Just as Big Bird fails to find Ernie in their hide-and-seek game on his first few tries, so have you failed to find the true creator, and thus the owner of the idea, of Beyblades.
The atmosphere of the room gave off a warning that nothing in it could be removed even an inch from where its long deceased master had destined it to sit. Because of this mighty desire to stay where they were, it was almost as if these objects contented themselves to hiding their stately, rich baring in the dark. The only light came from a single window, curtains pulled back as far as they would go. It was a weak grey light who only skimmed its hand over the occupants of the room, both the inanimate and the living. The only action in the room took place in the transparent body of the window, where a frenzied internal system whose large, white fluffy blood cells raced only one direction. These bodily components did try to fight their fate, as they piled onto each other, creating a ladder to reach the place of their birth.
But even this fight couldn't break the unbearable feeling of dominance carried in the air surrounding the room's breathing occupants. Hitoshi was not only bond to obey the room's insistent attitude of remaining the same, or the fact that the snow had locked him in this strange home. The man also had a third prison keeper, who disguised himself as a laptop, but in reality was a manifestation of his inner mind.
Ever since he had left the jungle, whose charm had kept him interested and active, his mind and his hands had refused to work for him. At first, he could excuse this behavior, since he was supposed to be on break from working. The strike of his intellectual functions had not died down, however, and deadlines were closing in. He would feel the consequences soon if he didn't get those essential lines of communication to cooperate.
There were explanations of the happenings of that jungle village waiting to come.
11111
Hitoshi shut down his laptop and clasped its blank face down for rest. His back stayed straightened as he turned to look outside. The window's insides now contained a fetus, its arms wrapped around its white clothed legs and its back to him. Out of context was the bright orange hair planted on top of the child's head. It did not acknowledge him at all, and the entire child's existence seemed to have transported itself far away from the confines of the too large, too stately house.
This situation had been another unchanging characteristic of the house for the most part. The boy would sit at a window, patiently staring into a world where no shapes or colors could be made out of the blizzard's white curtain. He was waiting for something, Hitoshi had finally concluded on the night of his second day in which he had, for a moment, stopped focusing on how to correct his problems. The younger male had devoted himself to waiting for an inevitable return, and the only thing that would probably pull him away from his vigil was a miracle.
11111
The home's microwave never cooked the food according to the commands it was given, but instead it chose when the food would be ready to eat. Hitoshi's hand rested on the grey plastic-coated feeling counter, his eyes stuck on the revolving showcase that was dinner. The seconds on the microwave weren't ticking away as fast as they should have been. Hitoshi felt a rare moment of the impatient anger that makes one want to threaten a troublesome object, even though there is no result.
Finally, the microwave stopped and Hitoshi opened the door. Four minutes after the suggested cooking time, exactly 6:30 in the evening, and the food was steaming hot. He gripped the container, bringing it to the table to be quietly set down before the orange haired child, who had emerged from the womb a short time before. His being, and his gaze, were still the same. His face was fully turned towards the kitchen window. The bright lights of the room blocked a full vision of the dark outside world, but it wasn't hard to guess that nothing new was happening.
The man touched the boy's shoulder sternly.
"You haven't eaten all day."
His head barely moved, but his hands slithered towards a fork. It delved into the depths of the microwave dinner's potatoes and flew back up into the boy's mouth. Hitoshi stepped away and put his own meal into the microwave.
It wasn't done until five minutes after the suggested cooking time. The dinner was slightly cold. His fellow occupant could not pull away his attention from the outside.
11111
Later that night, when he was alone in his appointed guest room, Hitoshi's hands had started to type a sentence. It was a horrible beginning, but under the circumstances, it was accepted. He worked his fingers non-stop for several minutes, taking advantage of the energy they had felt before his will ran out, leaving him to read the mess he had forced out. His eyes closed as his hand slowly pressed on his forehead. It didn't remain long as Hitoshi looked about him. His surroundings, excluding his laptop and the small suitcase trapped in the closet, was almost plain enough to put a nun to shame. It was no surprise that the window and the never-ending white would hold his attention.
Soon, it was a strange looking plant in the field of snow that caught his eyes. Not only was it moving, but the bush was orange. He wasn't fooled long, and was out the door as he realized who was outside. He was quick in getting to the first floor, though he lost time calmly searching for the door the boy had taken. What was most frustrating was that there was only one back door, with a straightaway path leading to it.
