Chapter One

 My mom gave me the idea of writing a short story online that came in sections to excite my readers. She seems to think I can write or should write like Murakami, but I'm no way as nearly developed in writing as he is. I'm more of a poet at heart but here is my multi-sectioned short story: CHAPTER ONE




The aftermath of some remote memories are devastatingly deep.

Nai lived through darkened memories, drinking them as if they were alcohol, knowingly drinking sin. But for odd reasons, a sick child, or another nagging one, or simply an ungrateful moment leads to nothing but the memory of her father. She didn't hate him, and now that she has children of her own, she sympathizes somehow. For reasons unknown to her she sees her past self as only a distortion of the present. And now that she knows the extent of struggling to ensure her girls futures and the cost of doing so, all of which terrifies her; she's reconciled her father's memory some.

But pain is pain, softened by the mind's rational, it still lingers in an aftertaste. She had no idea on that day that he would leave her so suddenly, just march out the door, and not return. Not caring enough to at least pick a fight. She knew for a fact that he strongly believed in Islam, a faith that she secretly rejects, but she never imagined that he would up and leave his original family, his true family, to marry a more devote woman, a younger more devote woman covered from head to toe. He grew a beard and when she couldn't recognize him anymore, she knew she had lost her father to some diseased obsession that was no longer faith and no longer love.

Losing a father like that makes a girl go sour, but sour sweetness is by far the most deadly combination and unfortunately her father made one other impact on her life that would stick like sugar, he married her off to a relatively upstanding man after he acquired his second wife. The man would be his wife's brother, another obsessive compulsive man, but worse off, for he was raised with such notions of bigotry, and knew no other way of being, nor did he have room for any inkling of tolerance, of acceptance towards difference.

Nai knows in her heart that he is a good man, a kind man, a man who wouldn't hurt a fly if it buzzed too close to his ear while he sleeps, who spends on his family, and comes home to dinner, speaks as softly and as little as possible; sincerely, a gentle man. But a difficult man too. His expectations of her are daunting, and his willingness to reject her for another all but glaringly apparent, which leaves her praying to his unknown God for peace of mind, that he won't up and marry on her and simply forget he has a duty to her and her children. 
What makes matters worse is that her husband has no sense of inspiration in him. Clearly indicating he is the wrong man for Nai. Because she lives in stories, in imagination, and though she is skeptical of the Quran, she has read it more times than her husband has, and has elaborately memorized each tale as if it were speaking to her of fantastical powers and gifts that she may acquire. He breathes and eats the Quran in its literal form: the Prophet ate on the floor, he will eat on the floor; the holy book says Adam and Eve were sent from the heavens to earth, that magic exists, and Geni's are also God's creation, so be it.

Nai of course has no say in the matter, though she never really attempted to engage him on such concerns anyways, for she knew what kind of man he was, and she knew it would hurt him deep in the soul if she did not follow his guiding path.

Thus what is a nominally sweet characteristic in Nai—her tender concerns for others—can turn crusty sweet and bounce back on her like a wrecking ball swinging in the air waiting to land on its next location, her arm, her face, maybe her heart.

Hence when you pour on crusted sweetness sour memories you have the definitive taste of Nai's cuisine. It's almost like eating rotten food. The fact that she can't cook makes her that less of a woman in her husband's eyes, which is devastatingly increased by the fact that she only gave birth to two girls, leaving him with no one to carry his family name, or the family business. She is his failure, and this she reads in his eyes daily as the aftermath of these memories leaves another burnt dish on the stove.