Prologue

Prologue

　

August 1937. Kyoto

　

　

  It has been raining for days in Kyoto, since the ‘holy news’ has been announced.

  Everywhere, whenever throughout the busy, glamorous streets of the city, neighbourhood or warm residential areas, excitements about the news spread in a way as if the endless rain, polishing the entire city with a blind, yet also fresh colour of hope and a new beginning.

  When the pouring rain was finally replaced by the warm drizzling of the summer, it seems that the city has indeed undergone an underlying transformation.

  Yet the life of the ordinary carry on as normal, though their minds are progressively changing.

  The flag of the  Empire of the Sun now hangs ‘gloriously’ over the top rook of every vendor shop, tea house and sushi restaurants. And inside those vendor shops, tea houses and sushi restaurants, a new concept now emerged into the conversation and life of the customers: ‘One hundred million with one Spirit,’ while they listened to the energetic radio broadcasting on a stormy day.

  He walks alongside that familiar street of Kyoto with the same steadiness that he has walked over the last fifteen years; yet, as he crosses to the opposite road with the two medium luggages in his hands, passengers from both sides simply stared blankly at him with both confusion and outrage.

  He fastens his walking pace on the muddy road. If he has chosen not to take off his long walking boot and decided to wear a pair of leather shoes instead, he would have walked a lot more faster on the slippery concrete ground, and among the confused crowd.

  Maybe those people have never see a man with two luggages before in Kyoto. He reassured himself, but of course, he knows it too well that this simply cannot be true.

  Within one of his luggages, he could hear the clicking sound of his handgun with his old pocket watch. A jinrikisha hurried past and carries itself the reminiscent scent of the 'old Kyoto' with the carter. This arouses his desire to run; but it is the most odd that this bizarre desire is not due to his intolerance of been soaked by the mild rain; nor is it due to the embarrassment of been stared so blankly by the passengers on the street, but simply due to a ‘selfish’ and hungry homesickness that has since been predating him after he began his study in Berlin two years ago.

  He is home! He told himself once again; though perhaps the last time before the end of the ‘holy war.’

  The mild drizzling stops as he is making his way to the last street, last street towards home.   

  Under the glooming afternoon light, he could not help but to glimpse at the left corner shop at the end of the street, as if there are some kind of magnets that are attracting him towards it.

  ‘I miss the scent of sushi, that's all.’  He reassured himself, and did not think twice about it before making his way to the corner shop.  

  The sushi shop cannot be more quieter than the the other places he has just been to.

  A gust of summer wind blows by, the Flag of the Rising Sun that is hanging so carefully over the side of the old roof dances in the air as if greeting for his arrival.

  The shop has two grand bamboo doors on the left of the house, and a tiny vendor window on the right. He puts down one of his luggages next to the doorstep, and pushes one of the bamboo doors.

 ‘They are unaccessible.’ a firm voice echoed from the vendor window.

  He turns his head promptly to the direction of the sound, and see that familiar face stares at him in the same way as what the others done on the street: the overwhelming sense of guilt creeps onto his spine again.

  He picks up his luggages from the damp floor, and walks to the window.

  

  The shopkeeper is a cold-looking woman about the age of sixty. She has always been cold or cold to him in person since she has became the vendor of the shop ten years ago, and now, she turns even colder to him after the outbreak of the ‘holy war.’

  ‘What do you want?’ The old woman asks, hastily. A trace of outrage in her firm voice.

  However, all he could hear is the sound of the radio behind the old woman’s clumsy figure:

  ‘We, our nation needs to bring the eight corners of the world under one roof...'

  ‘I would like to have some sashimi with sushi please.’ He says in a hurry as he tries to shake off the rain drops on his long dark nylon coat, while stay as not as aggressive as he would be soon on the battlefield.

  ‘We are the brightest and the strongest soul, and our place is in the leadership of the Greatest Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere... the emperor's holy predictions had guided our Imperial troops to victory in Manchukuo and Shanghai; now the holy prophecy is continuing pouring life and great energy into our military…’

  The old woman chips the fresh fish expertly while he waits and glances into the space behind the window.

