Time period: 1940s, pre-Hiroshima Japan.

[001, Aim]

the aim was to miss.

The cherry tree stood, unabashed, gazing placidly out along the little stream and rook. It was blossoming season, extended branches draped in soft crimson flowers. A tsuru bird chirped somewhere in the far off distance, as a boy approached the tree, shyly cautious. Bark yearned for skin, sap for blood. The tree waved gently in the wind, and the child smiled under a trail of dark hair.

The wind was urging the tree to action, but he merely sidled timidly in response. The child, a small oval-eyed little thing, ran smooth palms against rough wood. Ants stomped on leaves, crickets on twigs. The boy smiled, toothily. He pulled a little bow and arrow from his back, where it had been hiding. In his milky white complexion, the tree saw innocence, pure and beautifully defined.

Wind groaned in boredom. The boy was so naïve. He went away in search of other children to play with, but old cherry tree stayed put, admiring the child’s graceful yet youthfully awkward figure. The boy tried to straddle the arrow against the taut string of the bow, but his little fingers were soon caught and chafed in the twine. The tree blew a breeze to chill the child’s burning fingertips, and whimpering subsided to beams.

Bow set in place, arrow held back. The cherry tree grinned woodenly as the arrow went off somewhere beyond the stream. The child was victorious in his defeat, all smiles. He seemed not to notice the arrow gone astray. The aim was to miss, in any case. A voice twisted its way into the play area.

“Mizo-chan!” sang a mother sweetly. “Mizo-chan, where have you gone, my little sweet?”

The boy looked up, the tree forgotten in its entirety. He ran off, hands outstretched, and a small woman in a beautifully dressed kimono, holding a pearl hair-clip in one hand and her satin hand-bag in the other, gathered him up in her arms. The tree sighed and went back to gazing at the little stream, his best friend.

[008, breakfast]

a businessman’s pleasure

The storefront of the Nagasaki bakery tells stories. The glass is a dustpan of secrets, of atrocities, of love, of life. A sign speaks mornings unending, nights of rush and wait, rush and wait. A door, chipped but colossal, the store-owner’s twin. They share souls, this door and that man, they share regrets.

The bakery is empty; the bread is warm, the customers awakening. The baker is awakening, too, and the black coffee burns his tongue as he drags out the dough, drags out the pans. He wonders about his wife, his two children; he opens a newspaper, folding it to the center page. He reads a headline, fills half a crossword puzzle, and folds another page, revealing an advertisement for a bicycle.

A man approaches the storefront. The man is dressed to impress, in his clean-cut suit, his western top hat, a tie pressed and still. He is a businessman, holding a briefcase, a stereotype and a sore thumb all at once. He hesitates by the door, seems to re-read the name: Kato’s Baked Goods. He chooses his destinies carefully, and enters.

The baker is startled. Six o’clock has just hit the horizon in a brilliant display of sapphire and gold. It is early for businessmen with briefcases. He greets the man with dignity, and they exchange pleasantries.

“Breakfast,” the businessman declares to no one in particular.

He exchanges some change and receives a fresh loaf wrapped in crisp brown paper. Thanking the baker, he emerges from the store. The day is beginning and his mouth is warm. What else could one ask for?

And the businessman leaves the baker to his thoughts.

[009, Broken]

the broken kite

Autumn, the most beautiful season in Hokkaido. Orange light litters the turning leaves, infiltrating fallen twigs. Cool breezes whisper disturbances up and now alleyways, as children come and go on blue faded bicycles, ringing their bells softly. On sunny days, warmth penetrates the dirt roads and belly dances off petals and thorns. The air is a scent of its own, beautifully encompassed in fragrances, a hint of a season to come, a touch of the past now to be forgotten.

The kites line the skies, the boys line the fields. The grass is greener than green and fatherly men keep their hands in their pockets, while their women hold bamboo umbrellas, shielding thin faces from the rays of sunlight. The kites fly high. Bright blue, white, yellow, red. The kites skim along the skyline, each one nosing its way forward, tugging gently and scream silent pleas of freedom.

The ropes are lost simultaneously, as a small ‘40s jet plane drags attention away from them. A boy whimpers as his string slips past his clumsy fingers and whirls happily off to find a tree to nestle in. A few minutes later, the child appears with his trophy, smashed and awkwardly stumbling. It will not fly.

A father is calling to his child, with a stern but loving expression plastered on his business-like face. Son, come along now. Let it go, we must have supper.

But father! My kite is broken!

Son...

...and the boy surrenders. Afterall, he will make another kite, another autumn, another freshly painted day. He will be older yet, he will be wiser. Too wise for kite flying and picnicking? He thinks not.

But truth beholds powerful magic, and as young boys often do, this boy grows and grows. One day he is his father, one hand on his forehead, shielding light from his eyes. His child stands two feet in front, his wife two feet behind. He wonders why he grew up so quickly.

He never did return to go flying.