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Young Writers Society


Feudal: Revamped



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Wed Jul 08, 2020 4:24 pm
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sheysse says...



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"I'd rather die my way than live yours."
-Lauren Oliver, Delirium


The year is 1874, and Japan is under siege. American troops desire the island nation as a trading outpost, but Japan has refused all requests from them to use it as such. American President Millard Fillmore declares war with Japan, and they largely outnumber the small country's military force. Yet, skirmish after skirmish, Japan takes victory. Backup takes more than two months to cross the ocean, meaning America is at a severe disadvantage.

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In order to turn the tides of war, they aim to claim a small island off the south coast of Japan, Okinawa. Okinawa is in the perfect location, because it can be defended from Japanese troops, and a base could be set up to store supplies and house troops. The war could turn to their side.

Okinawa Prefecture contains Higashi Village. Higashi Village is the town American boats need to land on, due to riptides and wind paths. The citizens of Higashi Village have no defense from the troops, so America expects an easy claim of land.

However, a group of eight citizens are not prepared to give up the island, knowing it could mean the downfall of Japan's precious isolation. They are prepared to set aside their differences in order to save their homeland.

The Cast


侍 The Samurai 侍 (warrior)
- Male
- Wields a katana
- Assembles the group
Reserved by @sheyren

侍 The Shèshoŭ 侍 (archer)
- Male
- Wields a recurve bow
- Hails from China
Reserved by @Chaser

侍 The Geisha 侍 (female entertainer)
- Female
- Wields no weapon at the start of the storybook
- Is skilled at lying
Reserved by @PrincessInk

侍 The Shinobi 侍 (ninja)
- Female
- Wields a variety of assassination tools
- Keeps her name a secret for most of the storybook
Reserved by @Shadeflame

侍 The Soldier 侍 (soldier)
- Male
- Wields a flintlock pistol
- Defects from the American troops
Reserved by @bullet

侍 The Sōhei 侍 (warrior-monk)
- Male
- Wields a naginata
- Is of the last remaining sōhei
Reserved by @soundofmind

侍 The Rōnin 侍 (warrior without a master)
- Female
- Wields a katana
- Does not serve Emperor Meiji
Reserved by @HarryHardy

侍 The Wakō 侍 (pirate)
- Female
- Wields a cutlass
- Captain of a ship and crew
Reserved by @SirenCymbaline

In addition to the main eight, there are four other, more minor roles to be fulfilled.
First is the American General. He will be a male character.
Second is Emperor Meiji, who is also male.
Third is a spy for the Eight, who will be female.
Lastly is a spy for the American troops, who will be male.

The Rules


  • Minor language is allowed, such as 'damn' or 'crap'. Certain exceptions can be used.
  • High activity may be required, but if you want to participate and have a busy schedule, we can make allowances.
  • No posting order will be in place, but we will aim for a post every two weeks at least.
  • If you were in the original, you may reuse your character unless the role they filled has already been claimed.

Character templates are below.
Spoiler! :
Code: Select all
[b]Role[/b]:
[b]Age[/b]:
[b]Gender[/b]:
[b]Sexuality[/b]
[b]Appearance[/b]:
[b]Personality[/b]:
[b]Other[/b]: (optional)


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176 Reviews



Gender: Male
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Reviews: 176
Sun Aug 16, 2020 4:39 pm
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sheysse says...



Jinpachi Watanabe, 甚八渡辺


Jinpachi took a long look at the katana in his hand. Carved into the handle was an intricate dragon riding a wave. Holding the weapon felt right, just as it had a decade earlier when it was gifted to him by his father. He still remembered his father’s face when he placed the weapon in Jinpachi’s hand. There was no fear in it, nothing but pride. If not for the ceremonial white clothing he wore, you would not be able to tell what it was he needed to do. Jinpachi had gripped the blade tightly, biting back tears. He remembered repeating to himself “this is for the Watanabe name” over and over in his head. Even as his father lay on the mat, blood pouring from his stomach, Jinpachi squeezed the dragon on the handle.

He sheathed the blade, bringing himself back to the present. More imagery of the dragon ran up the blade’s encasing. Watatsumi. The Sea God. With this blade, he would cut through anything that came his way, like the harsh waves of the great ocean against the rocks of the shore. Or, he would, once he returned to Tokyo. There, he would again fight beside the rest of Meiji’s army, protecting Japan from the siege of the Americans. They had strength and numbers, but they had no honor. It seemed to be a losing battle at the outset, but the Japanese were pushing them back, and Jinpachi was itching to rejoin the fight.

He rose and turned, following a narrow hallway through the center of the house. The sliding door to a room on the left was open, and he peered inside. It was a mostly empty room, but a mattress was rolled out on the floor. The blankets were disturbed on the left side, but the right side still held a sleeping woman. She was in her twenties, brown hair laying on the pillow as her chest moved up and down gently with each breath. Her stomach was still flat. Jinpachi would not be returning to the frontlines for quite a few months, it would seem. But that was okay, he thought with a smile.

Just as he turned away, he heard a shuffling. Masumi had awoken, her eyes hanging open drowsily. She looked to Jinpachi, and then to a window. The sun was just rising. “It’s still early,” she said groggily. She patted the side of the bed where Jinpachi had been laying. “Come back to bed, just for a little bit longer.”

Jinpachi shook his head, but he walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead. “I would love to, but I have a job today. I’ll be home before you know it, I promise.”

“Will you be back for dinner?” Masumi asked.

“If all goes well, I’ll be back well before then,” he said, and Masumi lit up.

“I’ll make tempura! Botan said he would give us shrimp this week, so I’ll stop by and get some.”

Jinpachi smiled. “My favorite. You know me too well.” He rose, dragging his hand along the blanket. Masumi took it her own, giving it a squeeze before letting go. Jinpachi turned, closing the door to the room behind him as he made his way into the kitchen and outside the house. The ocean was visible a short ways off, the sun rising over it. The morning air was refreshing, and Jinpachi walked down to the center of Higashi Village with a bounce in his step, katanas hanging at his side.

Residents of Higashi Village were bustling in the streets. It was a fine day for fishing, and the tide was leaving, so a lot of fishermen were ready heading out to the seas while their wives waved them off. Compared to the vast expanses of Tokyo or Kyoto, Higashi was small, and rather stagnant. But it had been Jinpachi’s home as a child, and he had come to love it despite its quiet nature. He had been back twice in the past three months, but this time he was here to stay. It had taken some adjustment, but it was worth being home again, with Masumi.

As he walked through the streets, he occasionally noted sideways glances and wary stares. It was not uncommon, even in a small village like Higashi. Unrest had turned many Japanese citizens away from Emperor Meiji, especially with the prosperity that trade with America offered. Samurai like Jinpachi were symbols of Meiji himself, and nothing drew more attention than the signature katanas they carried. They were symbolic of a resistance not everyone wanted.

“Good morning, Watanabe,” cried out the voice of an older man. Watanabe turned to see a wooden stand on one side of the street, hanging cloth in the doorway. Just outside it stood No Bota, a hunchback old man who had been fishing since he was a child. No one was as good as him. A couple other vendors also noticed Jinpachi and called out greetings, and he returned the gesture to each of them. Fortunately, most of the town still saw Jinpachi for the man he was, and not for the sword he carried.

He was headed to the outskirts of the village, to help a farmer deal with a bear in the area. It wasn’t a very exciting job, especially compared to the glory of the battlefield, but it made him money. With marriage to Masumi around the corner and a child on the way, any yen he could make was necessary. And since he had stepped away from combat for a while, he wasn’t receiving any compensation from the emperor. But as he was headed down the path to leave the bustling center of town, he paused as heard shouting.

“This is my dock! I built the damn thing!” A man shouted in broken English.

The response came in a thick American accent. “Well we needed it, so we’re using it.” Jinpachi turned to see two American soldiers standing in front of a middle-aged couple on a fishing dock. An American yawl was docked at the dock, blocking the exit for a fishing boat likely owned by the couple. Jinpachi approached, his hand hovering near Watatsumi.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Jinpachi asked, stopping beside the couple and directing the question at the two American soldiers. It was odd to see Americans as south as Okinawa, but it was even odder that only two came.

“We have our orders. We need to dock at Higashi Village to get a lay of the land. These two are causing the problem.” One of the young soldiers said.

