Three Poems by Prachi Kholia

PSYCHO

The hardly noticeable pulsation of its heart
Beating at the insides like drums;
Regular and systematic 
Going up and down, fascinating. 
I think I would have watched it still 
For minutes at length. 
There was something about it 
To begin, a rhythm 
Matching the vein in my head 
That was about to pop off.
The urgency was on me then
That vein in my head would burst. 
A frustrating agony awaits 
But my eyes refuse to leave the beast.
It was drawing me in 
The study breathing, music.
My heart was thumping with the rush
But I needed peace,
The vein wouldn't stop emphasizing it.
I felt the blade of the cool dagger 
As it drew hot blood gushing;
The creature let out a shrill cry 
And then came silence.
The vein was throbbing no more
My heart was finally at ease. 



FOR THE RATIOCINATOR  

as I go deeper 
into the man that he was
it seems to explain 
the previously unexplainable 
composition of my own character
it becomes much clearer
in him I find 
the excuse for my own derangement
we share the same deficiency 
in the configuration of our nature
or it’s just me unconsciously 
mimicking the legend 
probably the later
but anyhow it expounds my caricature 
at least for me
and I can no longer deny 
that I am as much of a lunatic as him
a reckless mess 
trying to mirror his logic
the unusual in him calls out to me 
my insanity is in accordance with his

the feverish ‘l'appel du vide’                            
that he often claimed to have overtaken him
I have, myself, felt many a times before
his madness explains mine
I blame it on his presence
throughout my impressionable years
tender age of growth 
shapes a person’s mind
mine was made to match his
in all of it’s abnormality 
during those vital years of my life
I was reading more of him 
more into him
some of the darkness through his words
seeped into my soul, unknowingly
and still I read him 
with the intense frequency 
and adoration of a child
till I started morphing into the person he was
without ever knowing what exactly 
I was committing myself to



BLUE

It was so empty in that apartment 
I felt my heart would burst of this loneliness.
In that moment I knew,
I could never call this place home.
Time was running out,
It was as if all my life had burnt away
Like a cigarette, consumed in its smoke.
Just gone. Though I was still here,
Still roaming this Earth;
Left behind to wander aimlessly. 
Someone up there had forgotten about me.
The wine is turning into vinegar,
What a waste! 
Binging on blue ruin or black smoke,                                    
I could still taste blood in the air. 
The iron assaulting my mouth senseless
Meanwhile blue-blooded bastards from under,
No good for anything, petty sirens;
Were moon kissing their way into oblivion.

When I open the windows still, 
A familiar smell engulfs me.
Somewhere down the street, 
A rose was burning.
Can't say I particularly disliked the smell,
But it has such a distinct aroma 
That can be identified anywhere;
Smells like innocence on gasoline. 
It's intoxication feels so wrong,
I want to refrain from enjoying it.
But I do; 
One full breath and I am far too deep in it;
Right at the bottom of the swimming pool 
Refusing to swim back up onto the patio,
Even if it meant drowning.
It's the dark waters that restrain me, 
You see, but the waves just somehow
Romance me into inhaling it;
Completely love struck with the poetry.

Consciousness makes me feel all mopey
So I ditch the norm for a high.
Burning with a blue flame,                                                              
My better judgement, if I had any
Couldn’t stop me from going on a one way road.
It feels like something a sane person would do.
And I am so far beyond sane 
That there can be no scale for it;
Guess the burning smell wasn't coming from outside. 
Did I finally burst a string?                              
Or my ears are just ringing?
The past would often hit me,
Out of nowhere, like a sledge hammer. 
Or act like a reminder on the phone
That lights up the screen like a flickering light bulb.
Yet the future was a beacon of hope for me, 
One which was continuously moving;
Further and further away,
So far at last, that it got out of sight.

I had officially given up on me;
Even when I opened my eyes 
I saw blue, miles and miles of it;
Dark and deep; 
Dark and deep. 

Prachi Kholia is a Master’s student at the Department of English and Modern European Languages, University of Lucknow. With a curiosity for everything ranging from Science-Fiction to Ancient History and a passionate love for reading; she is obsessed with the stars and the emptiness they reside in, often trying to weave stories through her poems. Her Instagram handle is _prachi98_.


“Somewhere” Poetry by Stephen House

The Chamber Magazine
thechambermagazine.com
1

he’s staring into black oily water 
asks how much life i’ve got saved in my now 

it’s disappearing 
i sold some to everyone 
and they owe me for yesterday and the year before  

he puts out his shaking grip
i feed him a pinch and he blazes

so true floating in starlight 
walking on water with you last night 
with the pipe music from who-ever was below 
true and new and warm inside 

your beautiful face and body repeat 
and the way we held each other in the room at the end

was that the end of everywhere 
or just the beginning

how all of the fear of nothing 
and wondering where too from here 
disappear into space 
when the times are so here that the real is no longer the real 

that’s what’s so good about this
when the real is no longer the real

when we are only in us

2

some things mean more to me than what never was
this way i am now isn’t where i’m really at

honestly 

i am somebody 

you’d be surprised what i was doing before all this 
and i’ll get back to it again  
i know what i can do and be