  A thunder breaks far away following with a sharp lightning across the unbounded sky, as if countless grenades are thrown to the enemy’s field.

   If the old shopkeeper has not been a person that he has known for ten years, he would almost automatically think he is already on the 'holy battlefield, sacrificing his flesh and soul.

  ‘Why are your still here, shouldn't you be at the Front?’ Unable to suppress her curiosity more, the old woman finally asks

  ‘I will be, Ms. Hakusa. very soon, before I see my Master.' He steadies his voice as if it is a difficult question to answer.

 ‘No vinegar please.' He regrets his impolite outburst as soon after he says it.

 'The last bottle in my store, perhaps forever; you will crave for it soon on a foreign soil, young man.’ The old woman puts away the bottle aside in a fuss, before blushed quickly in the realisation that she should not have said anything that would put young men, young soldiers in the difficult and bewildering position of where they would start wonder the righteousness of their decision to join the ‘great holy war.’

  But no one was born naturally to support Imperialism with mania, nor was him.

  Having been brought up by his Kendo Master and his ‘foster father’ in Hokushin Itto Ryu, he was taught to fight against aggression and war, until the day he went to school. Since then, theory of patriotism and Imperialism started to engrave into his mind with Japanese alphabets, Haku and folk songs.

 On the day of his graduation from the University of Osaka, pariolism had long became part of him and his rational senses.

  The old woman carefully wraps the food inside a paper bag and passes it to him with a still flushing cheek.

  'There is something I have for you.' The old woman calmed her voice and then strikes to the door behind her promptly without giving him the further chance to ask more.

  The rain has now stopped. He puts both of his luggages onto the concrete floor and waited, although with no idea what is he waiting for, or why he is here at the first place.

  When he firstly arrived in Kyoto at the age of seven, this chilly, old shop was at the time a so-called 'Magnificent Imperial Gallery.' He could still clearly recall the memory of those past days, when the gallery had indeed been a place of 'spiritual enhancement' for every passengers at the door.

  It almost seemed that art and classical beauty had a more natural ability to obtain and claim the mind and soul of the people effortlessly than politics at then.

  The manager of the gallery- a benevolent looking and rather ‘patriotic’ middle aged man, had at the time, tried to cleverly express, present and combine artistic beauty with politics, or rather to use the beauty of arts to enhance the hidden beauty of patriotism or vice versa. Whatever had actually been the case, the ‘Gallery of the Mikado’ emerged as a result.

  Even now, he could still smell the fresh scents of paints and inks just by standing outside this sushi shop, and adversely see in his head dozens and dozens of magistrail paintings on the wall of the shop: Paintings which exhibits Mikado in his court; portraits which shows the glamour of the Mikado’s palace. And after an overworked piece of painting that presented the scene of the emperor been immersed in a sea of flamboyant ‘blood,’ the painter’s brush ended its life, forever.     

  Though, ironically, the ‘sea of blood’ would perhas appear more to be cherry-blossoms if one is to look closer with a patriotic heart.  

  After the ‘painting incident,’ no one had a clue of where the painter had gone.

  What they learned however, was that patriotism could not be tested.

  The painter’s wife, an always feeble and pale looking woman, he remembered, told their only little daughter, that her father was going to remain a middle aged man forever, and that they needed to move on.

  The Gallery of Mikado thereafter disappeared almost as quickly as it had firstly established.

  Though life went on as normal for others, memories about the ‘painting incident’ had engraved forever in the minds of those people who was unfortunate enough to witness the incident.

  The old woman of the sushi shop would proudly think the delicious smell of her sushi has always been the main attraction for every passengers at the door; yet the old customers of the past day would probably say: ‘ we can still remember the old scents of those paintings, especially the one with ' a sea of blood.’

  The old woman comes back hastily, with a piece paper with her.

  ‘Here it is, I think this is what you have been looking for.’ She hands the paper to him, almost with a sense of pride while waits, perhaps for a gratitude from this young man who has had been troubling her for years for ‘burdening’ her with the ridiculous task of helping him looking for a random stranger who, apparently has nothing to do with any of her sushi businesses.

   ‘Are you quite sure, this is her current address?’ He frowns with concentration, yet deep inside, he could not suppress the feeling of excitement.

