By Aritra Basak
At night, it rustles beneath my mother’s bed. Say wind; say history rearranging itself under the furniture. She won’t look. She has learned to step over the hollow in the floorboards, the one that breathes.
I crouch and watch its fur ripple like protest banners in a storm. It eats dust, old receipts, the edges of newsprint she hides away. Every morning it grows fatter, and the bed sags lower, closer to silence.
“Don’t disturb it,” she says, sweeping around the dark, careful not to wake it. “It keeps peace.”
Outside, streetlights hum with slogans. Inside, the creature licks its teeth.
I didn’t understand it – but I loved it anyway. I guess somethings are not meant to be understood!
“Outside, streetlights him with slogans.”
Great line-I can picture it.
Eerie and haunting. Loved the last line.
Powerful tale with striking language. Would love to read more of your work.
Great suggestive imagery for a childhood fear.
Remembering some moments of life. This is deeply psychological and emotional .