Chapter 1: The Story of a Clover
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"One word at a time."
~ Stephen King ~
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It all happened in an instant before my ink was lost.
When I looked down in the next moment, I was stepping in a different pool of colours and there was no footstep behind me. My world was reset to zero, and I was starting off on blank paper again, my pen placed on a halt within my tiny shaking hand.
I had lost everything.
-x-
"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." Ernest Hemmingway once said.
But what if there is no longer any blood? How can an author continue to bleed out an empty soul? My questions of exhaustion and sorrow were squashed mercilessly in a world where only numbers and systems mattered. In a moment of rashness, I went on a vacation around the world with only the money I had on me, leaving my pen and paper behind.
"I need to live." Was the last message I had sent to my editor, before proceeding to drop my phone into the sea. With a slight amount of guilt at my pettiness, I wondered how they were reacting now. They wouldn't be able to fire me, given my contribution thus far as a money-tree.
As quickly as the thought had come, I shook it off. I went on this trip because I didn't want to think about them. There was no point to worrying.
Placing the book on my face, I draped my hand lazily over the boat's edge. My hand was tired after holding it for so long.
"You're a weird guy, Mister." The old man chuckled in amusement. "Most people usually come here in this season to view the cherry blossoms, and yet…You're just lying here, sleeping your day away."
"The cherry blossoms are pretty, but there are parts of Japan's culture that are more beautiful." I mumbled back in Japanese. The old man chuckled.
"I wouldn't say that manga is our culture, but given the troops of young lads they are roping in, I suppose it is a growing occult amongst us." I blinked, the action making my book droop, and opened an eye to peer at him queerly. He pointed at my book. "That…is One Piece, isn't it? My grandson is fond of reading it too."
"Your grandson, huh…Better stop his addiction early now, for this book is not suited to his age group." I coughed, flushing slightly. As a respectable author, I like to think of manga as forbidden. Afterall, what use is there for words should authors accept pictures as better conveyers?
The old man laughed, thankfully not noticing the change in my demeanor.
"The women sure are well-endowed, aren't they?" He made a motion with his hands that had me looking away, flustered.
"T-They sure are."
Our homey boat was approaching shore and with the aid of the old man, I hopped off onto ground.
"Well, thankfully or otherwise, my grandson is already a grown up." He took my coins without looking, elaborating in a bitter way as if he has done it a million times. "He's what society calls an 'otaku' these days. Have fun on the rest of your trip, Mister!"
I tried to ignore his first sentence and smiled.
"I will. Thanks for the ride, Old man."
The sakura fluttered over the crowds as I shifted my way through. I tried not to think too much into it, but gave up soon enough. As an author, I had made it a habit to constantly put myself in others' shoes. It was the one sure way in which I could understand my main characters and see them as actual, human beings despite their sometimes irrational actions. Like stomping your feet in another person's colours and drawing an image of their life with their colours, the action was sometimes maddening, yet so beautifully enlightening that I can never stop.
Yet, the colours have dulled recently. Without blood, it became difficult to pour my soul to mash with their colours in my work. The pen is faulty, though the ink is runny.
And the sun is sunny, disregarding my inner turmoil.
"Japan, huh…" The reason for me coming here hung from my hand.
In my long journey across some of the Asian countries, I had stumbled across One Piece by chance. A series that was never ending, filled with numerous journeys mashed into one and characters so delightfully and humorously complex the laughter almost prevented me from reading into them…I had been intrigued by the series and its author.
Eiichiro Oda is as cheerful as his character, Shanks. A mixture of the rainbow colours he painted One Piece in, he laughed when he heard my troubles.
"Laugh." He explained. "Just laugh when you're unsure."
Unorthodox, like every other artist and wordsmith I've met.
However, I understood.
I smiled as I took a bite out of my vanilla ice-cream, continuing my long journey back to my run-down hotel.
Stephen King demands one word to be written at a time, patiently, carefully. Ernest Hemmingway says to add soul. And Eiichiro Oda says to put laughter into each word.