Jinpachi raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m afraid this dock is in use. Perhaps you should consider docking elsewhere. I can’t imagine Higashi is all that important,” he said, trying to remain polite. They had guns at their hips, and the last thing he wanted was to start a fight so close to the town. Not to mention, he needed to know what they were doing here, and that would be impossible if bullets started flying.

The other soldier shook his head. “It has to be Higashi, and it has to be now. If we don’t have a location for the barracks by the time the fleet gets here, we’ll be in big--”

His partner elbowed him. “Don’t tell him that, you idiot! He’s one of Meiji’s men,” he said, nodding to the two katanas Jinpachi was wearing. Watatsumi was the only one he ever would fight with, but he kept another on him just in case he needed it. Only the emperor’s samurai could carry two katanas, so it was an immediate giveaway that he fought under Emperor Meiji.

The first, having not noticed that Jinpachi carried two katanas, immediately grew pale. “They didn’t mention any soldiers in Higashi.” His trembling hand floated to his pistol.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Jinpachi said, placing his hand out in front of the fisherman and his wife to push them away from the situation. There was a tense silence as the couple backed away, and the soldier’s hand met with his weapon.

“Tom, we weren’t ordered to start a fight. These people need to be our friends, not our enemies,” the other soldier said calmly, trying to de-escalate the situation.

It worked. This Tom character took a deep breath and moved his hand away from the gun. Jinpachi breathed for the first time in almost a minute. “Okay, here’s what’ll happen.” Jinpachi slowly walked past the two soldiers to the dock. “You’re going to move your boat off this dock to let that fisherman head out for the day. After that, you can have it until he comes back this evening. Is that acceptable?”

The more rational soldier seemed to ponder the offer for a moment before accepting. “That should be fine. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Of course.” Jinpachi turned to the yawl docked on the dock, the rope tying it to one of the wooden support beams. Without thinking, he drew Watatsumi to cut the rope, but the sudden motion caused Tom to panic. He drew his pistol and fired a shot at Jinpachi. Jinpachi leapt from the pier, narrowly dodging the bullet. As he stepped out from the water to the dock, he raised his hands in the air, and the other soldier wrestled the gun out from Tom’s hand.

When he had taken Tom’s weapon and tossed it aside, he ducked his head in apology. “Please, we mean no harm. Tom’s a new recruit, and he’s a big on edge.” Tom, realizing his mistake, bowed his head as well. Jinpachi lowered his hands, ready to pardon them for their actions, but then he saw movement by the old wooden house behind the two soldiers. It was there that the fisherman who owned the dock lived. The fisherman must have heard the gunshot, because he had slid open the back door and was charging down the path to the dock with a knife in hand.

“Wait!” Jinpachi shouted, but it was too late. Blood sprayed out from Tom’s torso, shock in his eyes as the knife emerged from his stomach. The other soldier watched, horrified, as Tom fell to the ground lifeless. Turning, he saw the fisherman and the bloody knife. Drawing his own pistol, the soldier fired a shot at the assailant. It went right through his forehead, killing him instantly. When the soldier saw more movement in the doorway of the house, he fired another bullet. Falling limp through the doorway was the fisherman’s wife.

Jinpachi drew Watatsumi just as the soldier spun around to shoot a third time. Ducking, the bullet passed over Jinpachi’s head as he slashed sideways across the soldier’s stomach. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it was enough to send him stumbling backwards. Without hesitation, Jinpachi placed the blade in the soldier’s neck and sliced it open, killing him.

He looked out across the carnage. By now, the entire village was rushing over to see what had happened. At the house lay the fisherman’s wife. One woman checked her for a pulse, and with a pale face shook her head at Jinpachi. In front of him lay the bodies of the two soldiers and the fisherman.

“Out on the water! Look!” shouted one man in the crowd, and everyone’s attention turned to the horizon across the bay. The sun had now risen enough to clearly see that off a ways were three large vessels. Jinpachi remembered with horror what Tom had said. “If we don’t have a location for the barracks by the time the fleet gets here.” A fleet was coming. Judging from the size of those ships, they were looking at probably almost three hundred per ship, nearly a thousand in total. And two of their men were just killed. At best, they had a day or two before the Americans arrived.

And when they did, it would be a bloodbath.





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Tue Aug 18, 2020 8:50 am
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Chaser says...



Pang Bu, 龐布


Bu was surprised that morning with an ache in his fingers. Pain sparkled in his knucklebones as he shot out of bed. For a second, he flexed his right hand, wondering if they’d come back; his fingers dissolved in the empty air. His fingers were air, save his thumb, turned upwards to mark the trajectory of the sunrise.

“Ghost pain,” he told himself, then laughed. “How spooky.”

They had been gone for many years now, half sliced, half torn away in a time he would rather forget. That had been before Okinawa. Before he had become the Chinaman on the hill, growing bitter melons in the island sunshine. When the sun hit the water and shattered among the waves, you could be lost in its beauty and forget yourself, fingers included.

“The real shame,” he told himself, “is that I can only count to six now.”

He laughed again at his own joke. He’d practiced this easy, mellifluous laugh. It had been instrumental in gaining peoples’ trust.

Bu pulled his clothes on and grabbed his farming tools. On some days, he would strap a rake to his forearm, tilling the earth for his melon seeds. Others, a pail to fetch water from the stream and dole it, gently, among the growing shoots. But today, he took only a knife and a basket, because the melons had borne fruit, after a long, long, twelve to sixteen weeks.

He stepped out of his house as the sun swept the mountainside. His home was on the heel of the outskirts of Higashi Village, a peaceful town of fish and floating wood. The location suited him just fine, as the rain from the sea would water his crops as it trudged up the mountainside, before collapsing into the ground. His goya melons soaked up the water and became even bitterer, which made them a hit with the locals.

Bu walked to his wooden vine trellis. He held the knife in his left hand, and the vine between his thumb and palm, making careful cuts at the steam of each melon.

Each goya melon was green and slightly curved, with little mottled knurls going down to the tip. They varied in size, and the biggest ones were as big as his forearm. They came down from the vines gently, and solidly. Bu felt the giddy weight of a full harvest in his basket.

When he was finished, he tucked the knife away and carried the melons back into his house. He left a few of them on the vines, to mature and drop seeds for the next harvest.

He’d just brought the basket over his doorstep when pain - real, ghostless pain - lanced his right hand. He nearly spilled his goya as he dropped the basket and clutched the stumps of his right hand’s fingers. It felt like the sun was unfolding his hand, hot and agonizing, with wave after wave of pain.

Still, Bu smiled. It wasn’t that the pain itself was a reason to smile. It was simply that he had found ways to smile long ago, so that even in such pain, he could smile once more. If he got one smile out of every ordeal, then it was good enough for him. And so he staggered over the small box where he kept his precious valuables, items from his homeland.

It was small, rusty from sea travel. It was carved with a single character, the start of someone’s name, not his. Inside the box was what he needed to smile. He just had to open it.

He stared at that box so long his smile almost slipped.

* * * * * * * *


Bu hummed a tune as he carried his basket down the hill, into the village. The pains in his hand had been smoothed over by song, and the rest of the day would be melons, melons, melons.

The busiest part of town was undoubtedly the wharf, where fishermen would take their boats out for the day, or children would play in the shallow waters down by the beach. Sometimes the elders would sit on the porches of the houses and watch the sea poignantly, reflecting on all that had changed in their long, long lives. Bu knew not what they thought, only what they wanted: goya melons.

Most days, people would pass him by. They would find some quirk of eeriness, be it his right hand, his narrow eyes, or that odd gesture with his thumb, a thumbs-up, was that a western thing? They didn’t know how to approach it. But today they had an excuse, because Bu was just another vendor stopping by in town now. He would come, and he would go, and no one had to ask why the Chinaman was missing four fingers.

Still, even if people could dull their acceptance of Bu, they could not dull the curiosity of their children. A little girl carrying a jug of water eyed his basket. She tugged her mother’s clothes. “Okaasan, look!”

Bu waved. “Fresh goya melon, for a guaranteed long life!”

The mother walked over to Bu, towering over him. Bu had thought that his native people were usually taller than the Japanese, so this came as a bit of a surprise. Still, she seemed no more hostile than the usual customer of Bu’s wares. She appeared apprehensive, waiting to see what the magic was.