 ‘But where is her house number?’ He continues; his common sense only resumes after a surge of happiness,

 ‘How would I know, young man! I am not a detective. This is all I have got!’ The old woman cired.

 ‘Ms. Hakusa, please, she used to be living in here, she, and her mother should be no stranger to you.’

  The old woman raises her eyebrows. ‘Yes, you are perhaps right; they are no strangers to me. But it has been so long, well, since the girl’s father was gone, and most importantly, this is a dangerous task young man, for both of us given what her father had done before he past away!’

  ‘I am leaving Kyoto the day after tomorrow, to Tokyo. Ms. Hakusa, I need an answer.’

  The old woman was taken aback by the forcefulness in the young man’s voice, but she is not a fearful child with no experience in life: ‘My landlord- came to collect my final housing payment five months ago. He was very reluctant to leave their address, but I persisted to ask it for you which now I realise I should rather not have done that!’

 ‘If your landlord ever came back again, or herself…’

 ‘Forget about it, Yokota sensei. Keep your mind clear, and go to the Front.' The old woman's temper has reaches to its final limitation as soon as Yokata has discarded his last chance for expressing his gratitude to her.

  Yokata does not need to be reminded about his obligation. Ten years of tough trainings in Hokushin Itto Ryu has extracted much personal weaknesses from his nature; five years of inhumane education in Kobe has also left him with the unshakeable belief that he was destined to be ‘chained,’ and now the final two years in Berlin has ultimately taught him nothing, but how to consolidate his spirit and soul so he could obediently carry out his duty for his motherland.

  ‘Thank you for this.’ Yokata said, almost with a sense of helplessness before gently tucks the parcel and the piece of paper into one of his coat pockets, picks up his luggages and walk away with a renewed spirit.

  ‘Wait!.’ The old woman yells after him.

  For the sake of you sacrificing for the emperor, I will, well, I can continue keeping an eye on the landlord or her if they ever remember to come back, at all. ' The old woman called out with embarrassment.

  Yokata nods.    

  ‘What is her name again?’ The transformation in her behaviour is an unexplainable surprise even to herself, and an unsolved confusion to Yokota.

  Yet there is no time for both of them, to find out their answer.

  ‘Natsuko, Natsuko Iwasaki. That is her name.’ He answers with formality before makes his way home.

　

Author's Note

ignore grammar problems

Reviews

[JayG]

When you edit, you need to think like a reader. This is especially important when you aren't writing from the viewpoint of the protagonist. You start reading with full knowledge of what's going on, the background leading to it, and the characters. So you're going to forget to put in necessary detail because it's obvious...to you. That's one reason why a strong character viewpoint is best. And that external viewpoint places you into the situation where every line points to images, situations, and viewpoints stored in your mind—things that helped you write the story. But the reader? For them, every line points to images, situations, and viewpoints stored in YOUR mind.

See the problem? Look at a few lines from the viewpoint of a reader who just arrived and knows only what the lines say, based on their experience, not your intent.

• It has been raining for days in Kyoto, since the ‘holy news’ has been announced.

What's "holy news?" Given that the reader doesn't know the year or the situation they have no context for the term. And it matters not at all if you would clarify as early as the next line because you cannot retroactively remove confusion. This matters a great deal, because while the reader is deciding if they want to commit to reading the story, one single line that confuses, lectures, or bores is where they stop reading.

• Everywhere, whenever throughout the busy, glamorous streets of the city, neighbourhood or warm residential areas,

What does this add to the meaning of the line that, "Everywhere in the city..." doesn't? Does "warm residential areas" mean that it's summer? That no grouches live in the residential areas? That there are "cold" residential areas? No way to tell. The opening paragraph was about "news." That appears to have nothing to do with what kind of city is is, so there's no story-reason to include it. The reader hasn't been set into a specific place, so the line doesn't set the scene, and it's too general to make the reader know the city.

It doesn't develop character either, because there are no characters. Perhaps it moves the plot, but the reader lacks context enough to know that. And anything but plot, scene-setting, and character-uilding serves only to slow the narrative.