Every author has their own things to put in. Now, what should I add to mine?
I thought about my long journey as I finished my ice-cream. The sun has long disappeared below the horizons, ironically when my heart is lightest it has been in a long while.
I have seen dawns, meteor showers and auroras. I have seen people dying in their chase for happiness, people who live in the moment, and experienced a life without living. I have seen the damage caused by wars, peace blossoming from sacrifices, and the conflicts between the two.
Now…What should my next story be?
A stabbing pain near my heart cut my euphoria short.
Eyes widening, I grabbed my heart as my breath became labored, hands clinging onto my shirt to feel the sticky liquid that was overflowing in abundance.
"Y-You…" I whispered just as the dagger was forcibly removed and reentered my chest.
I gasped at the unexpected pain, toppling to the ground with that last attack, but that was not enough for my attacker. He straddled my back, repeating the same motions over and over until the bouts of pain lurched onto each other and the grayish ground faded briefly. I cringed, watching blood stain the ground.
Why…
In that last moment as I took my last breath, the things that flashed before my eyes were not my friends or family, but the pen and paper which has long became my life. In that last moment, I had dearly wished to be given a second chance to write the book I finally wanted to write, even when things faded to black.
Little did I know, that it was in the gruesome time of my death that a shooting star had flown passed in the skies.
-x-
In that moment, I found myself reborn into a world where laughter, tragic stories and heroes were prevalent.
From the very moment I opened my lips to cry out, I found myself with one of those tragic stories so very typical of Eiichiro's One Piece: I was mute. And as if that was not enough, fate took away my 'mother' from the very moment of my birth. I, an unwanted white-haired and grey-eyed child, was passed from relatives to relatives until I eventually found my place in a clover-haired old man's arms.
"You are not unfortunate at all, Shiro." Grandpa Clover loves to say. "Afterall, how can you be, when you have a four leaf clover like me overlooking you?"
And I would giggle inaudibly in the way most newborns do, because Grandpa was so very clearly straining to smile despite the tears streaking down his face. The funeral for Mother was depressing, but with the both of us abnormal people seeking comfort in each other, we were somehow able to adjust to our new lifestyles – without his daughter, with only Grandpa – and have some resemblance to a normal family.
Adjustment was hard when you have just lost everything. In that one moment where was I brought into a new world, I had lost my beloved words, my stable life, and my precious people. I could hardly gaze at another book without getting the urge to cry, and I would often seek comfort in Grandpa's arms in times of peace.
"Words are like masks." Grandpa said one time when he thought I was asleep. Brushing his palm across my white tresses, he gazed at his book distantly. "I wonder if you know that, that's why you hate them so much."
The irony was not lost on me.
As an author, it has been my lifelong duty to spin beautiful lies that could move the honest hearts of my audience. And yet, here I am, grieving over my lies and hating others' lies.
It's too controversial.
That night, I slid into Grandpa's lap with a book clasped in my arms. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped in the most ridiculous way all of Eiichiro's characters seem to do. Dressed in his sleeping gown and already prepared for another night without the stories all children seem to make do with, he had not expected this in the least.
"Y-You want me to read you a story?" He stuttered.
I nodded and leaned against his stomach, waiting patiently.
Grandpa gulped before he opened the first pages of the book, pausing briefly at the high level. Still, he continued without hesitation and pointed to each kanji as he went through them. I followed his fingers as he read, placing my tiny hand on his whenever there was a word I don't know and getting him to explain it. Grandpa did so with more patience and enthusiasm than I expected.
The story was about a boy who was dying, but who wanted to leave something behind to show that he had lived. In search of things he could do, he wandered ancient lands and snowy islands, crossing deserts, rivers and mountains. He met pirates who wandered freely and marines who protected their roots with their might, each and every individual painting a beautiful picture no matter how suddenly their life might end. Finally, in his last days, the boy, now a man, decided to plant a tiny apple tree on his home island.