Bu presented the melon as if it were a jade carving. “I bring to you a sacred secret from my homeland of China,” he said, making a lavish gesture.

The woman grabbed the goya and shook it quizzically. “What kind of secret is it?”

“It’s a secret that makes these goya taste incredible,” Bu replied. It’s the secret of mysticism and gullible foreigners, he thought. It was odd, being Chinese in a foreign country. But as soon as people bought into the Chinese myth, believing in his melons’ tale, they became foreigners in his country of imagination, with their hearts full of wonder.

The tall woman was feeling it too. “How much?” she asked, not taking her eyes off of the mystical melon.

“Seven yen apiece,” Bu said. “A good deal, right?”

The girl was still in conniptions over how a fruit could be shaped like this. The mother looked back at Bu hesitantly. “This food will be good for my daughter?”

“If it’s goya, it has to be good,” Bu said, posing with the melon. “It’s Chinese magic.”

The girl bounced up and down when she heard that, the mother having to rein her in to keep her from flying off like a bird. Somewhat exasperated and somewhat curious, she paid for the melon. As they walked away, Bu smiled. It really did make a difference when you thought the goya were magic.

Up the road, a young boy in sandals and a blue tunic turned the corner hard and began dashing toward the harbor. His grin was missing a few teeth, and his hand was waving chaotically as his legs propelled him at a horse’s pace.

“Bubu-san!” The boy was enthusiastic to the point of dizziness. “Hey, Bubu-san!”

“Hey, Makoto,” Bu smiled and waved cheerfully. “Does your grandfather want any melons?”

Makoto ran up to him and slammed on the brakes, leaving imprints in the dust. He whipped his head up and down, his mouth half open. “He sent me over here to get you. He says that he’ll only buy them if you bring them to him.

“Hey, Bubu-san,” Makoto continued breathlessly, “Show me another thing!”

“Wait, hold on,” Bu began, but caught himself. “A thing, eh? Then why don’t I teach you how to walk like the ocean.”

Makoto’s eyes went wide. “Like the ocean?”

Bu smiled and set down his basket. He began stumbling about, flailing his arms in a wave-like motion. He pulled a funny face and stamped around. “I’m Waaaaataaatsumi, the seeeeaaa god,” he slurred, adopting a dragonlike bellow. “And I’ve had tooooooo much to driiiiink.” He groaned and belched, staggering heavily.

The people passing by gave him judgemental glances. Part of it was that he was technically committing sacrilege, but mostly he just looked bizarre. Makoto, however, couldn’t stop giggling. Bu knew that this was just the sort of thing that a little boy would do all day with his friends.

“You seeeeee how I walk?” Bu asked. “Maaaaaakoooooootooooo.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Makoto said, stumbling a bit himself. “I’m gonna go show my friends! Bye, Bubu-san!” With that, he was in the wind, dashing down to the shore where his friends competed to toss stones in the water.

Bu stopped the act and raised his hand. “Wait, you-” -You didn’t tell me where your grandfather was, he thought. He stood for a second, sighed, and went out looking.

He traveled up the stone-lined streets, to where houses of paper and wood stood in a neighborhood. Higashi wasn’t a big enough village to get lost in, so Bu usually knew where to look for people. Sure enough, Elder Tamaki was sitting on his back porch, which was visible from the street. The old man was clutching a cup of tea happily, joking with a few other people sitting on small brown cushions. In between them all sat a steaming kettle, which a tight-faced man grabbed to refill his drink.

Tamaki went to pat his friend on the back, before spotting Bu standing in the street. He waved from his sitting position.

“Ah, it’s Pang-kun! Please, sell me a few melons.”

Bu walked to the stone fence. “Should I toss them over?” he asked.

Tamaki laughed heartily. “Of course not, come join us! I’ll let you in the front.”

Elder Tamaki met Bu at the front of the house. The porch, which was a light, springy wood, wrapped around the side of the home. On such a temperate day, the paper doors were all open, letting the morning light through the household. Tamaki lived alone, and was quick to show anyone his fine collection of clay sculptures. Makoto called the sculptures “toys that break too easy,” much to his grandfather’s dismay.

“Everyone, this is Pang Bu-kun, the melon farmer,” Tamaki said as they reached the back porch. “I’ve called him here for a single purpose: making the greatest bitter melon tea in all of Japan. He might look young, but he’s actually quite on in years! Isn’t that right, Pang-kun?”

Bu smiled warmly. “I’m nearly forty, I think.”

“Nearly forty! We’ll have to celebrate when the time comes.” Tamaki clapped him on the back. “Now Pang-kun, these are my old friends.” He patted the shoulder of the tight-faced man, who was still sitting down. “This is my neighbor, Kogoro-kun.”

Kogoro grunted, “Nice to meet you.” There was a certain huffiness to his words, a pride that age had availed him. Bu returned the greeting in kind.

“That’s Uehara-san, my senior. I think she’s older than America itself!”

Uehara had her hair tied neatly in a bun, her hands clasped in her lap. She gave no indication of hearing them, staring off at the mountainside as morning tarried on. “She loves nature,” Tamaki explained quietly.

“And this fellow,” Tamaki said, gripping the shoulder of a startled, balding man, “is Yamashiro-kun. His son is a samurai for Emperor Meiji!”

Bu dipped his head. “Good morning, Uehara-san, Yamashiro-san.”

“H-hello,” Yamashiro replied. “Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” He smiled, looking quite confident in such an agreeable phrase.

Pang nodded. “I had a delight harvesting this morning.” He lifted his melon basket, catching the attention of the group.

Tamaki licked his lips and wrung his hands. “Well don’t just stand there, then. Let’s have some goya tea!”

Kogoro and Tamaki went inside and cut up a few melons, removing the seeds before tossing them into the kettle, which sat on a wood stove. Kogoro squatted down and stoked the fire with an animal skin bag: a sharp squeeze sent a gout of air into the flames, making them shoot up and boil the kettle.

“We’ll be ready in a minute!” Tamaki called.

Bu sat down on the porch and stretched his legs. He sighed in relief. “I’ve been on my feet all day,” he told Yamashiro. “I feel like that famous samurai who died standing on a bridge.”

“Musashibou Benkei.” Yamashiro nodded sagely. “How do you know that story?”

“Tamaki’s grandson,” replied Bu. “We play a game where I stand in one spot and he tries to make me move by any means possible.” He smiled. “I never win that one.”

Yamashiro regarded him oddly, but didn’t question any further.

“Do you think your son will be like Benkei, Yamashiro-san?” Bu asked. “Passed down in legend so that children can pretend to be him?”

Yamashiro laughed a bit, then looked down into his hands, grabbing his thumb. “I believe that a legend is being written as we speak. My son is just one of many proving their honor for all of Japan.”

Bu smiled. “Well, that sounds like a good thing, then. Maybe we should thank the Americans for their part!”

“Don’t joke about the Americans,” Kogoro snapped, returning with the tea kettle. “Every opening up to that tyrant Perry was a mistake.”

Tamaki emerged, holding an extra seat cushion. “Now, more than ever, it looks like we’re learning what happens when east meets west. Here, Bu, sit.”

Bu sat down on the small cushion as Kogoro continued his tirade, steaming like the tea pouring from his kettle.

“It’s bad enough that we abandoned Sakoku,” he said. “But opening up because of a few gunships in the harbor? We should have slaughtered the Americans then and there.”

“That would hardly have been honorable, Kogoro-kun,” Tamaki said, pouring out the rest of the cups. “At the time, we thought the Westerners would honor us in turn.” He then gave a warm smile to Bu. Of course, if the Japanese hadn’t abandoned their isolationism, Bu would not be in Okinawa. Tamaki’s appreciation was wordless and profound.

“I risk sounding pompous, but they didn’t honor us, Tamaki.” Kogoro was getting more heated. “And now, where does that leave us? Either become as honorless as the Westerners or submit to them? We don’t want to suffer the humiliation of the Chinese.” He caught himself and turned towards Bu, hesitant to continue.

“Speak your mind, elder,” Bu said, smiling.

Kogoro shifted uncomfortably on his cushion. “Well, I was saying that dealing with Westerners destroyed the Chinese. Whether you like it or not, that’s the truth.” He stared at Bu, as if daring him to argue back.

