brain.

    *

    They screamed at me last night, as each found his vent in my rear end to exhaust himself. The five of them had muttered, moaned, and yelled, as the jail warden watched, running a hand along his baldhead, the other busy inside his trousers, in search of a tool not so scalded. 

    Later, he pinned me down under his heavy body, sunk his teeth into my neck. Then, as he came, he raised his upper torso and shouted, “Muthafucka.”

    One of them said, “Can he… fuck? Ain’t he ‘ere for doing her in.”

    “In for matricide,” another one clarified, as he pulled down his trousers, and said, “A so so… he?” It felt like the floor shook under his weight, as he walked towards me.

    In for making a mark, assholes, like Shikhandi did to rewrite history. I think. What do they know about making marks, those who are born with standard marks? What they know, I wonder, about Shikhandi, the warrior.

    *

    One night, Lord Shiva, the Ardhanarisvara, half-male-half-female God, who incorporated his wife Parvati in his body, appeared before him. “Stand by your karma,” the Lord said. “Impart justice unto you.”

    The legends and gods always spoke to him in riddles that he could not understand. Inside his skull, he felt their words swirl, squirm, and wriggle; poking and notching at his brain. Then, they disappeared, leaving him in torment.

    The bitch needed rest badly. Every single night, she would remind me of her dire need. She would loosen her buttons and pull out her breast from her bra. “See, you sonnova bitch. Oh, why the fuck would I call you so, a son?”

    I would see a deep gash, the mark of a bite or burn.

    “Could you be like those bastards, ever?”

    Confusion turned into chaos, I would cup my hand, protect the lone semblance of libido the Almighty had endowed me with.

    She would unfasten her belt, lash at me. “You think too, few bucks gave you right to fuck in whatever ways you want; defile flesh?”

    I did not know what she meant. Yet she kept whipping me, tearing my skin.

    I sobbed, a dame in distress, libido absent.

    “I gotta take care of my daughter,” she mumbled often. “You rot where you belong.”

    I looked up at her, sans knowledge.

    “Her father, a good soul like her; real man, with own identity, but I dunno who’s yours.” She would stop and throw the belt onto my face. “Why’d I fend for you? You neither belong to me nor to the man who sowed his seed.” The bitch hissed.

    I would cower in a corner, lean against the wall, shivering like a drenched kitten.

    “God, how I hate you…” She would spit on me, and say, “I’m tired.”

    *

    What do the sentinels in prisons know about matricide? 

    I close my eyes against the light streaming into the cell, its glare dazzling. 

    Even in broad daylight, Lord Shiva appears, accompanied by Shikhandi. “This soldier, he is my creation; a gift to answer the prayers of his father.”

    Shikhandi stands, smiling, with a look of pride brimming in his eyes.

    “You too are so,” the Lord says, “my creation. He raises his right hand in a gesture of blessing. “We are pleased, creator and creation, that you have performed your karma.”

    The cell goes dark for a moment. The legends disappear.

    She is taking a badly needed rest, from her abuses and tiredness, you sons of bitches, real sons.

    Unlike me, she has here or there, she is not in between; she does not have to languish in ignorance, not knowing where she belongs.

    *

    “Want to smell honey?” she asked. At age eighteen, a boy aged fourteen was a plaything for her; a teddy bear in flesh, with the warmth and strength of blood flowing in veins; an enigma to the uninitiated… 

    “What does honey smell like?”

    “Try for yourself.” She raised her chemise to her chin, her knuckles brushing against her cheeks. The cotton garment’s hem edged over the tufts of hair that had begun to darken her armpits. Below her pink dress, her skin stretched taut, her ribs threatened to break loose, and lower yet, wild brushes grew unabashed between her legs.

    My nostrils flare, scorched by her feminine scent.

    Those brownish things plastered onto her chest were not honeycombs, I knew. “Why do you have such intrinsic designs on your skin, mounds of flesh to surround them?”

    “Smell them, if you want.” She smiled. “Taste them and squeeze the meat if you like.”

    The brownish circles smelled exactly like the bitch’s, tasted like the salt biscuits she kept thrusting inside a dungeon, where she kept me hidden, to avoid embarrassment. Like mother; like daughter.

    Her hands sneaked inside my trousers. Shame swallowed me. I felt like my libido was being encased in a clasp of thorns.

    “Muthafucker…”

    A jolt bolted through me. I cowered into a corner. She slipped down her chemise and turned as the hem of her dress dropped below the swell of her ass.