"Every branch was his limb, every apple was his gift, and the soul of the tree was his remains." Grandpa read.
The apple tree eventually grew to be a great and sturdy tree, remaining for thousands of years and overlooking his people through wars, famine, and floods. It gave its life protecting them, and in turn, the people stayed close to it, protecting the place of their origins.
It was a tragic end, I thought, but realistic, like the only other story I have ever heard in this world – 'Liar Noland'. I could hear the author's scream for life and the many shards of himself he placed in his words. In a way, it reminded me of myself.
The next morning, as if he had read my thoughts, Grandpa greeted me with a watering can in his hands. A bright smile was reflected in his eyes and his beard covered mouth turning upwards, he waved in the direction of our empty yard.
"We may not be dying, but we can still leave evidences of our lives. What do you want to plant, Shiro?" He laughed, picking me up.
I cocked my head for a fake thoughtful moment, as any one year old might do, and I giggled soundlessly, pointing a finger at him.
"Hm?" His eyes were wide before laughter overtook him. "You want a four leaf clover? Well then, let's plant a garden of four leaf clovers, shall we?"
Under the warmth of the sun, my four leaf clover-ed Grandpa sweated as he planted his three leaf clover seeds, laughing as I tried to mimic his motion.
By then, I had already understood Grandpa's story, drenching myself in his green, green colours.
To my horror and depression, when I turned two, I had to learn how to write. Nothing felt more shameful than being sat down with a quilt, hand held in Grandpa's as he guided me through the various swirls and lines of my own name. I had been so ashamed that I threw aside the ink and hid myself in the bushes.
I may have accepted that words were unavoidable, but to be faced with the reality that I really was starting from ground zero…
It was déjà vu. It was a feeling every writer would have experienced.
It was like facing a blank white sheet of paper while wielding a brush. You have barely an image of what you want to write, and yet, the knowledge that even a single mistake will spoil the beautiful pure white never fails to pop up in your most courageous moments. Words hurt, words pierces, and words kill. They were my greatest enemies and allies. I had faced them all each time I wrote a book, and yet, I was still defeated.
Being the coward I was, back in both my past life and this life, I ran away.
"Shiro! Come back home! Where did you go?!"
I hugged my knees and closed my eyes, willing a bubble around myself.
"Shiroooo!" Grandpa cried again, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Where are yo- Argh-!"
There was the sickening sound of something falling and I stood, dashing towards him at once.
"S-Shiro…" Grandpa breathed in relief as I kneeled down beside him. "N-No need to worry! My back just cracked a bit-" Cracking is serious, damn it! "-It's only old age, so you really don't have to worry, Shiro! I'm fine!" He waved his hands desperately, eyes widening when he took a second look at me.
"Come on, there's really no need to cry, Shiro…" His body fingers came down on my white tresses, ruffling it. "You're a boy, aren't you?"
I only hiccupped, grabbing his bony fingers weakly.
Stupid old man…Stupid rebirth…Why does everything have to be so difficult?
There were many obstacles to everything, but with Grandpa's help, I overcame them.
Stephen King said to write "one word at a time", and retracing my steps, I learnt one kanji after another. Ernest Hemming said to add soul to each word; I expressed my emotions with each written kanji. Eiichiro said to add laughter, and I laughed and laughed soundlessly with Grandpa, creating universes together with our words, distorting reality and shaping weird creatures.
And even though I already understood it, even though I already knew it, in the tiny bubble I had wrapped us around, I had tried to deny that this world would inevitably follow Eiichiro's plot.
However, it was too late. By the time I had finally acknowledged that Grandpa really was that Clover from One Piece though, half my world was Grandpa and the other half was my ink. Grandpa's colours had soaked into the pen shell, forever imprinted, and I was already an incomplete person without him.
What can I do though? Grandpa would always talk so passionately about his research and history…How can I possibly stop him from continuing with the forbidden research when his eyes would become so terribly bright and his aged body so impossibly lively?
I couldn't…
When I was three, as fate has it, a white haired woman came to visit our house with a dark haired girl hiding behind her.