and he hovers softly and i stare into the face 
of a soul like i was once 
where are you from actually 

he says from somewhere i could never be  
and for a moment i remember my other self 
when the world was still the world 
and the way to wander was all ok

and i was ok 

i wasn’t here once 
i could’ve kept doing it there 
been who i should’ve been

truth sits in current death count gone

realized or ignored

3

and he drifts to near the crying river 
it’s grey and the moon shines silver-blue 
in tune with slow deep singing 

far away

dancing never seen 

he says that it’s late and that we’ve got stuff to do
and why don’t we head off
and we crawl silently along the path to where he says
we must

we go and stop in slide 

together
him and me 

and a little bit of love 
is a little bit of love

in nowhere 

Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright and actor. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council and an Asia-link residency. His chapbook “real and unreal” was published by ICOE Press. He’s published often and performs his acclaimed monologues widely.






Appearing in The Chamber on April 16

“Getting the Boot” Fiction by Ara Hone

A tale of love and betrayal in a surreal, post-apocalyptic future

Two Poems by John Grey

A terrifying vision of feline evolution and a greedy family awaits their inheritance

Interview with Rie Sheridan Rose

Rie Sheridan Rose has authored twelve novels, six poetry chapbooks, and lyrics for dozens of songs. Her story “Cheap Sunglasses” recently appeared in The Chamber.

“The Rant” Fiction by Todd Matson

A man strives to convince his father to maintain hope despite the father’s pervasive views to the contrary

“In Pursuit of Dreams” Poetry by Yash Seyedbagheri

An unnamed narrator is tormented by vivid, surreal dreams

Appearing in The Chamber on April 16

“Getting the Boot” Fiction by Ara Hone

A tale of love and betrayal in a surreal, post-apocalyptic future

Two Poems by John Grey

A terrifying vision of feline evolution and a greedy family awaits their inheritance

Interview with Rie Sheridan Rose

Rie Sheridan Rose has authored twelve novels, six poetry chapbooks, and lyrics for dozens of songs. Her story “Cheap Sunglasses” recently appeared in The Chamber.

“The Rant” Fiction by Todd Matson

A man strives to convince his father to maintain hope despite the father’s pervasive views to the contrary

“In Pursuit of Dreams” Poetry by Yash Seyedbagheri

An unnamed narrator is tormented by vivid, surreal dreams

Appearing in The Chamber on April 9

“Bad Blood” Poetry by Akubudike Deborah

The audience is held in suspense on a woman’s wedding day

“Just in Case” Fiction by Garrett Rowlan

A man suspects a man following him through a park is up to no good.

“Cheap Sunglasses” Fiction by Rie Sheridan Rose

A woman receives a different kind of diagnosis on visiting her physician

“The Cold Spot” Fiction by Janea Speer

A woman encounters a mysterious cold spot while touring a Victorian mansion

Appearing in The Chamber on April 9

“Bad Blood” Poetry by Akubudike Deborah

The audience is held in suspense on a woman’s wedding day

“Just in Case” Fiction by Garrett Rowlan

A man suspects a man following him through a park is up to no good.

“Cheap Sunglasses” Fiction by Rie Sheridan Rose

A woman receives a different kind of diagnosis on visiting her physician

“The Cold Spot” Fiction by Janea Speer

A woman encounters a mysterious cold spot while touring a Victorian mansion

Appearing in The Chamber on April 9

“Bad Blood” Poetry by Akubudike Deborah

The audience is held in suspense on a woman’s wedding day

“Just in Case” Fiction by Garrett Rowlan

A man suspects a man following him through a park is up to no good.

“Cheap Sunglasses” Fiction by Rie Sheridan Rose

A woman receives a different kind of diagnosis on visiting her physician

“The Cold Spot” Fiction by Janea Speer

A woman encounters a mysterious cold spot while touring a Victorian mansion

“The Demented” Poetry by Fadrian Bartley

Cold feet walk the corridor in silence
coming from the awakening,
To stray away from a lonely room 
with forgotten memories in wet footprints.
Rebellion without sound
went rogue inside the soul.
As the windy candles reflected old habits of the elder’s shadow,
and deep whispers only the wind could hear,
Released old dark memories that escaped her wrinkled lips
and her night gown stained with piss.
Voices wield their intentions, 
could be seen from within her eyes of twisted stir,
Characteristics of the dead.
Night spirits seem to visit the home of one without brains.
Carrying her through hallways and precipice,
Revealing the identification of darkness.
Through physical activities of madness.

Bio: Fadrian Bartley lives in Kingston, Jamaica and is a customer service representative. Fadrian is also a fictional writer in poetry. His favorite genre is dark horror story poems. His major influence is Edgar Allan Poe, who has inspired the work of his hands. His work has appeared in few online web magazines including: http://www.aphelion-webzine.com/poetry/2020/05/Annabelle.html, https://drunkenpenwriting.com/2020/09/03/let-the-night-decide, and https://ramingoblog.wordpress.com/2020/09/24/the-ramingos-porch-legacy-a-poem-by-fadrian-bartley. He can be reached at: https://www.instagram.com/artexerexes https://m.facebook.com/profile.php