    The bitch washed over me like a tidal wave, choking me under her massive body. She clawed at my eyes, pulled at my hair, and pinched my ears. The smell of her sweat, mixed with musky aroma of dried semen emanating from her breasts, suffocated me.

    “It’s time for you to rest, bitch.”

    “Huh?”

    The bitch stared at my hands moving toward her throat. Her eyeballs bulged out as my thumbs pressed her windpipe, fingers digging into the back of her neck.

    She screamed; the daughter, a howl like that of a jackal, separated from the pack, lost in the wilderness of a jungle. The angel spread wings, and the lamp in her hands illuminated the darkness within.

    “She has magic. I cannot open a dungeon’s door. I don’t know where the light is.” I told the bitch. “Only she does. She came to rescue; you came to rest, bitch!”

    The bitch did not know that her daughter, my half-sister, the only source of light, remained an only solace, and pleaded; protruding eyes threatening to come out of their sockets. “Don’t…”

    “Rest, bitch…” I panted. “Rest to your fill…”

    *

    The vultures…

    They shuffle into a room, tired and exhausted figures, clad in black. I feel funny they mix so effortlessly with the humans in vibrantly colorful clothes.

    One of them reads out the saga of my escapades.

    Jumping prison… 

    Escaping torture, to make my mark; to proclaim my identity where nobody assigned me one, I say.

    The vulture goes on to state the body count, trophies of my mark; signs that will help them to recognize my identity.

    Remains of thirteen women found in the dungeon where the bitch held me captive. Each strangled, had either gashes or burn marks on her chest.

    If only I know honey’s smell, and its sweetness; I tried, the bitch denied.

    They say it is impossible for a person to rape thirteen women in a single day. They do not  know what torture does to a person. They just judge people.  

    I have raped them all. My charge sheet remains silent about sexual assaults; indicts me for homicide. Murder, they say. They do not value my semen, or the erect state of my penis. It is far better… far, far more, than theirs.

    Putting to rest, tired lives, I believe that is what I did, not matricide, not even homicide.

    After all, that has been the need; to exhaust one’s self, to make your mark in the world in which nobody assigned you an identity.

    They do not know what rape can be; those who judged me do not command that kind of power, to inflict pleasure unto death. They do not acknowledge the crime I have committed. They do not punish me for that.

    They spin stories with their imagination; punish me for crimes I did not commit, crimes they want to accuse me of.

    The Gallows, the Chair, or the Gas, no way they can mete out justice.

    I do not belong to their world; one neither here, nor there.

    Their blown-up libidos stretch to their eyes, cloud their perception.

    I remain, innocent to my core; in a world that touts equality as a mark of humanity, I have got every right to make my mark, to establish my identity.

    Someday, they will address me as the son of a stud; they will recognize my libido, no more think of me as neither here nor there; but place me exactly there, where I belong.

     

     

    ***

    A Net Nanny’s Sermon

     

    “Your grandfather got initiated by me, you know?” Devi says, casting a glance at Vivek’s groin. “He respected my profession and my professionalism; never made me feel like a whore.”

    Vivek stands, gazing down at the sores on his feet. His preference for sandals over shoes leaves his feet exposed to the winter’s chill. Tiny beads of sweat mushroom on his pale skin, as her words prick him.

    “And, I initiated your father too,” she continues, raising her eyes to his face. “A man who carried a Kamasutra under his belt, but I made him experience what Vatsyayana could never have conceived.”

    Devi spreads a betel leaf on her left palm and applies lime paste onto it. “I can still recall how your grandpa’s face reddened with the exertion, the way your father roared as he peaked.”

    Vivek raises his head, glances at her sagging breasts.

    Devi garnishes the betel leaf with a few shards of crushed areca nuts. “Both propelled me to multiple orgasms, every time.” She rolls the betel leaf.

    Vivek makes an effort to look at her face. His eyes refuse to rise above a pendant lodged in the cleft of her cleavage.

    “A shame for millennials,” she says, “peeking into an elderly neighbor’s bathroom….”

    Vivek turns around as if to grab an opportunity to sneak a run.

    “Now go home,” she says, her tone mellow. “And, quit watching mature fetish stuff.” She thrusts the betel leaf into her mouth.

    About The Author

    Hareendran Kallinkeel

    Hareendran Kallinkeel writes from Kerala, India, after a stint of 15 years in a police organization and five years in the Special Forces. His most recent publications include Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Bryant Literary Review, the Phenomenal Literature, Infection House, and Manawaker Podcast. His fiction is forthcoming in Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Lalitamba Journal, Modern Literature, and The Blotter. He believes that justice prevails only where equality reigns.