Creative writing has always been my first love. I have over the past decades started writing many a novel and then let each one of them wait for me to come back to them.
This time I intend going public with the act. I am going to attempt writing stories live on this blog.
My fiction writing style is in the fabulist streams of consciousness style and those who cannot digest that do not fret. I will continue posting blogs on brands, marketing etcetera in my usual style.
For those who you enjoy reading streams of consciousness, here is an open invite to help me write this. Post your suggestions in the comments section or email them to me and be sure they will create their ripple in the stream as it bubbles along. Also I will thank you in the postscript.
The title of this work of fiction I am now beginning to write live on the web is ‘Break On To the Other Side’. Jim Morrison fans will get the reference. It also signifies my attempt to overcome the resistance within me that has kept me from giving full play to my creative self.
Here goes.
Break On Through To the Other Side
Chapter One
Growing Taller
My mother grew taller as she aged beyond fifty. By then I was stuck at five feet two. How do you think I felt? We lived near a private beach. My dad’s job was to keep the beach clean. Pity he never did like the sea or think much about its salubrious effect. No wonder than that he died at forty. That left my mother with radiant good health and me.
The private beach belonged to a hot-eyed mafia queen. As my father’s body burned on the pyre, he walked up to my mom and offered her the job my Dad had. She accepted. Not surprising considering she had one thousand two hundred rupees in soiled ten rupee notes and me as the legacy Dad had left for her.
My mother loved the sea. She spent hours more than she really needed to tending to the beach. And with each passing day her simple underclass look began to subtly change. I can swear her nose started to straighten and, despite of her being a natural adherent to the truth, grow longer like Pinocchio’s.
I had no one else to share the wonder of this metamorphosis with so I shared it with her, talking to her about her in the third person. And this habit stayed with me. I lived now with two mothers. The one I talked to. And the one I talked to her about.
Decades later when I had a private beach of my own, my mother was six inches taller than me as we walked the beach on summery moonlit nights. And once at nineteen, at five feet two, I had been an inch taller than her. And that was not all. She looked twenty years younger. How do you think I felt?
By then I was an adept. Adepts don’t feel. They just do. Nike would have loved to have me as their brand ambassador. Only that I never wore athletic gear in my life and at five feet two, weighed ninety four kilograms.
Adepts live in more dimensions than the three that dear reader you live in. Unless you are an adept yourself but then adepts never, ever read anything at all.
As I walked down the beach that summery moonlit night with my taller, younger, much better looking mother I was experiencing wraith like rain falling across swathes of bare naked trees pulsing with the white light of far way lightening.
You do not get to own a private beach by being in one place at a time, especially if you were born to people whose job it was to clean one.
That bare-naked wood in the pouring rain was getting my bile up. Exactly what I wanted as I stared across the conference table at that long-nosed, impossibly thin aristocratic bitch who was trying to screw me out of a couple of million dollars more.
Once upon a time she had been good in bed but now she practiced the art in board rooms. I touched the button on the side of chair and imperceptibly my chair gained height as hers sank at the same rate.
Adepts love technology and never use magic when good old technology will do.
She snorted. She saw through this one. Apparently this particular invention of mine, as so many before, had been plagiarized and made sort of common place among the cognoscenti.
I had many secret admires or so I liked to believe. I was now out of those rainy woods and kicking back my heels in the plush push back seats of the neighborhood multiplex. They were playing my story there.
My mood improved. I even managed to smile at the bitch and gave her not just the couple of million dollars more she was haggling for on the divorce settlement but a couple of million more. She looked ready to give me a farewell blow job then and there but then I was walking with my saintly mother on my private beach on a summery moonlit night. Wasn’t I?
- To be continued... soon