Bu nodded slowly. “I can only agree, Kogoro-san.” He gave a thumbs-up, startling Kogoro with the missing fingers.

Tamaki coughed loudly. “In any event, it’s far too late to close off the Americans now. They’re already slaughtering us.”

“They can’t be winning,” Yamashiro insisted. “Otherwise we’d be dead in our homes by now.” His tone was optimistic, but his words put a damp mist over the tea party. They all fell silent for a while, unsure where to take that grim notion. The bitter tea dwindled as they poured it out and drank.

“We’ll have to fight.” They all turned toward Uehara, who had her hands folded peacefully in her lap. “Soon, very soon. We’ve lived good lives. We shouldn’t be afraid to give them up for our children.”

Kogoro sputtered and turned red. “That must be easy for you to say. It’s not very honorable to speak for the deaths of others, you know. And why are you acting like the Americans are already on Okinawa?”

Higashi looked at him gently. “War always comes eventually. For those who are too old to expect it-” Bu thought for a second her eyes slid to him. “-or too young to understand it.”

He was towering over Uehara before he realized it. The tea elders were staring at him, wondering why he’d shot up so quickly from his seat. Bu sputtered, trying to turn his knee-jerk reaction into a respectable statement. Looking into Uehara’s eyes, his words collapsed into his memories, then became formless afterimages, until eventually his memories resurfaced, and returned a simple sentence: “I’ll fight them.”

Kogoro scoffed. “You? With that hand, you’re as decrepit as the rest of us. Sit down and stop being rude.”

“I’m not being rude. I’ll fight them.” Bu didn’t know what made that statement true, but he knew it was true. “Tamaki, do you mind?”

Tamaki sighed and stood up, disappearing through the sliding door for a minute. When he came back, he was holding a small curve of bamboo and horn. Spooled in the middle was a line of dried horse sinew. “I don’t know why you let my grandson borrow this,” he said with a hint of wonder.

Bu took his recurve bow and worked the sinew around one end.“He wanted to practice his archery. Besides, it’s not like he was in any danger; he can’t string the bow.”

Kogoro glanced incredulously at Bu’s hand. “And I suppose you can?”

Bu grinned. “You suppose right.” He gripped the bowstring with his teeth and pulled, bending the bamboo backwards against the ground. When the string finally reached across, he hooked it in place and raised up his longbow, used these days for impressing people in the neighborhood. And impress them he would. Bu grabbed a melon from his basket and walked over to the grassy part of the yard.

Tamaki used to have a peach tree in his backyard, though it had died a few years ago after living a long, long life. To honor it somewhat, Tamaki had made a target out of a piece of the tree’s trunk. It stood now some twenty metres from Bu, across the yard. There was a firing line in the grass, as well as a small bucket that held some long-shafted arrows.

As the elders watched, Bu put the bow in his left hand. His right hand dipped into a bucket and grasped an arrow precariously between thumb and palm. Still holding the melon, he nocked the arrow clumsily.

“What’s he doing?” he heard Kogoro mutter. There was no time for the outside world anymore. Bu drew his breath like a tense bowstring, letting each steady release flow outward. He transferred the goya to his right hand.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Tamaki said in wonder. Bu took another breath, centered his weight, and tossed the melon skyward.

The elders’ stunned gazes followed the melon as it flew into the air. In a single, fluid motion, Bu shifted sideways into a firing stance. His bow angled towards the target; his right hand dipped down into his pocket.

When he withdrew his hand, there was a glint of green upon it. An ornate jade thumb ring rested upon his finger, holding the memory of a thousand shots with this ring, this bow, this man, Pang Bu the shè shǒu.

The goya was already beginning its downward arc. Bu brought his thumb ring against the string, pulled it to his ear, and shot.

The arrow crunched into the wood. It had hit slightly off-center, closer to the right than the left. But as it had flown across the yard, with all of Bu’s force and self-sureness behind it, it had impaled the melon midair and slammed it into the target.

Tamaki erupted in a loud cheer. Yamashiro placed his hands on his head in shock. Unseen by any of them, Uehara allowed herself the hint of a smile.

Bu walked over and dug the arrow out of the tree trunk. The goya was leaking juice onto the wooden shaft, and he had to carefully remove them. He returned with the melon, still impaled on the arrow.

“For your tea,” he said, handing the arrow and bitter melon down to Kogoro. Kogoro’s mouth flapped open and said nothing.

Bu stood there for a second and let the cool facade wash over him. Then he bent down and pumped his fist three times. “How was that, hm?” he asked the tea elders, grinning like a fool. “Impressive for being so decrepit, right?”

“Y-yes,” Yamashiro said. He was nervous, but sincere. “That was very impressive, Pang-san.”

“Thank you very much, Yamashiro-san,” Bu said, patting him on his balding head. Yamashiro looked stunned.

Tamaki smiled gravely. “Pang-kun, I admire your spirit. But please, try not to do anything rash. Makoto would be heartbroken if something happened.”

Such strange things, Bu thought, that we think we can never get over. He thumbed the ring on his right hand, remembering the look of tall, foreign ships in Hong Kong harbor. His hand had been holding something before it was severed away. But he’d smiled through it as per usual. Hong Kong had kept his fingers, not his heart.

Bu laughed and pulled the bow back again. “I don’t die easily. With an aim like this, they’d never even see me shoot.”

He had just twanged the bow again when three gunshots rang out from the harbor. Yamashiro jumped, knocking over the kettle. As tea soaked into the wooden floor, darkening it, Uehara looked Bu in the eye.

Bu swallowed hard. “I’m afraid I have to go now. Tamaki-san, you can pay for the melons later. It was nice meeting you, Yamashiro-san, Kogoro-san, Uehara-san.”

“Good luck to you,” said Kogoro solemnly. Yamashiro, shivering, just nodded at him. Uehara held his gaze for an astral second, and Bu felt piercingly old.

He nodded, picked up the arrow bucket, hiked up his melon basket, and set out for the harbor. As he did, his thumb ring shone green, as if in warning of the blood in the water.
The hardest part of writing science fiction is knowing actual science. The same applies for me and realistic fiction.





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KateHardy says...



Haruko Honami, 穂波はるか


Haruko blinked. The sun was beating down with full force on her face. She squinted in the light, instinctively shading her eyes with her hand. Daylight. She stirred, her body resisting all attempts to get it moving. On the ground under the shade of a tree was not her favorite place to sleep especially when she woke up having rolled out of the shade. Unfortunately, that had been her only option in the past few days. But not anymore. She had finally arrived at her destination.

She groggily sat up. Her back was stiff from the uncomfortable position that she had been lying in. She hauled herself onto her feet, making sure to keep her katana away from the ground as she did so. That was the one thing that she could not afford to damage. The rest of her rather simple attire was torn in multiple places and stained from sleeping on all sorts of rough terrain. She stretched, trying to get her body out of zombie mode. It had been a rough night sleeping outside among the elements but she hadn't gotten a chance to find a better place. She'd arrived late in the day and by that time she was just ready to drop where she stood which was exactly what she had done.

She completed her stretches and attempted to rub the sleep out of her eyes. Today was the day for her to try and find her parents house and hopefully reconnect with the place of her birth. It had been 10 long years since she had set foot on this island. She hoped that at least some of them remembered here. One particular name came to her mind: Nishi Yuko. A smile graced Haruko's lips as a flood of memories came to her.

* * * * * * * *


Ni,I have to go. I can't stay here anymore. It's too painful to live in this house anymore," said a young Haruko. She was about to leave for the mainland.

"But I will miss you so much Ru," said Nishi, tears coming to here eyes," you can come live with us. Please. You don't have to do this."

"I have to try Ni. One day I'll be back. I promise," said Haruko, who was also unable to hold back here tears.

"Are you sure that you will come back someday?" asked Nishi," I can't bear the thought of never seeing you again."

"Of course you will see me again, Ni," replied Haruko," do you think I could live without seeing you ever again?"

Nishi suddenly grabbed her in a hug.

"Come back to m," she whispered in Haruko's ear.

"Of course I will," replied Haruko," when I came back I will be strong enough to fight a dragon."

Nishi just hugged her tighter.

"You are already a dragon," she whispered," and I know nothing will happen to you. Stay safe."

