Varsha Kewalramani
Bio
“Horror is like a serpent; always shedding its skin, always changing. And it will always come back."
Stories (55)
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Silent Struggles: A Journey of Self-Expression
It was a typical weekday morning in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and Mary was getting ready for her shift at the local coffee shop. As she stood in front of the mirror, trying to tame her unruly curls into some semblance of a hairstyle, she couldn't help but feel a sense of frustration. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't seem to express herself the way she wanted to.
By Varsha Kewalramani3 years ago in Horror
The Interpreter's Secret Talent
The boardroom was abuzz with excitement as the international business meeting got underway. At the head of the table sat Mr. Thompson, the CEO of a major pharmaceutical company, flanked by his team of executives. Across from them sat the representatives from their Chinese partners, including Mr. Chen, the CEO of a successful biotech firm.
By Varsha Kewalramani3 years ago in Horror
Mr Grumpy
“Oh, it must be THAT time of year again!! Gus said, then flicked his tail twice in the direction of his humans moving about large boxes from the loft. These boxes always smelled funny…of mice he wasn’t able to chase, and moisture he didn’t run in. The boxes come down, and the humans start moving around brightly coloured ornaments…or that’s what the call them. Shiny things Gus used to like to play with when her was younger. The balls he was so found of batting around, until one broke and hurt his paw. The yards of tinsel he liked to eat, until it made him sick and his humans had to take him to the vet…that’s about when he really stopped liking Christmas! But there were the lights…those twinkling, magical things that really got his attention. In his old age, they were about the only toy that made him feel like a kitten again. Especially at New Years, when they brought out flashing ones, that made him dance in a hypnotic kitty disco…oh yes, he liked the lights.
By Varsha Kewalramani3 years ago in Horror
The Natural
In life there are monumental occurrences that act as time-freezing snapshots; the kind of events where, for the rest of your life, you remember exactly where you were when they happened. My grandfather used to speak with reverence about the day he heard that President Kennedy was shot. My mother spoke similarly of finding out about the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger. For me it was the day I stopped playing baseball.
By Varsha Kewalramani3 years ago in Horror
Monster Under My Bed
The exact details are hazy. I was in college, my junior or senior year, and it was a creative writing class. We were in the computer lab that day, working on our personal essays, but many of us were stuck. “Take a snapshot from your life,” our professor told us. “Select a good one- a hard one, a happy one. Take your pick. And then write about it. How hard can it be?” Behind the glib tone, however, a smile; he was heckling us, and we returned it with equal fervor. Mock fervor; pretend outrage. Our relationship with him was easy, comfortable. An older man, tall and slightly stooped, he occasionally read us the stories he’d written himself; and sometimes- ridiculously so, now that I think back on it- he’d pass them out for us to read, giant stacks of them, with the option of censored copies (black Sharpie streaked across whole paragraphs); and uncensored ones, rife with…I can’t remember, exactly. Sexual stuff? Gore? What else could it be? So funny how this professor, teaching a college level class, was so parsimonious, even protective. Sweet, really.
By Varsha Kewalramani3 years ago in Horror
Beyond Words
A bell chimes above her as Katy pushes open the old wooden door that leads into Silo’s Books and Curios. She had finally found the small, almost invisible, shop tucked in between a craft store to its right and a health food store to its left. It would have been easy to walk by had you not been expressly looking for it, as Katy had been.
By Varsha Kewalramani3 years ago in Horror
Home of the Brave
A mom’s job is never truly finished—Elise knew this instinctively when her son was born. For at least the hundredth time, she sat next to his bed in that chair mending his quilt. There was no way of knowing, the day she bought it at a flea market, that it would become her son’s most valued possession.
By Varsha Kewalramani3 years ago in Horror