But by dropping the overdone description we take the sentence out of run-on sentence, and purple prose territory.

• "... excitements about the news spread in a way as if the endless rain, polishing the entire city with a blind, yet also fresh colour of hope and a new beginning."

I'm lost. I don't know what the news is. And I can't parse the sentence into any meaningful message. That "as if," seems to not belong.

I don't know how people should be reacting because I don't know what they're reacting to, or what ANY reaction you might mention means. I have no idea of how the rain connects with the unknown news, but it seems it must as a result of it. In short, a reader has no context. And for a reader, context is everything.

• Yet the life of the ordinary carry on as normal, though their minds are progressively changing.

And if I don't know what's making the minds change, and in what way, how can it have meaning to a reader? Instead of talking in the abstract make it meaningful to the reader as-they-read. Terms like "normal" can only be meaningful if the reader knows the situation, and what's abnormal.

Keep in mind that knowing what there is to see is NOT the same as seeing it. Our medium doesn't reproduce vision. And trying to make it real through words would take pages of description. So instead of thinking cinematically, place yourself into the persona of the protagonist and tell the reader what matters to that person in the moment she or she calls now.'' Stories are about people, remember, not events.

Story happens, and they happen in real-time. Anything else is an essay, or a chronicle of events. Both are fact-based, read like a report, and are boring. Story must stir the reader's emotions. We must make them care, not just know.

History is boring because there's no uncertainty. Think about it. Isn't life most interesting when we don't know what to expect? Yes, we don't know what will be on the next page of a report or history book, but...because we've been given no personal reason to care, and because the presentation says the situation has already happened, and is therefore immutable, .we're just seeing it as data, which is why most people don't read history books for entertainment.

But...place the reader into the protagonist's moment of now; make them know what has the protagonist's attention, and why; make them know the options available to the protagonist and their perceived needs, and the reader will have their emotions calibrated to the protagonist, and view the scene as that character does. They will know what the protagonist feels they must do/say, and why. That gives them reason to want to know if it works.In other words, the reader has something to worry about because the future seems uncertain And that gives them reason to WANT to turn the pages. Fail that and no matter how pretty you make it, readers will turn away.

• He walks alongside that familiar street of Kyoto with the same steadiness that he has walked over the last fifteen years;

Last one...honest I've upset you enough. 😫 And I think you know where I'm going. "He," is generic. If we're to care abut him he must be named. And, "That familiar street," is meaningful only if the reader knows him and his history.

Bottom line: I've hit you hard, and for that I apologize. But you've worked hard on this and it shows. You have the desire and the perseverance, and your wordsmith skills are fine. But there is a problem, one that most hopeful writers face, and are unaware of, so I thought you would want to know—especially since it can be fixed.

Writing fiction for the page is very different from verbal storytelling, film and stage writing, or journalism. For one thing, our medium is far different from film and stage, in that it's serial. Everything must be spelled out one item at a time, where in vision and sound, we gather a huge amount of data in an instant, in parallel. So our medium and mission mandate a very different approach to storytelling.

Our schoolday writing skills are designed to inform because they're what helps us earn a living. And what do employers need so far as writing? Essays, reports, papers, and letters, all nonfiction applications meant to inform.

But fiction is meant to entertain by stirring the emotions. and that takes a very different approach, one we must master and perfect. Problem is, when we leave our schooldays we don't know that. And who's to tell us? Our classmates, who are just as ignorant of the situation? Our teachers, who learned their skills in the same classroom?

See the problem? But the good news is that it's not a matter of talent or potential. As the great Mark Twain observed, “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.” And that, "Ain't so," part is what needs to be fixed.

To show what I mean about knowing the scene as the protagonist does,making a difference, this article might help.
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/the-grumpy-writing-coach-8/

You might want to dig around among the other articles there under the general title, The Craft of Writing, to get a feel for the issues involved, and what you need to work on.

I know this is a lot. As they say, like trying to take a sip from a fire hose. And it doesn't get easier over time. We do, though, become confused on a higher level, which, I suppose, is the best we can hope for.

So hang in there. And whatever you do, keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[Cathy]

I hope you can keep reviewing my works. :D your comments are very helpful.