"You too," said Haruko. The two girls had not managed to disengage themselves for a while. After they were finally separated by Nishi's parent's Haruko had got into the boat. Her last look at Nishi had been blurred by the tears that had coated her face.


* * * * * * * *


Haruko shook her head to rid herself of the memory. Nishi's smile had been solely responsible for her overcoming many hurdles in her samurai training. And it was that same smile that had guided her back home. The hope that blossomed in her heart at the possibility that she might run into her friend that day was unmeasurable. "Nishi must have forgotten me by now," said the rational part of Haruko," it's been so long and we were so young back then."

But despite her mind's best attempt to rationalize this, a small part of her desperately wanted her childhood friend back. She wanted something to live for. Ten years ago on one miserable night she had lost her parents. Becoming a samurai had given her another reason to exist. It had distracted her from those painful memories and turned her into the disciplined warrior she was today. But not too long ago she had lost that too. She was a samurai no more. After her master's untimely death, she was a ronin and she was still trying to accept that. It had not been easy but she had made do. After a few months of aimless wondering with no purpose she had remembered that promise from so long ago. Haruko was a woman who kept her promises. With the image of the same smile that had guided her all her life fixed firmly in her head, she had set out to return.

And now she was here. She walked out of the trees that she had spend the night in and out onto the stone lined streets. Memories assaulted her as she observed the familiar pathways. She made her way towards the village, trying to recall the path that she had walked many several times a day when she was a little girl, running around the village. Her memories were foggy and some areas were not like she remembered, with many new houses having sprung up over the course of the years. But in essence it was still the same place. The familiar feeling of home was still there even after all those years.

As she walked through the busy streets, no one gave her a second glance. There were a few children that occasionally pointed at her katana and mumbled something to their friends but no one approached her. The path would take her towards the outskirts of the village where Nishi's house (and her house which was right next to it) was located.

She emerged from the bustling streets into the center of town where she stopped for a look at the harbor. The place from which she had left the island all those years ago and returned yesterday. That was one place that would remain forever burned into her head. Giving it a last look, she turned to head down the path towards her home.

Three loud bangs rang out, causing her to instinctively cover her ears. Her mind was reeling. There was no mistaking those noises. They were gunshots.
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soundofmind says...



Ueda Shun’en, 上田


Things had changed since the dissolution of the monk order. The Sōhei had not dissipated altogether, but here, in the village of Higashi, their numbers had dwindled down. What was once a lively and populated temple situated on the small hill, hedged in by a grove of trees by the edge of the water, became a solitary place populated by one.

But today, Ueda had a guest.

Ueda sat down on the floor across from his old friend Tsuda Umeko - a man a few years his senior, who’d abandoned the monk order many years ago to take over his father’s farm, care for his dying mother, and start a family. Ueda sometimes wondered what his life might’ve looked like, if he’d done the same. Leaving back then, when he’d been surrounded by monks who were family, was something he’d only considered once, for a short time, when he’d been a different man, in love. It was almost funny how now, after all was said and done, he was the one who was left in the temple, while he watched everyone leave to start new lives, or go to temples where they would have more influence, and more power. Influence, though, was never really something he wanted.

Ueda poured the tea into Tsuda’s cup, and then into his own. The herbal fragrance of jasmine was strong, but pleasant as it filled the air between them. Ueda bowed his head slightly, holding up the teapot with a small smile before he set it down on the straw mat beneath them.

Tsuda picked up the cup, holding it loosely in one hand as little tendrils of steam traveled up to his nose. He took a deep breath and breathed it in as he looked at Ueda with a searching gaze.

"You seem a little more downcast than usual," Tsuda said, tilting his head to the side just a fraction.

Ueda huffed through his nose and shifted, switching his legs so his left was crossed over his right. He didn’t think it a very busy action, but his robes seemed catch a little air in the process, making him feel a little silly for shuffling around before giving Tsuda a real answer. Tsuda smirked a little, but there was still concern painted on his wrinkling face.

Ueda shrugged. "There’s been a lot on my mind," he said, waving a hand over his cup to catch some of the warmth of the tea. It was still boiling hot.

"Care to share?" Tsuda asked with his brows raised. Ueda grinned.

"I’ve been thinking about the future," he said, dropping his gaze to the floor. "But mostly the past."

"Sounds like a dangerous train of thought," Tsuda said, but Ueda could hear the humor in his voice. There was an old saying they used to repeat to each other, back when they both donned the same robes, and ascribed to Buddhism with a devout devotion. They had been young, and eager to be a part of something bigger than themselves. In some ways, Ueda still wanted that, but not in the same way he did when he was young.

He didn’t want to just join any fight, and he wasn’t interested in intimidating other strains of Buddhism. Frankly, he wasn’t quite sure what he believed anymore, but he had a feeling Tsuda knew that. They were just too afraid to say it, because it would feel like the admission of a dying, nearly-dead dream and a way of life slipping from their fingers, though it had long left their hearts.

"Do not dwell in the past. Do not dream of the future," Ueda said quietly. "Concentrate the mind on the present moment." He looked up to meet Tsuda’s eyes. "It’s a good saying."

"Yeah, if you’re against thinking," Tsuda joked, smirking again. He lifted his cup to his lips and tested the temperature of the tea and hissed, quickly pulling the cup away.

"But in that moment," Ueda said. "It would have been useful to think about the future."

Tsuda laughed and set the mug back down in front of him. He was never one to laugh gracefully. Always throwing his head back, and causing his belly to jiggle. He didn’t have a belly back then, but he certainly did now. Now that his wife had been feeding him well, and he set down the sword. Farm work kept him from looking too much like a dumpling. Of course, Ueda wasn’t one to talk. Next to Tsuda, he looked like a withering tree without his big, loose robes. Ueda had never been a very large man, and he didn’t expect that to change any time soon.

Ueda waited for Tsuda to bring his head forward again before speaking, waiting with a small smile.

"How’s Ehara-san?"

"Oh, she’s fine. Still fussing over the garden, and this stubborn plum tree that can’t decide if it wants to bloom in the right season. I’d rather just plant a new one and try our chances, but she’s determined to nurse it back to health. It’s been all she can talk about aside from Hosoo’s latest catch. I told you about the fish, he caught right? It was nearly as tall as him, and he hauled it in all by himself!"

Ueda chuckled. "The fish keeps getting bigger every time I hear the story."

"What? That can’t be right. This is my first time telling you."

"You told me three days ago."

"I swear I would have remembered that."

"It was down by the warf," Ueda reminded him.

"No, no. I distinctly remember telling Uehara-san, and she didn’t believe me, but you weren’t around."

Ueda just sighed and shook his head, letting a window of silence pass between them. In the pause, Tsuda poked at his tea again and took a sip, this time without recoiling in pain. Whether that was because it had cooled or because Tsuda was trying harder to keep his pride, Ueda couldn’t tell.

A cool breeze of morning air came in with the salty smell of the ocean through the open paper doors of his back-room, and Ueda took in a deep breath.

"You know, sometimes I miss the old days," Tsuda said softly. "Moments like this. Meditating, side-by-side with our brothers, and just breathing in the fresh air."

Ueda looked out the open doors, at the rolling waves in the distance.

"Of course," Tsuda continued. "It’s the people I miss, more than anything."

He paused, and Ueda could feel Tsuda’s eyes focus on him.

"I’m sorry," Tsuda said.

"Why?" Ueda asked, though he felt he knew the answer.

"I know it’s been hard for you to leave. But even harder to watch everyone else leave, and to keep saying goodbye."

Ueda closed his eyes, and for once, tried to focus on the present. He felt the wind pinch at his cheeks, and the sun warming his skin. The wind caught on the loose hairs that hung around his face, and brushed them against his chin and his forehead. Here, in this moment, he would simply enjoy his time with Tsuda.

"I have said many goodbyes in my lifetime," Ueda said with his eyes still shut. "And I will say many more."

Tsuda was quiet for a moment. Ueda was content to wait.

"That sounds very sad," Tsuda said quietly.

Ueda smiled.

"But with many goodbyes come many friends."

* * * * * * * *

Shun’en sat on the front steps outside the temple in meditation. With his eyelids half lowered he remained silent, attaining to peace of mind and soul. Whisps of a pleasant aroma flowed from the incense lit by the entrance, and birds chirped softly in the trees. Around the temple were several bushes spotted with blooming flowers; each plant tamed by Shun’en's attentive care.