Hugging my book in my tiny arms, I could hardly believe my eyes. A tiny little demon within me had wriggled out then, struggling against everything, shouting into the abyss about how – things were just going too fast, stop it already, Grandpa's going to-! – I silenced the voice and willed it to calm by drowning in Grandpa's colours.
This is Grandpa's story, a four-leaf clover shade of green story with no place for people who interfere with his dreams. Love or fear, I must resist for his sake.
Grandpa smiled as he welcomed them in.
Perhaps it was out of consideration for me, the adults gently chided Robin to join me on my couch. As expected, however, the timid little girl merely buried her face in her mother's skirt.
"But okaa-san, why is his hair white…?" She mumbled.
Grandpa took the reins as always, smiling understandingly at Olvia's apologetic expression. Worry flickered across my face as he bent over, hunching to Robin's level despite his already worsened back. With a gentle laugh, he patted her raven locks, much like the way he does mine.
"It's because his hair lacks pigment, that's why it's white. Unfortunately, or fortunately, while it makes him look older than me, it also makes him mentally older as well." He shot me a teasing smile and I stuck my tongue out at him.
"Oh…So…he's like me?" Robin asked a bit less warily.
"Yup, he is!" Grandpa beamed.
With some comprehensible hesitation and a second and third look at the adults, Robin slowly trailed over in a beeline. After a moment of silent glaring at the height of the couch, she leapt onto it with a huff, trying without success to scale the soft wall. I watched in amusement as she slid down the tall sofa before trying again. Perhaps it was sadistic of me, but I was always fond of watching people climb up below me. It is at these times that I am most reminded of my arrogant, but also humble and lonely villains, always desiring someone by their side.
Grandpa's cough broke my trance and I rushed to help.
Setting my quilt and paper aside, I extended a hand down to her. To my unending relief, she took it without thinking, plopping down beside me a moment later. As she panted, I patted her back and returned to my work.
The adults chuckled at our adorable visage and left, presumably to talk in privacy.
For a while, there was only the scratching of my quilt against the paper. I was taking quick notes, in my still dissatisfactory but thankfully neater handwriting, of the literary techniques used in Japanese and some ideas for a story.
The child beside me fidgeted, but I remained calm, patient, retaining part of my past self.
Finally, she erupted.
"I-I'm Robin! S-Sorry for being rude…Will you be friends with me?" She extended her hand. In her haste, she ended up punching me in the face. "Ahhhh! I'm sowwy…"
Tears blossomed in her eyes as she tried to restrain them. Her cheeks were cherry red, icy blue eyes wide with fear of rejection and a small tiny twinge of hope that was fast fading. It was almost adorable how that mature Robin in the future was once a tiny, little child like this. I could feel my eyes softening as Robin choked out apologies, shrinking like a small animal.
Luckily for her, I'm a fan of small children and animals. Setting aside my writing tools again, I grabbed her still outstretched hand and shook it briefly.
"E-Eh?"
I scribbled a fast note, showing it to her.
"Shi…ro?" She read aloud, eyes travelling to me. "You're…Shiro?"
I nodded.
"And…Y-You'll be my friend?" Her eyes turned dewy again.
I nodded again.
Slowly, a smile curved her lips.
"You're my first friend! Thank you for being my friend, Shiro!"
I feel slightly flustered at being thanked for such a thing, but her sincere smile and eyes replaced the surge of embarrassment with bittersweet sadness. Robin…She was never this open in the manga. The realization of what twenty over years of running had done to her made me feel sorry.
To know what was coming and still put her through it…I felt guilty for betraying her trust. Still, it was the knowledge of the future that hardened my determination. That's right. Luffy would help Robin, so she would be okay even without Ohara or a savior now. She would be fine…
The raven child suddenly leaned forward, peering at my notes more closely.
"It's…about a story?" She tilted her head in confusion, looking to me for clarification. "It's not about history?"
I shook my head, closing the book to allow her a glimpse at the title.
