Fiction is one of my favorite things to write. But as wild and fantastical as the stories may get, I love when they capture the essence of what is really real, and truly true.
Today, our little writer’s league has written a trio of fiction shorts. Let us know if we touched on the really real, and the truly true!
Parker Broaddus
Author of A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising
Songbird
Ichiro pulled the sharp wood carving knife across the complex design. A long, thin shaving fell to the ground, joining a pile that looked like a giant serving of hiyamugi noodles. The paper thin skin on the back of Ichiro’s hand stretched and flexed as he handled the carving knife, but he remained as steady as he had been when he started, fifty years ago. Perhaps more so now, as hot heads had long since turned grey, and quick passions had been tempered by unforgiving time.
“Jiji!” A tiny girl called from the front steps of the house across from Ichiro’s woodworking shop. “Jiji! Dinner!”
A tall willowy woman with dark hair and dark eyes came to the door. “Hana! Don’t yell at your great grandfather.” She gently encouraged the little girl down the stairs. “Go tell him dinner is hot.”
“I heard her!” Ichiro called. His hands continued their work. Rather than long, smooth strokes he now dipped and scalloped with a hooked blade. Scales appeared on the undulating dragon pattern.
“It looks like it could be alive, it’s so real.” Hana stood next to her great grandfather.
Ichiro smiled. “It will be, Magomusume.” He ran a gnarled finger along the dragon’s fine scales. “This one is named, ‘Ryu’.”
Hana grinned. “What does that mean?”
“‘Dragon,’ in Japanese.”
She nodded. “That’s a good name. Will Baba come back as a dragon?”
Ichiro paused. “She may. Or a songbird. I would bet on the songbird.”
Hana traced a finger along the tail of the dragon. “I heard Uncle Nobu came back as a possum. Which is like a giant rat.”
Ichiro touched the side of his nose. “It matched his pointy face and twitchy eyes in life,” he said conspiratorially.”
Hana laughed. She looked at the small house that stood on the workbench in the middle of the shop. “Is it almost finished? You’ve been working on it so long.”
Ichiro gazed at the structure that dominated most of the room. It was as big as a child’s playhouse – completely dwarfing the many small birdhouses in various states of construction around the shop. “I am afraid of finishing it, Little One.” He looked back at Hana. “What if she doesn’t like it?” He asked, a note of desperation in his voice.
Hana took his hand. “She’ll love it, Jiji.”
“How do you know? You never met her, Little One. How can you know if she’ll love it? If she’ll remember us? It has been many years.”
Hana looked back at the house. “You said that Mama is just like Baba. And I’m just like Mama. And I love it. So I’m sure that Baba will too. It’s very beautiful. I would live there.”
Ichiro sighed. “You’re right. I must put my fear aside. I have put it off for too long. We must place it in the garden so that she can visit us–if she would like.”
Hana laughed again. “Of course she would like to, Jiji! She loves us.” With that, she turned and ran back to the house.
Ichiro smiled. “Of course she would…” he repeated.
***
Hana danced around in a circle as Ichiro and Mari carefully lifted the house off the wooden cart and hefted it into place in the tree. Mari grunted and Ichiro’s thin arms shook. The wooden structure slid back and then settled into the branches, the dimensions perfect for the prepared spot. Mari puffed out her cheeks and brushed her hair out of her face. “That was heavy!” She put an arm around Ichiro and hugged him. She was taller than he was now–his back was bent, from many years crouched over his woodworking tools–a trade that had fed five children, two grandchildren and one great grandchild. “Not all at once though!” he would say.
“Now go,” Ichiro flapped his arms. “I have work to finish here.”
“I want to help!” Hana offered.
“Come on, Hana,” Mari took her daughter by the hand. “Jiji needs time to fix it just right. You can help later.” She tugged the little girl away from the tree and back through the long garden.
Ichiro fluttered around the little house, adjusting here, polishing there, nervous excitement mixing with anxious fear. “She was a songbird,” he muttered. He looked at the green leaves and the blue sky, just visible through the canopy. “A summer songbird.” He paused. “Natsumi. Summer. Beautiful summer.” He stepped back, a hand on his chest, sucking air in through his mouth. He stepped back again, then sat down clumsily against the cherry tree, his eyes on the house perched in the tree in front of him. “It’s ready, Natsumi. Anytime you’d like to visit.” His eyes fluttered. “I’ll be right here.”
***
Mari shook Ichiro. She felt the bone of his shoulder. He jerked his head up, his eyes bleary with sleep. “Natsumi?”
Mari smiled. “No, Jiji. It’s Mari–your granddaughter.”
His eyes focused. He scrunched his brows, confused. “But she was here.”
Mari put an arm around her grandfather and helped him up. “What do you mean, Jiji.”
The old man stood on shaky legs. He looked at Mari again. “You’re not her?” He blinked again. “I suppose not– but you look just like her.” He glanced at the tiny house, perched in the tree. Recognition flooded his face. “Ahhh…” He looked from the house to Mari and back. His back straightened. Strength returned to his legs and arms. He stood almost as tall as Mari. “I see.”
“What is it, Jiji?” Mari asked.
Ichiro’s face stretched into a wide grin. He laughed and wiped at his eyes. “Come,” he said to Mari. He shuffled toward the garden path. Mari kept her arm around him. He wrapped his thin arm around her shoulders, accepting the support.
“Did she like it?” Mari asked, tentative. “Did you speak to her?”
Ichiro nodded, then chuckled again. “She asked me what took so long.”
Robin Lythgoe
Author of As the Crow Flies
Luseya’s Dreams
The shadow creature was free again. If the fleeting shapes seen in the corners of her eyes weren’t enough to convince her, Luseya felt the thing in every laborious breath she drew. A weight had settled on her chest. It held her down every morning when she ought to have risen to greet the day. It burdened her with crushing exhaustion and its equally draining partner, sleeplessness—and its siblings were many: Apathy. Self-doubt. A spreading sea of melancholy. Everything took forever to do, and everything was wrong.
Over the years, the demon had grown cunning. It didn’t bolt free of its prison, it inched, and its insidious darkness crept over Luseya like a disease.
Patricia Reding
Author of Oathtaker
Coming soon!
There it is! What about you? Do you have a short story you love? Want to share it? Drop me a line or leave a comment below!