Tsuda hadn’t stayed long, as he had to return home to his wife and son. But they had enjoyed their tea and the morning air. It wasn’t often that they got to sit and catch up without distraction, but that was more due to Tsuda’s busy-ness than Ueda.

Living alone provided him with lots of time to think, and to care for the temple. And his garden.

He found many things to keep himself busy, but none of them were as pressing as a family.

Ueda took in deep breaths, keeping his spine erect but settled as he sat with his legs and hands folded. The round cushion beneath him helped him maintain his posture so that he didn’t slouch and get drowsy. But keeping his posture had never been his greatest challenge. Clearing his mind was.

He waded through his thoughts, jumping from one to the other. He thought of Tsuda and his family, of Hosoo and the big fish, of tea and days long past, when Tsuda and him would spar in the yard, moving and spinning like wind and ocean, reaching across the distance with their poled blades.

And then he thought of her. Again, her face crawled back to the forefront of his memory, freckled and charming, like she hadn’t aged a day.

His clouded thoughts were burst by a whimper, and the clatter of nails hopping up the temple steps.

Ueda opened his eyes and looked down at the stray dog that was inching towards him, with its tail and head ducked low. He’d seen the stray around, sneaking in and out of alleyways and snatching scraps thrown outside people’s windows, including his own. Normally the dog came and went like a blur of scraggly grey, but now it seemed a little weaker. A little humbler. A little more desperate, and hungry. And scared.

Ueda made a soft ticking sound with his tongue, and the dog’s head and ears shot up in curiosity. Ueda grinned, and got up slowly while watching the dog closely, in case it was tempted to skitter away. The dog was watching him just as intently.

"If you wait here, I will return with scraps," Ueda said softly, though he knew the dog wouldn’t understand.

He slipped back into the temple and hurried to the kitchen where he had a few fatty bone, and came back around to the front.

The dog had curled up on one of the stone steps, lying in the shade of the temple, but bounced back up to its feet when it heard Ueda coming.

Ueda approached it slowly and set the bone a few feet in front of it before backing away.

"It’s not much food," he said. "But it may keep you busy for a little while."

The dog regarded him warily, keeping its head arched low as it inched forward and he inched away. Ueda eventually returned to his seat and sat down, and by that point, the dog hurried forward and grabbed the bone, munching on it greedily, but gratefully. Its tail started to wag.

Ueda smiled.

It seemed he’d made a new friend.

He took in a breath and crossed his legs again, assuming his previous position. That was, until he heard three gunshots in succession.

His eyes shot open and he turned to look down towards the water. The dog curled up around the bone.

Ueda returned to his feet and hurried back into the temple, finding his naginata, and held it for a second, staring at the sheathed blade.

He had to go.

Ueda turned and ran down the beach.
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.






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FruityBickel says...



Christopher John Cane woke up with a start, eyes snapping open and blinking the wooden ceiling into focus. The room was small, and pitch dark. He laid there for a moment, listening to the breathing of his fellow soldiers, all of them curled up on the cots cramped into the below-deck quarters.

Cane exhaled harshly through his nose, trying to keep his breathing steady even as he became aware of the boat's rocking. His stomach flipped, churning like the sea beneath them; he inhaled and exhaled through his nose again, squeezing his eyes shut and willing the nausea away. The boat rocked ferociously and he groaned softly, turning onto his side, reaching an arm behind his back to pull his white tank top off over his head. When that did nothing to stem the stream of sweat pouring down his arms and back, he sat up, running his hands throug his hair and standing. He pulled on his trousers and looped the suspenders over his shoulders, uncaring how sloppy they must have looked.

He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark before stepping forward, his sock-clad feet moving silently across the ship's wooden floors. He slipped with ease through the crowded room and made his way up the stairs, thankful for the breath of fresh air as he got above deck. He reached into his trouser pocket and extracted a pack of Lucky's, sticking one between his teeth and lighting it as he walked to the edge of the deck, leaning against the railing and overlooking the sea below.

"Can't sleep?"

Cane turned to see his commanding officer striding towards him. "Hey, Chief."

Chief Smith leaned with his hip against the railing, crossing his arms over his chest and surveying Cane evenly. "Nightmares?"

Cane met his gaze for a few seconds, a few seconds that seemed to last an eternity, before he looked away, scoffing under his breath. "Sea sickness."

"Oh," Smith nodded. "Right."

Cane took a harsh drag off his cigarette, watching the exhaled cloud of smoke drift across the midnight water. Underneath the waves he saw glimpses of large sea creatures in the moonlight, scales and skin, visible for only the blink of an eye and then gone again. Smith cleared his throat a bit awkwardly.

"You can talk about it if you want, son."

Cane took another drag off his cigarette, biting back a sigh and straightening. "I'm fine. Just can't sleep, that's all. Call it nervousness."

Smith chuckled. "Nervousness? It's nothing but a little island, son. Should be easy-peasy."
Cane shifted his weight from one to another, apprehensive. Take and take and take - that's all his country seemed to do. He took another drag.

"I hope it's quick," he said, his eyes once again gazing across the water, as if he expected to see the island start to appear. "I'm tired of people dying."

"That's war, son," Smith sounded displeased with him. True, Cane thought, that was war - the same bloody war they had been at for the last several years, a desperate claw at Japan's prime location. The US would stop at nothing to acquire money whenever possible. Cane finished his cigarette and threw the glowing butt into the water below. Chief Smith sighed.

"Try and get some rest, Chris."

He strode across the deck, disappearing into the hold. Cane let out a long sigh, closing his eyes. He was so, so tired, and yet sleep continued to elude him. He thought of Tim, turning his gaze to the sky as he did so, his heart thumping a little faster, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly. He put his hands on the railing to steady himself, sucking in a breath through his nose, shivering in the cool sea air. The boat rocked above a rather ferocious wave.

Cane turned around, and went back to his bunk.





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SirenCymbaline says...



Wakaba 若葉

* * * * * * * *


A chubby six year old skipped ahead of his mother, zori sandals clacking on the wood boards of the dock. Tiny vestiges of dried snot gleamed on his cheeks in the morning sun.

Months and months at sea, and Ryuji finally got to see Higashi Island! Ryuji’s mother didn’t often take him out on business trips. She’d certainly never taken him to Okinawa. Why’d she have to be so slow?

“Okaa-san, come see!”

His mother loomed behind, a woman of unexceptional height, and undeniable presence. Wakaba, King of the Wakō. She stood atop the ramp of one of her favourite ships, a British-built ironclad steamboat graciously donated to her by Meiji’s Imperial Navy.

“Slow down, Ryuji,” said Wakaba. She descended measuredly behind.

Ryuji ceased skipping, but continued to jump up and down on his heels.

Wakaba stopped in front of him. She frowned, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, and rubbed at the snot gleams mercilessly.

“Ow- Okaa-saaaan-”

“We’re here on business, Ryuji.” she said. She paused, and surveyed her handiwork. She smiled. “There. There’s my prince.”

Wakaba glided through the marketplace, little Ryuji strode pompously beside her, flanked by the usual two mountainous bodyguards. Stallholders, errand-runners, proprietors, everybody stopped at the sight of them. Some stared. Most bowed, before returning to their business with newly fearful vigour. But she’d stop, on occasion, to chat with the merchants and the craftsmen about their livelihoods. They would answer with caution, and Wakaba would only laugh. But for the cutlass at her side, and the well-armed, well-scarred barrels passing for men that followed her, she spoke just like any other merchant. It was boring.

“You didn’t say anything scary.” Ryuji scoffed as they left the marketplace.

“They remember my last visit.” said Wakaba. “Reputation is a valuable thing, Ryuji, it does half the work.”

“But why don’t we just sack them?” asked Ryuji impatiently.

“We’re not here today to sack. Today we’re here to make investments.” From the way she’d said it, it almost sounded fun.

“But why don’t we just sack them, anyway?” retorted Ryuji. “You’re King of the Wakō."

“They call me that because no-one else is left. I'm not the first to be called that, and neither was your father."

“But you are, because you’re the best.” said Ryuji matter-of-factly.

“I am the best.” agreed Wakaba.

“So let’s sack them.”

Wakaba’s brows and lips drew together, stifling a laugh. She snorted.

