don't die press

The Widow’s Pride

by , on
2021-01-24

A new story by Gargi Mehra

The problem with suicide, Mrs. Gupta decided, was the utter lack of a convenient time to plan and commit the act. One or other of her grandchildren always had their teeth sunk deep into the holidays, exams or illness. And even she considered it bad form to off herself in the middle of a family vacation.

On their first day in Scotland, her entire family had slipped on their walking shoes and strolled through the cobbled streets of Fort William. Mrs. Gupta ambled behind her daughter Priya and son-in-law Vijay, who pushed the pram carrying their two-year-old son, while their older daughter Myra hopped and skipped her way beside them.

The day had ended on a pleasant note, but Priya insisted they visit the zoo some time on their trip. She foisted upon her mother a series of navy brochures parading something called the Blair Drummond Safari. The glossy photos promised an abundance of peacocks, alligators, and most worryingly, a close view of lions.

Mrs. Gupta pleaded with them to let her be. She promised to stay behind and look after the baby, while the three of them enjoyed their travails.

Priya laughed away the idea.

That night Mrs. Gupta jolted awake from feverish dreams of predators tearing apart her family.

Indian tourists found Scotland achingly beautiful, but she found it miserable. The drive through the winding roads that curved between vicious mountains covered in shrubbery left her heart sinking. For the first time she missed her husband. He would have taken the entire tour off her hands. When he set his foot down, Priya listened.

The drive through the country filled with Glens and Bens did not gladden her heart. Priya kept turning back to point things out to her mother. Myra sat at the edge of her seat, her nose pressed to the glass, marveling at every feature of the landscape that crossed her line of vision.

A sea of clouds accompanied them on their journey, as they drove along the edge of the lake. The blue waters of the Loch Lomond stretched out on one side.

“It’s one of the largest lakes in the UK, Ma!”

This failed to excite Mrs. Gupta, sending her into tizzies of alarm instead. She pursed her lips, missing the roar of her husband that would have shut her daughter down and exchanged the lions in her future with warm cups of tea and a bottle of pills.

They drove for what seemed like hours. Even Vijay’s arms were drooping. Mrs. Gupta wondered if she might have prevailed upon him to turn around and head back to their resort, but the resolve writ large on her daughter’s face stilled her tongue.

A large signboard proclaiming their destination consumed the horizon. A thundering rose in Mrs. Gupta’s heart as they drove through the gate. They continued up a concrete pathway that wound through the park, a carpet of greenery flanking them on either side. The baby had woken up and was now bouncing on Priya’s lap, making war cries. Mrs. Gupta just wished she wouldn’t.

They drove deeper into the zoo, stuck behind a number of chartered buses ferrying schoolchildren and their teachers.

Vijay said, “Look! Lions, up ahead! On the right!”

Mrs. Gupta’s insides turned to ice. She couldn’t see them, but she desired nothing more than to crawl into one of those huge buses the size of a house. What else could protect her from the canines of the king of the jungle up close?

The baby jumped on his mother’s lap using it as a trampoline. Myra too was banging her hand on the glass window. “Mamma look! There’s a lion prowling around on the grass!”

Mrs. Gupta wished she would stop her banging. She wished the toddler would stop his bouncing, and she longed for Vijay to conclude his monologue on the eating habits of lions. Did he really believe that they never hunted prey when their stomachs were full?

Terror gripped her heart as she watched the lion cut across the track and press its muzzle to the window.

She covered her ears as its claws screeched down the window and the door of the car. They all let loose blood-curdling shrieks.

Only the baby’s delight shot up. Mrs. Gupta couldn’t be sure what he was saying but it sounded like “Party, party!”

She felt a sudden uncontrollable urge to laugh. But the next instant, the glass window shattered. The lion stuck his head through the window. Myra, pinned to her seat, issued a silent scream but Mrs. Gupta had no time to notice that as she watched her hand disappear into the lion’s mouth. Its blatant greed appalled her. Where would she find another gold bangle like the one he was chomping on right now?

The pain rose in her chest. The world turned black before her eyes.


Cool drops of water splashed on her face.

Mrs. Gupta blinked, and found the space before her filled with a light blue. This must be heaven, but the hard wood poking into her back was hell.

“Are you ok, Ma?”

She sat up with a jerk. They were somewhere in the middle of the park. The landscape appeared free of those infernal lions.

“What happened? Did I have a heart attack?”

Priya laughed. “No, Ma! You just fainted! I don’t even know why! You missed the lion marking his territory around the cars in front of us!”

This puzzled Mrs. Gupta. “How does a lion mark his territory?”

Priya laughed even harder. “By urinating around it! Oh, Ma! The lion sprinted so far away. The buses ahead had moved, and we did too.”

The last time Mr. Gupta called his wife to his deathbed, he had said, “Don’t keep talking about suicide, Urmila. It is even a sin in some religions.”

She folded her hands in prayer, and touched them to her forehead.

Angry/Mad: Themed Call for Submissions

by , on
2020-02-05

In an unjust world, there’s a fine line between anger and madness. S/tick Magazine invites you to channel rage into righteous art and writing for its next issue, “Angry/Mad.” Tired of the grotesque facades of rich men in power? White politicians cavorting in blackface? Sexual predators who insist their violations were consensual? Rhetoric on reconciliation without genuine action? People who look at wildfires, rising water, disastrous storms, melting ice caps and deny there’s anything amiss? Submit, but do not be submissive!

Check out the submissions guidelines here.

Deadline: March 31, 2020

Submit now!

by , on
2019-07-29

Submit now, but do not be submissive!

S/tick is now seeking submissions of your fabulous feminist farrago for our next issue!

Review the submissions guidelines above, then send us your best feminist poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and artwork.

We hold an intersectional view of feminism, so if your work deals with oppressions or empowerment, we want to read it.

You can also read some of our past issues to pay tribute to a brilliant community of feminist artists and authors and to get a sense of what we’re looking for.

Welcome!

by , on
2019-04-03

don’t die press is live and ready to take some ferociously feminist action in the age of #metoo through art, poetry, prose, and more!

If you’re a S/tick fan, please check out the Fall 2018 issue, and check back soon for snippets of the upcoming Spring 2019 issue! S/tick is a feminist creative writing magazine that has been going strong since 2012 and has now moved to don’t die press. Submit to S/tick now!

don’t die press is also currently seeking full e-chapbook manuscripts of 25-50 pages. Don’t let your ideas die on the page. Your words deserve to be heard!