" 'The life of a Fisherman'…You like reading fictional narratives?" She smiled.
I blinked, surprised that she even understood those words. After a moment of pondering, I nodded.
"That's nice…although I like history more!" She laughed, looking at my notes again. "Ne, Shiro…Why don't you write a story? Your ideas sound inte…interes…What was it again? Intere…"
Interesting. I scribbled, and she nodded firmly, slapping a fist on a palm.
"That's it!" What a strange way of showing her agreement. I found it strange how she knew complex terms about books when she did not know a simple adjective. I smiled in amusement when she leaned in again, taking me aback. "Ne, Shiro, write a story! Next time I come…I'll show you my history notes in return!"
Her blue eyes were sparkling with passion the same way Grandpa's always do. What made hers more effective, however, were the innocent honesty in those eyes and the fact that she was three. If she was anything like Luffy, I reckoned that I would be pestered until I agreed. With a sigh of resignation, I nodded.
It was a chore, to be honest. Like all compulsory essays I wrote in middle and high schools, the limited scope caused me to break my head over it for a week. I have always been a perfectionist in that sense.
I guess I had been too obvious about it. Grandpa Clover came into my room one day, dragging me out for a breather.
"Three year olds shouldn't be cooped up in a room scribbling notes all over the ground!" His brows were furrowed so much they met each other. "You ought to be chasing butterflies under the sun!"
In response, I gave him my stare of doom. My editor has always said that the stare seems completely devoid of life and energy. It was a stare one usually musters when worked until nothing seems rational anymore and one collapses in a dead faint.
Grandpa flinched, much to my triumph, and he jumped when I smiled lifelessly at his reaction.
"Shiro! What's with that expression of yours?" He cried. "You look like a devil! I reckon we take a trip down to the doctor's before we leave for anything else. And an exorcist, depending on whether I can find one."
I was dragged weakly out of the house.
It took a trip to the doctor to realize that I was overworking myself. Apparently, even though it's extremely rare for a three year old to even be working, I had been stressing myself too much over my 'task' and in turn, it had caused my immune system to weaken, influencing my mental capability – which in turn leads to a never ending downward spiral.
I could practically see spirals in my eyes while Grandpa nodded in understanding at the village doctor, constantly asking for more elaboration on the explanation.
This is the thing about Grandpa. As an archeologist, he is used to constantly investigating about the unknown, seeking to broaden his knowledge on everything. When faced with something he didn't know, especially when it is of use, naturally, he pressured and launched the doctor into a medical lecture until the nurse came in and informed us our time slot was over.
As Grandpa slouched and grumbled about the evil nurse being a barrier to knowledge, we bought a Popsicle and shared it. It was his form of childish revenge to the nurse, one which I could only laugh and enjoy under the uncomfortable summer sun.
Seeing Grandpa Clover being so…him, I knew what I wanted to write when I got home.
My first word on my white parchment speaks of love, and my first story told the life of a four leaf clover in a garden of three leaf clovers.
In that story, despite being uniquely different, the four leaf clover loved to camouflage itself and join the other clovers; It desired to be at home in the place where it bore its roots. However, despite feeling at home with his fellow clovers, there was always the sense of being distinctly different. One day, when a boy had passed by them, the four leaf clover called out to him to take it along.
"Please take me along on your travels! I would like to see what I am missing."
The boy, who was a pirate, agreed with one condition: To keep the ship safe until the clover leaves. With that in mind, the duo set sail and crossed numerous islands, wandering while exploring the beautiful yet simplistic depths of human love, cruelty, greed. Eventually, the boy found himself growing attached to the four leaf clover. On their last journey together, he allowed the clover to choose their destination. The clover did not even ponder – Their final destination was the island where the four leaf clover had its roots.
Atlas, on the way, after years of using its luck, the clover had lost its powers and the ship met up with a huge storm. In that moment, as the two were thrown overboard, the clover tried its best to help the boy, but in the mess of whirling torrents, it was impossible to reach him. With a desperate cry, the clover thought about its life, about the adventures they had, about the boy, who it had became attached to. With a silent cry, its vision faded and things went black.