“Oh, Ryuji. All in good time, baby.”


* * * * * * * *


From the way his mother had talked of Okinawan pineapple farms,
'the best in Japan, Ryuji!' Ryuji had expected it to be more interesting. But by the time they made it up the rocky path, through one field of spiky heads, to another field of spiky heads, he had grown supremely bored. They didn’t even have fruit on them yet. Oh, there was the farmer.

“Good morning, Tamashiro-san!” Wakaba called out heartily to the bewildered farmer.

“Good morning," he called back in reply. He squinted. When he recognised his uninvited visitors, he stood up and bowed immediately.

“Forgive my lack of warning, Tamashiro-san." said Wakaba. "I have heard of your business- the best pineapples in Okinawa, and Okinawa, the best in Japan. Will you give my son and I a tour of your farm?”

The farmer quickly and silently made a motion to his children to leave. They looked confused, but they obeyed.

“Of course, Wakaba-sama.” he said, attempting a smile. “I would be honoured.”

Ryuji followed them through still more fields of spiky pineapple heads, in the morning sun. When he could bear to pay attention, he caught snatches of words like ‘I have come with a proposition for you,’ ‘we could make very good business in China,’ and ‘If this village is no good to me as a trading partner, then it will have to suffice as a source for recruitment. You’re worth too much for that, Tamashiro-san.”

Why did she bother to ask, when she could just take it? She was so boring. Oh, no, now they were talking about percentages. Ryuji purposefully lagged behind, like he was about to fall asleep.

It worked. Wakaba and the farmer stopped. Wakaba frowned, disappointed.

“Ryuji, keep up. Don’t be rude. I brought you here to learn something.”

Ryuji just made a sleepy face, like his eyelids were about to slide down his chubby little cheeks.

Wakaba sighed. “All right, Ryuji. Go play with Tamashiro-san’s children.”

The farmer petrified. Ryuji skipped ahead.

“Be good, Ryuji!” She called after him. “We’re still guests!”

* * * * * * * *


They walked back to the pier, mountainous bodyguards now carrying gifts of pineapples. Wakaba was grinning all the way, like she always did after making a good deal.

“What a generous man,” said Wakaba. “We’ll come back at the next harvest, Ryuji, and there’ll be more. So much more. Ah, I’m so glad we didn’t burn his fields to the ground.”

Ryuji jumped up and down beside her, one pineapple filling both his hands.

“Can we? Can we come back? I want to see Misaki and Takeshi, and play Oni Gokko-”

Ryuji pushed the pineapple onto one of the bodyguards, and spent the rest of the journey to the pier telling his mother all about his new friends. Wakaba listened, with a smile on her face.

Ryuji would never forget his mother's smile. The dimples and creases that formed by her mouth, the scar that snaked from her left nostril to her jaw pulling gently across her lips.

Suddenly, she pushed him behind her. Ryuji crouched, and peeked through her legs.

There was a young man standing in their path. He pointed a katana straight at Wakaba.

"You killed my father." he said.

Wakaba’s bodyguards dropped the pineapples, and rushed to her side. Wakaba stepped ahead, and signaled them to stay on hand. She looked the young man in the eye.

"I may have. What was his name?' she said cordially.

"Niigaki."

"I think we have one of those. ...Is he on Tsutomu's ship?" Wakaba turned her head to ask her bodyguards. They nodded.

She addressed the boy once again, smiling.

"He is one of us. Would you like to see him again?"

The young man’s face contorted in hateful disbelief.

"No," he growled. "He's dead. He'd never join the likes of you."

Wakaba frowned, but did not raise her voice. "Don't disrespect your father. He had little choice. Niigaki-san is a skilled sailor, and you have my compliments."

The boy charged at Wakaba.

She drew her cutlass and lunged forward. She parried, and threw the boy to the ground.

Wakaba looked down at the young man, waiting.

"Now, would you like to see him again?"

Ryuji did not resist when the bodyguards shooed him behind them. He knew what was coming.

Wakaba was gauging the boy’s skill. She drew the duel out, letting him come at her again, and again. When it became clear that his skill did not live up to his courage, she would put an end to it.

When the clatters had slowed down, when the boy's breathing became heavy and desperate, Ryuji took one last look.

The young man struggled to stand. Blood filled his eyes, dripped in phlegmy strings from his mouth. He was brave, and determined. It was not enough.

Wakaba stood above, ready. The look on her face was neither indulgent, nor remorseful. It was the look of resigned disappointment.

She made it quick.

And then she looked back to Ryuji, to see how he was. He surfaced boldly, his face scrunched up stoically, and his legs shaking traitorously. Wakaba sighed.

A small, horrified crowd had gathered around the pier. Wakaba stepped back, and let them take the body. She looked at Ryuji.

“Let’s go home.” was all that she said.

She wiped the blood from her cutlass with the same handkerchief she had used on Ryuji’s face hours earlier. She sheathed it, and turned to leave.

That was when the guns went off.

Again, Wakaba sighed. Her eyebags deepened by a microscopic yet tangible fraction.

“If those were mine, someone is being thrown overboard.”
Bad souls have born better sons, better souls born worse ones -St Vincent





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sheysse says...



Jinpachi Watanabe, 甚八渡辺


Murmuring spread through the crowd, but it was not an excited buzz. It was a dreadful murmur, the type that comes before a tragedy everyone expects. The ships looming on the horizon was a constant visual reminder of inevitable death and destruction. And the residents of Higashi Village knew it. What’s worse, there was no way Emperor Meiji could send forces to defend the village--or even be made aware of the situation--before those American troops arrived on the shore.

With a deep breath, Watanabe’s grip tightened on Watatsumi. He raised it high in the air, kneeling down and announcing before the village, “I will defend this village, even should it claim my life.” He knew it would be a suicide mission, but that was the promise he had made to the Emperor. He would throw down his life to defend the Japanese people, if need be. And though he could not change the tide of war alone, he could at least give the village time to evacuate.

But to his surprise, a stoic monk stepped out from the crowd, holding in his hand a naginata. “I, too, will defend this village.” He bowed, and Watanabe returned the gesture in disbelief.

From behind the monk, another man stepped forward, a bow in hand. “It would be my honor to join you in protecting Higashi Village.”

“Mine as well,” came a quiet but pointed voice from within the crowd. A shinobi stepped out, nodding with her grip tightly holding a short, jagged knife.

A female warrior, not associated with the emperor, followed suit, drawing her katana. “I will be laying my life down for this village, if needed.”

“I suppose I shall offer my own support, and the support of my fleet, to this cause,” offered up the voice of an older woman. Her attire betrayed that she was wealthy, and Watanabe recognized her as a pirate whose fleet frequently docked in the area.

The unexpected pledge of support caught Watanabe off guard, and in the back of his mind, a devious notion formed that perhaps this would not have to be a suicide mission after all. It was by and large a longshot, but the five warriors who volunteered to join him brought with them a varying array of talents. If any band could take on an army of American troops and succeed, it was them.

After taking a moment to regather his thoughts, he nodded to men and women who would now be fighting alongside him. “Very well. If you wish to join me, follow me back to my home. We can establish a plan of action for the defense of the village there.”

* * * * *


“Unfortunately, we don’t know how many men are on the three ships, which limits the extent to which we can plan ahead,” Watanabe explained, as he and the other five warriors knelt around the kotatsu centering his dining space. “While I would want to create a detailed plan for us to follow…”

“We’re going to have to be flexible to win this,” Haruko said, finishing Watanabe’s thought.

Ueda nodded, offering his own agreement. “A plan to succeed will include not necessarily following that plan at all.”

“Exactly.” Watanabe rolled out a map of the village onto the surface of the table. The detailed map showed the entirety of the village, the forests around it, and the coastline it bordered. “Fortunately, we have the biggest two advantages we could ask for. Knowledge of the terrain, and the element of surprise.”

Wakaba took a drag on her pipe, sending smoke cascading down onto the map in elegant mist. “You really think we’ll catch them off guard? Surely they know we’re aware of them, and I’ve got a few ships docked not too far from the village, certainly within view.”

“I can’t see any reason for them to land here other than the fact that it’s out of range of Emperor Meiji’s troops. They’re expecting little resistance, and that American soldier even said that before he shot the fisherman,” Watanabe explained. “And we’re going to use that to our advantage, first and foremost to get everyone out of the village. Ueda, you’re going to lead the charge there and evacuate everyone west to Ogimi.”

