Spiked: An Earthly Rebellion - Part 1 (more to come if wanted) (WRAP)

SPIKED. AN EARTHLY REBELLION.

Part One. A Good Child.

Calcutta, Kolkata, the city of Kali, fearsome and devastating, a heavy skied gate to hell, thronging with an obscene mixture of Victorian viceroys vice and grandeur, a million Hindustan Ambassadors, and more, many more, homeless, dispossessed and destroyed. Leave the small, hot restaurant with its impalatably anglicised menu, walk past the bust of Tagore further down Sudder Street, take a left, and then the next right. Don’t buy charas from the small frail man, white bearded, reminiscent of a wise Greek from antiquity. Try not to make eye contact with the desperate woman, aged somewhere between eighteen and fifty, avoid her timeless anguish and her nakedly frail children. In front of you is an old market, temporarily a building site, backed by a proud red stone church in this original land of forced multi-culturalism, rendered tolerant by a dozen waves of invasion and migration, traders and soldiers. Turn right and head away from the hot smog and sewage ridden streets, up into a cool, yet suitably dilapidated, marble clad lobby. The lift-wallah will beckon you into the nerve-jangling elevator, and take you to the rooftop bar. Here, you will sip a rare cold Kingfisher, graze on delectably spiced tit bits, share laughs with the other Firanghi interlopers and the too few residents with the resource to climb so high. Drink your cheap beer, smoke your cheap fags, marvel at how affordable life in this Communist led canton is. Ignore the fact that for most of people teeming below, it is prohibitively expensive, a credit fuelled foreign pipe dream played out aggressively on the stage they populate as benighted extras. Gaze, as the sun sets, vividly refracted by a lung assaulting haze into luminous yellows and deep, foreboding reds, at the Western masterpieces infiltrating the hot, humid Eastern canvas; the skeletal span of the Hooghli Bridge, the delusions of the Victoria memorial and the socially responsible placebo of the Indian museum. Look deeper, at the ramshackle slums, boys emulating Tendulkar on bumpy brown wasteland sprouting bright plastic flowers emblazoned with unaffordable logos, teasing, the herds of clunking whirring puffing cars sitting patiently, by banks and sweet shops, herds of goats melting through the morass. In the fading light of day look at the families settling down to sleep in the streets below.

If, however, you had stopped the lift on the ninth floor, handed the smiling attendant a few spare rupees and entered the flat at the end of the corridor, you would have found a boy named Gautama Goodchild. His father, English, works for the Western controlled Asian Development Bank, lending impetus to the nascent free markets, in a shimmering misplaced tower. His mother, Indian, toils in her kitchen until noon, before distributing her dhal and chappatis to the dispossessed, drug addicted and abandoned until darkness seeps through the tainted air.

Gautama is alone this afternoon. Born in London, a leafy, affluent west London, near the end of the line, he came here six weeks ago when his aspiring, hard working, hard-nosed father took on a dubious promotion. His father works, his mother toils to undo the damage and disparity of recent centuries. So he is alone, allegedly. Actually, he is far from alone, alone only in adult terms, as his wide, brown eyes feed a fertile, creative brain, perceiving a world where the absolute has not yet been ingrained. As we speak he is sat on the window ledge, some ninety feet high, tired happy and relaxed after a strenuous game of cricket with a disparate group; agile Hanuman leaping and bounding behind the wastepaper bin wicket, facing the fearsome Shiaob Akhtar bowling at mach five from the kitchen door, batting with Tendulkar to save the vital match, clean bowling Ricky Ponting and both the Waughs, three golden ducks. India & Affiliated Gods v The Rest. A regular occurrence in this otherwise unremarkable flat floating in the putrid air. Obviously, Gautama was the great all rounder, the fulcrum of this undefeated team.

So now he sits, window open allowing the sweaty trapped air out. Gautama stares at the horizon filling expanse of this colonial trading post turned mega-city. The green oasis, the park by the Victoria memorial, shimmers through the too-tangible air, a melancholy drifting in and out of focus. Noise, heat and abused particles rise in a poisonous, polysensual cacophony, assailing his impressionable mind. The cars below sit, horns blaring unproductively. His eye escapes, skimming away over a tableau he knows he will find repeated endlessly throughout this unfortunate imposition on the fertile river delta. Roads clanged shut by uncountable cars, prison like buses, all crawling loudly and without purpose, past vast adverts for foreign consumables, bright and attractive, rammed unthinkingly above a posse of loin cloth clad children begging alms from passing mendicants and crawling motorists on pointless pilgrimages.

His breath, even though he sits and rests, is shallow, fast, almost panicked. He doesn’t want to take the oxygen in, not too deep, knowing, in subliminal, lamb like innocence, that each breath draws in more that was ever intended, each breath will alter him, bond him irreversibly to selfish thoughtlessness and ignorant greed that assails him and all below. He’s not hungry, but the metallic taint of chemical residues numbing his tongue drives him to munch on the Mo-Mo chicken and sweet chilli dip left by his angelic mother as she brings small mercy to the masses.

Almost thoughtless, scarcely aware of the flickering potentials fizzing in his heart and soul, he looks down at pandemonium below and cries out, screams in. The metal boxes, restructured alloys and bastardised compounds, the processed fuels, usurped from earthbound homes return his call with a plaintive, anguish filled wail, the expressive agonies of the oppressed. He shuts his eyes and lets go, falls, screaming for hope, for change, for those things only an innocent, perhaps naïve and stupid, man can call for. Gautama Goodchild falls, offering himself in return for something, for an earthly rebellion.

I just finished reading your thread..Your story was well done but it was a bit over my head i had a hard time getting into it..And im not trying to be mean in anyway ..sometimes simple down to earth storys are the best

reply to post by sugarcookie1


I am quite pretentious. All becomes clear on later sections of the story - it is ultimately about Earth Chaos, Gaia Theory and the idea of humanity as a plague.

why don't you post the later sections of the story about Earth Chaos id love to read it maybe i will fall in love it..ya never know~~

This story has many possibility’s.

As I read this I imagined a man with some kind of mental sickness who talked to himself rather fast as he walked along trying to fit in and be unnoticed.
Looking down he saw a boy wearing foreign clothing, he tried to fill in the boys background and lifestyle in his mind then watched the boy plummet to his death, still with his crazy rambling thoughts inside his head and not really caring at all about the child.

Then I wondered if I was on the right track with the author. So I reread it a again, only this time I saw a guy as a spy wearing an earpiece and being given directions from someone watching him.
He knows the background of the boy, because the boy is his targets son. His target being a business man from London.

Um...am I on the right track, what I am supposed to be seeing as I read?
Maybe I need to read part two, or maybe give us a small synopsis / summary.

reply to post by Whateva69


I like it. The earpiece thing is quite close. I went to Kolkatta, and wrote this sometime after. It was imagined as a guide, as if you could hear the voice taking you there...

Part two goes some place else - links to the title. Try to work out what the boy hated. Clue - this is all about globalism, the real NWO stuff...