"But what happens after that?" Robin asked worriedly.
I smiled at her and shrugged, unconcerned. In turn, she began whining childishly.
"I want to know…Tell me, Shiro!" I stuck my fingers in my ears. "You're mean, Shiro!" She huffed.
I wasn't really being mean though. Just…Honest. There was no sure way of knowing what will happen after that, because in death, things just goes black and nothing continues. I also didn't know if the clover really died, because those are events of the future…Things that were going to happen, but just not yet.
I watched the adults out of the corner of my eyes, pursuing my lips for the nth time.
I understood why they were meeting up so frequently of late; They were discussing about the research to be done about the void period. While the voyage has been delayed a year due to Grandpa Clover's absence for domestic reasons, it was still going to be inevitably continued by the passionate people of Ohara. And unless somebody stops it, this island will still head towards a future of destruction.
I'm not going to stop it though.
Even though I do not want Grandpa to die, I want him to chase after his dreams even more. The reflection of the stars in his determined gaze every night cemented my decision to let the voyage continue. And after writing his story…I can only give up without another painful struggle, understanding that beautiful, colourful, green, green dream Grandpa has too vividly.
If I'm not going to be able to protect him, I'd rather die alongside him.
Or…At least…that was what I had planned.
-x-
Even now, as an author, I am still running from everything.
-x-
A/N: This is the first chapter and my first story as LifeisYellow, so please be kind to me.
Authors are…amazing, aren't they? Not to insinuate that I am amazing, but I have always admired all other authors for their great courage and endurance in continuing with their stories. People who continue even without a position response, and those who have succeeded and climbed to the very top after many tries; I really admire such authors for the spirit they have, so I thought about writing a fanfiction from the point of view of a writer for once.
This story will be told in a somewhat similar format to this chapter. Since Shiro is a writer afterall, he will most probably be writing a story in each chapter with regards to the discoveries he made. Each story will hold some form of metaphorical link or bonds between characters and Shiro, at the same time, relating back to his position as a detached observer, a writer. Eg. In this chapter, it was the bond between Shiro and Clover, showcasing his uncertainty about the future and a firm determination to stay by his Grandpa's side.
As for matters regarding the ages, I'll address them here as well:
One-Year Olds: They should be able to stand alone and do simple things by themselves, such as eating with their fingers, flipping the pages of a book, and helping their guardians dress them [WedMD].
Two-Year Olds: They ought to be able to do things like riding a scooter, talking in three worded sentences or more, and being clinging for one moment and independent the next [bounty]. The bedtime story scene took place somewhere between the first and second year, so it makes sense that Shiro is able to walk and get the book for himself.
Two year olds are also considered gifted if they can read words and numbers, but this is not impossible [forums on the net]. Given how Shiro originate from an island priding itself on its knowledge, however, it makes sense that Clover wouldn't be shocked that he is part of that 'gifted' group and that Clover would even teach him to write at age two. That scene about writing is also partially due to his muteness, though writing is usually taught at 3 or 4 years old [Babycenter]. Having been alone taking care of Shiro, Clover feels responsible to care for Shiro's wellbeing after his death. Hence, he tries to teach him early on to write – if only as a safety precaution. This is because he knew he may die at any time, if not due to his age, then due to their forbidden research.
Three-Year Olds: They should have mastered a vocabulary of over 600 words with 80 percent intelligibly, use plurals and pronouns, and are more sensitive to feelings as compared to two year olds [Sheknows]. I based Robin on these characteristics, though I might have slightly upped her intelligence by making her able to use grammar effectively. As stated, most 3-4 year olds are able to read, so she is able to. Unfortunately, however, most 3-4 year olds aren't able to read intensively, so I may have been quite a bit off with that there. Hopefully, you'd forgive me for that slight mistake and accept my reasoning of Ohara.
If there are any queries, please review and I will answer them respectively.