Ueda nodded calmly. Watanabe continued. “Meanwhile, we’re going to lay in wait here. As soon as every soldier gets off the ships--or at least as many as they’re sending--we move. Pang, your job is going to be identifying the generals from each ship and taking them out. As soon as you fire your first arrow, they’ll know what’s happening, so it’s doubtful you’ll get all three generals. But even just one will throw off their order, plus the surprise of the attack will confuse them long enough for Haruko, the shinobi, and myself to each sneak onto one of the three ships. From there, Pang will continue to pick soldiers off from cover to further their disarray. Us three will clear out each of our respective ships and then use the cannons on them to fire into the crowd.”

“Don’t damage the ships too much,” Wakaba said, and Watanabe looked at her with confusion. “I’m taking them as pay when we win, so they better be in condition that’ll justify the costs of this fight.”

“Well, on that note, Wakaba, you’re going to be blockading the docks as soon as the plan sets into motion. That way, if they have backup on the way, we won’t be overrun.”

Masumi entered the room, carrying on an elegant dish seven teacups. She distributed the cups as everyone nodded in thanks. Looking to the map, she nodded while sitting down beside Watanabe. “So what’s the plan?”

“For you? Getting the hell out of the village,” Watanabe said dismissively.

“No way! I’m helping somehow, and you cannot stop me.”

Haruko raised an eyebrow. “It’s not as though we have the numbers to turn any help away at this point. If she wants to fight with us, I say we let her.”

After a moment of hesitation, Watanabe reluctantly shook his head. “Fine, but you’re going nowhere near the frontline. You can help Ueda lead the villagers to Ogimi.” Masumi nodded enthusiastically, and Watanabe turned his attention back to the kotatsu. “Alright, the ships should be docking by midday. If there are any objections to the plan, now’s the time.” Silence. “Perfect. Let’s get set up.”





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Fri Jan 08, 2021 10:19 am
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soundofmind says...



Ueda Shun’en, 上田


If Ueda was going to succeed in his task, time was of the essence. Evacuating a whole village was easy in theory, but he knew enough to know that people were slow to respond and quick to panic, and for that reason, he needed to go about this carefully and efficiently.

News of the gunshot at harbor had already spread about town in the time that it too Watanabe to gather his recruits and put together a plan, so Ueda knew he had to move fast. And get back-up.

"Where are we going first?" Masumi asked, walking briskly beside him.

"I have a friend," Ueda said simply, as they were already walking up to the door of Tsuda's humble home.

Ueda didn't even get to knock. The door slid open, and Tsuda stood in the doorway, meeting Ueda's eyes. Though Tsuda was no longer a soldier, they both still shared a bond of friendship, and Tsuda seemed to understand without words that trouble had come to his front door. And to their village.

Ueda saw Hosoo, Tsuda's son, peek out from behind him. He was a handsome little boy who was the spitting image of his mother, apart from having his father's nose.

Ueda smiled warmly at the boy, and Tsuda turned back, putting a hand on his son's head.

"Go find your mother," Tsuda instructed calmly. Hosoo nodded and hurried off into the house. When the boy disappeared Tsuda looked to Ueda expectantly. Ueda knew he could be frank with him.

"At this moment, American ships are making their way to our shores," Ueda said quietly. "We may only have a few precious hours to evacuate Higashi, but we must move now."

"We'll be fleeing west, to Ogimi," Masumi informed him.

Tsuda stood up straighter and looked off towards the shoreline. He nodded and looked to Ueda and Masumi with a solemn look of determination.

"We'll gather our things quickly," Tsuda said, already calling into the house for Ehara, who came to the door with Hosoo leading, holding her hand.

"We're going to Ogimi," he said, giving Ehara a meaningful look. She glanced to Ueda.

"If you could tell everyone on your street to do the same--" Ueda said.

"Promptly," Tsuda agreed.

"We should hurry," Masumi said, taking a step back from the door, and looking over the village. "There are many more homes we have to get to."

"Go," Tsuda said.

"Meet us on the road," Ueda said.

They met each other's eyes and Ueda smiled, before turning to follow after Masumi, who was already jogging away.


* * * * * * * *


Masumi and Ueda split up to cover more distance with more time. Ueda was quick to round up people walking in the streets and quietly and calmly direct them. The rumors of the man who'd been murdered at the docks helped to legitimize the urgency of their message. Though they didn't want to stir up terror, there was necessary sobriety about their urgency. They had to get out as soon as possible so that innocent people were not caught in the crossfire of what was to come.

Ueda met up with Masumi at the edge of town, both of them breathing a little hard as they'd hurried up the hill.

Masumi looked a little disheveled, and she brushed some loose hairs behind her ear.

"I think I covered my side of town. Anyone who hasn't been told should be able to see what's going on and ask questions," she said.

"No one gave you too much trouble?"

Masumi looked a little worn at that. "Elder Tamaki was a bit reluctant..." she said. "But I managed to convince him. I told Makoto to make sure he gets moving."

Ueda smiled with understanding. "I managed to do the same."

The two of them turned to look down the hill, where they could already see Tsuda leading all of the families from his street and the surrounding farms hustling up the hill. Tsuda was helping his mother, with his arm around her back, helping her make it uphill.

Ueda looked to Masumi. "You stare here and direct people towards Ogimi. I'm going to make sure everyone's accounted for."

Masumi nodded sharply and started waving the group over. She hurried down to meet them, coming along on the other side of Tsuda's mother to help her walk.

Ueda made his way back through the town, checking homes to make sure that people were moving. People were already beginning to gather in groups and follow Tsuda and his group. Ueda made eye contact with a mother and her child, giving an encouraging smile and a wave of his hand. He walked over to her, seeing the worry in her eyes.

She only had a small pack on her back that looked hastily put together.

"Are you coming with us?" she asked. "To Ogimi?"

Ueda smiled. "Me? Once everyone is accounted for, of course I will." That was his job, after all.

That seemed to make her look a little more relieved, and he noticed how her eyes flicked to his naginata.

"I'll be in the back," he said. "If anything tries to follow us - well, they'll have to get through me first."

He looked to the little girl in the woman's arms and posed with his naginata at his side. It was a silly sort of pose, but there was truth behind it. He wasn't carrying a weapon around for show.

The little girl smiled a little, and he reached out to pat her head.

"You'll be alright," he said to the little girl and looked up to her mother. "Just keep moving."

And they did. Ueda hurried past them and continued to check homes to see if anyone needed help, and he could hear Masumi's voice rise over the growing crowd's chatter, urging them forward.
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.






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Thu Feb 04, 2021 4:17 pm
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FruityBickel says...



Christopher's fingers ran anxiously along the barrel of his gun, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat as he looked around. The tension in the bay room was tangible, so thick it could be cut with the crappy aluminum knives they were provided for mess hall. The other men looked less nervous than he was - all of their faces were like stone, etched with an expression of seriousness and roughness, the reality of a job to do, their fingers gripping their guns surely. Christopher once again tried to swallow past his heart, beating in his throat, and opted to stare at his boots, feeling the waves rock the boat from beneath them.

He had caught a glimpse of the shore just before being ordered to the deployment bay. Lots of trees, a simple little dock, people running about seeming terrified. Terrified, his brain reminded him, of them, of him, of the Great Cause they were bringing over. His heart realized it was because they had a reason to be.

He had heard the stories, of course, told between laughs in the mess hall, shared around campfires at night, stories about the things his fellow troops - his brothers, by all means - the kinds of things they did to women, to children, when they came over. Sure, there was the Great Cause, the Reason for It All, but it was the power, more than anything, that they sought. The ability to feel God in the sickest ways, if even for just a few minutes, if even it meant watching blood spill.

His breakfast churned in his stomach. He wondered how far away from the shore they were now - probably not far. His gun shook in his hands. He could feel every rock of the boat, every inch of his skin, was acutely aware of the other men crowded into the bay.

It was oddly silent, the air crackling with unspoken electricity. The mild chatter they had engaged in over breakfast was now nonexistent, every breath bated. Another moment of glory awaited them, and Christopher had never felt more disgusted in his life.








It always seems impossible until it's done.
— Nelson Mandela