#regionalgothics

[halcyon-autumn]

Finals Gothic

You are almost finished with the paper you’ve been working on for hours. Almost done, you tell people. You’re not sure how long the paper should be, but you’re almost done. You’ve been almost done for so long.

Your friend went to the library to study, you tell people. She should be home soon. You can’t remember what she went to study for. You can’t remember the last time you saw her. Her phone goes straight to voicemail.

The professor isn’t responding to your emails. The professor isn’t responding to anyone’s emails. As you walk towards her office, you hear a scream. Perhaps you don’t have any questions after all.

The study guide has strange markings on it, strange stains that you swear weren’t there when the teacher gave it to you. Coffee stains, you tell yourself. But coffee stains aren’t normally red, are they? You can’t remember.

There’s a final project, your professor tells you. You can’t find anything about it in the syllabus, but there’s a final project. “How is the project going?” your classmates ask with shadowed eyes and shaking hands. When you ask them what the project is about, they turn away. You never see any of them on campus again.

A student kills the curve for your final, but you don’t who the student is. He wasn’t in class, you’re sure. He’s not on the class roll. When you ask the other students about him, they back away. “Don’t ask,” they say. “Don’t ask about him.”

You can’t find the book you need in the library. “It’s there,” the librarian insights, but she wrings her hands and won’t look you in the eyes. As you wander down the stacks, you grow tired and sleepy, eyes drifting shut. Perhaps you’ll take a nap, you think. The last thing you see before your eyes close is a pair of red eyes.

[kalpansh]

Old Indian Cities Gothic: pt 1

you have been walking in the sun for hours. crowds mill around you but you only hear a buzzing. the hot concrete is biting through your chappals. how long have you been walking?

the lanes lead to by-lanes which lead to sub-lanes which lead to-- isn’t this the lane you just got out of?

you pass the mughalai monuments and tombs and the nawabi buildings and imambarahs and rajput holdfasts and palaces and you hear the tinkling of paayals and the heat rolling off the baked walls of the buildings is probably messing with your head and you emerge on the terrace of a fort.

you enter a shop to buy chikankari kurtas and you enter another shop through that shop and you open another door and find yourself in a brothel. the air stinks of incense that is too sweet and the curtains are made of sequins. you walk to the other end of the courtyard and open a door and exit out of the chikankari shop.

your dupatta snags on the hood of the rickshaw as you get off it. you pull at it and the chiffon tears. you pay the rickshaw-wala in coins and turn to walk through the bazaar but as you turn, your dupatta snags on the hood of the rickshaw. you remember that you weren’t wearing a dupatta.

you cling to the pillar of the baoli and yell into the water. the voice that echoes back isn’t yours.

the panipuri-wala puts the phulki in your pressed-leaf bowl before you can finish the one in your mouth. you try to swallow it unchewed but the shell scrapes your throat. the panipuri-wala has the next panipuri ready. the previous one is soaking in your bowl. there are seven panipuris in your bowl. you haven’t swallowed the first one yet.

the beggar on the temple steps begs for change. the beggar outside the mosque begs you in the name of allah. they are the same old man. all the beggars are the same old toothless man.

there is a foreign tourist in the old ruler’s garden taking a picture of his friend. there’s a foreign tourist posing with their partner. there is a group of foreigners saying ‘cheese’ with frozen smiles. there is no brown person in sight. you are the only indian there. you start to leave but the tourists ask you to click a picture for them. it is afternoon now. it is evening now. it is night now. the garden is empty. the portcullis is down. there are no tourists. there were no tourists.

the beggar outside the mall has a child on her hip. her fellow beggar has an infant in her arms. both the children are unconscious. you have never seen a waking beggar child.

[kalpansh]

i’m currently making a north indian gothic post and the weather is being so strange right now i mean the sun was up in the morning but now it’s raining and thundering like july although it’s just april right now and it’s so dark even though it’s the middle of the day i mean i love this weather so much but currently it’s spooking me out.

[nimree]

job applicant gothic

you open your resume in microsoft word. your qualifications have been replaced with the words “NEVER ENOUGH.” the cursor winks.

the website asks you to fill in your basic information. the website asks you for your resume and cover letter. the website asks you to answer additional questions. the website asks you to fill out an applicant questionnaire. the website asks you to sacrifice your family. you click “submit” with bloody hands.

everyone is hiring. no one is hiring. the signs disappear when you look at them too closely, but you can see them in distant shop windows. only a few blocks more and you will be safe.

you attend a job fair hiring individuals in your field and are offered several jobs on the spot. your dream-self accepts the position and shakes the manager’s hand as you awaken in your bed. there is still a hand in yours.

“are you a student?” yes. “are you between the ages of 18-24?” yes. “are you human?” you were. you don’t know now.

the hiring manager has listed their contact information. phone number: blank. email: blank. sacrifice: three rabbits. you stop by the pet store on your way home.

a cacophony of voices scream wordlessly into the void. these are your cover letters. these are your only hope.

you are waiting for your interview. you watch as other applicants go into the office. none of them come out.

your name is never called. you are still waiting.

[nimree]

tourist gothic

every hampton inn seems the same. every hampton inn is the same. you forget your bag in your room in cleveland and retrieve it in georgia. you don’t remember packing a severed head.

please proceed to the gate of the damned. proceed to the gate of the damned to board flight 7734. flight 7734 is now boarding. this is your last call for boarding on flight 7734. this is your last chance.

you are staying in a cottage in key west. there are large dark shapes in the water. “it’s just the manatees,” the locals tell you. screams come from the water’s edge. “it’s just the manatees.” the water is red. “it’s just the manatees.”

you have never seen a manatee. you are thankful.

you visited toronto once. you stood on the glass floor in the cn tower, 1,122 ft above the ground. (they told you not to look down. you should have listened.)

disneyland is the happiest place on earth. you have never smiled this much in your life. you have never had this many teeth.

turn left in three kilometres. turn right in three kilometres. the road will cease to exist in three kilometres.

recalculating. recalculating. recalculating.

your best friend used to live in vancouver. vancouver still lives in them.

you visit the museum of modern art. the paintings are screaming. the walls are screaming. the patrons are screaming. black ichor runs out of the frames. you turn to the museum staff for help, but they are screaming too. the ichor is up to your neck.

new york city is the best city you have ever visited. you heart nyc. you heart nyc. you heart nyc.

you have seen the sphinx. the sphinx has seen you. it remembers.

there is sand in a bottle in your room from the valley of the kings. no matter where you look, it is in the corner of your eye. you can hear the pharaohs talking in the night. soon we will be free.

years later, you are going through your travel journals. you find your entry for detroit: don’t walk on woodward. don’t walk on woodward. don’t walk on woodward. don’t walk on woodward.

you think you may have walked on woodward. you think you may never have been to detroit. (the ink smudges beneath your fingers. there is blood on the corner of the page.)