Once at the door, Hitoshi opened the door, receiving a blow of icy air. It was setting in fast as the wind forced more and more of the invisible, tiny icicles across his skin. He stayed at the threshold, and called out to the figure, now paused in what must have been the middle of the yard. Just as all the other times he had tried to communicate with the boy, he was ignored. Hitoshi felt impatient suddenly. He retreated from the doorway, leaving it open, and grabbed his shoes and his jacket from the entryway's closet. With the poor protection of the thin garment, he went out, being careful to step in the imprints of the boy.
Even as he was inching forward, careful not to stop into the untouched snow all about his irregular and narrow path, it didn't take long to reach the boy. Hitoshi grabbed the house's inhabitant around the upper arm and pulled him back along the path. The boy put up no struggle, instead his eyes stayed fixed on the wood line, the only visible outside feature.
11111
From that night on, thing's only seemed to get worse for the coach. The storm outside stopped for a day, giving the young man hope that he could leave, then started up once more to outdo the previous blizzard. The power went out that day, too. Hitoshi had been unable to do anything, sitting as motionless as the boy in front of the window. They were marooned, away from the rest of the world due to distance and a lack of cell phone service.
Several days passed by in this way. The amount of snow that the skies shook upon them was unbelievable. Hitoshi felt he would die in the home, numb from both inactiveness and the cold that crept in. Eventually, he knew he would pass out, but he almost welcomed the thought that something would happen. In the meanwhile, he only had the darkened wall to lose himself in.
The trance was broken, however, by the sound of a window sliding open with little difficulty. And indeed, Hitoshi turned his head to see the orange haired boy breathlessly pushing up a window, which spewed snow unto the carpet as carelessly as a college student. Before the older male could think of stirring from the space he felt glued to, the youth had slipped outside. Hitoshi came to his senses, rushing to the area of the front door, and not intent on repeating the freezing journey he had taken nights before, he found a long, thick coat and boots.
He opened the front door with great difficulty, finding that a wall of snow was pushing against his side. The door was swung back and forth, eventually pushing the riot aside. Hitoshi didn't bother taking the covered steps; he jumped across into the field of snow whose height was a little past his navel. How the escapee was moving so fast in this, he couldn't guess. All the energy he had left from those days of nothing was running on low after only a few powerful pumps forward.
Somehow, he kept on the pursuit. He was sure he would collapse any moment, and he fought this urge with every stride forward and with every snowflake that gathered on his shoulders and head. His mind was detached from his body's work about halfway to where the boy now stood, in the same dazed manner he had appeared elsewhere in the past. With the overseer gone, the body worked faster and Hitoshi found himself at the boy's side.
He was about to grab his arm to lead him away from the barren, freezing world they had plunged themselves in when he looked into the tree-line, to exactly where the boy's lit eyes were focused. The oppression of the house melted away as he saw the bright red bird perched on a leafless branch. The falling snow even thinned so it wouldn't block the view of the former inmates.
"It's coming soon." Brooklyn whispered to his former teacher. Hitoshi didn't need an explanation of what the younger boy said, for he felt, even amongst the overcrowded snow and the dictatorship of all they had left in the house, spring was about to arrive.
The bird hopped briefly on its branch before it began to sing the cheerful solo that traveled clearly through the forests and the hearts outside it.
The sentence is ended.
For about a month I had been struggling with an idea of what I should write for my sister, who had requested a story. As if this wasn't bad enough, she demanded a Beyblade fan fiction, a fandom I'm not totally comfortable with. But I figured, if fans can get away with messing up the characters, maybe there'd be a chance I could be forgiven for my own perversions to the series. So, after this reassurance, I rejected idea after idea for the story. To give myself credit, though, I did decide that Hitoshi would be a main character. Not much of a help, though.
What did help were two events in October. First, it snowed three inches prematurely that month. I don't like winter, so even though it melted the next day, the snowfall still left a small impact on me. The second event happened a few days later as I was listening to The Cure's 'The Love Cats' in the shower, and Robert Smith sang that he would show his lover 'that spring is a treacherous thing'. I find it funny that the story would eventually have nothing to do with this line, but it was definitely a big inspiration.
While I don't consider this a great work, I almost wish I had bought that album.