Vishakha Mukherjee

“a bewitching thirtieth birthday” by Vishakha Mukherjee

Honestly, Adriana didn’t know why she let her tea get cold. She couldn’t stand cold tea. Not one bit. Hot tea also helped her not be a zombie in the morning and surge through until lunch break…But somehow she didn’t need tea. No for once she was fully awake.  She woke in cold sweat with a…gut feeling she couldn’t really explain. Her heart drummed in her chest and butterflies somersaulted in her stomach.  ...

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“A Sacrifice's Beloved Salvation ” by Vishakha Mukherjee

Submitted to Contest #100

I was thrilled to be this year’s sacrifice. The villagers were all too happy for a willing maiden. Every year to prevent the volcano above from erupting and enveloping everyone in a blanket of scalding lava, the villagers presented a virgin to the influential Oni to devour. That Oni was my hero.  Clad in a silk, white yukata, I lathered myself with rose water, at the center of  ...

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“Stony Sister” by Vishakha Mukherjee

Submitted to Contest #51

Impulsively, I  gripped her arm before she could drop in the murky waters.  Her coffee colored skin was cold on my rough fingers pressed into her arm. She pressed on stubbornly, attempting to escape my vice-like grip, like a rabbit with its front paw snared in a rusty bear trap. I grunted, clinging onto her other forearm. Rigid bone and dry skin met my palms instead of the softness of flesh every healthy ...

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“Waiting Room of Rebirth” by Vishakha Mukherjee

Submitted to Contest #49

Beyond that door, I knew I was going to reborn. My wrinkled skin will give away to the soft flesh of a new-born, after spending nine months in the womb of a mother I don’t know. The memories of my past life, before I entered this white-walled room, flood my mind. A simple life. A decent childhood and family. I even had a friendly relationship with my wife, with a few fights on the bumpy road, but every couple had that. N...

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“Dream Girl's True Identity ” by Vishakha Mukherjee

Submitted to Contest #47

If secrets were threads, your mother had a collection of crimson turtle-necked sweaters. Trophy wife to the neighbors, considerate saint in church, and your father’s best friend- titles she rigorously upheld. But you could always sense that none of them suited her. You could always tell that something, beneath the peach lip-stick, and porcelain smiles, there was just… something. It clawed at her core, poking its impish h...

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