Japanese ink paintings, or 'sumi-e', aim to simply capture the essence of the subject with the least fuss and brush strokes possible. I thought that was a little reminiscent of what short story writers try to do... I hope you like these small pictures of mine.
This particular one was written for 31days on LJ. Believe it or not, I actually got it up there on time for once. :D
Theme: No Place Like Home (11 0ct. 08)
Home
"Five hundred years co-ruling one of the world's most prospeous nations," he growled, "and yet I'm still the delivery boy."
Rokuta perched stark naked on top of a block of flats, Hourai-black hair blowing in the breeze. Tendrils adhered to his neck in sticky city humidity.
"Correction. Cross-country delivery boy. Enki goes international." He sighed and took his list from Yokuhi. "The chibi wants oil paints. What are oil paints? And why are they so much better than our paints?"
"I wouldn't know, Taiho."
"Hmph. I suppose he's too busy snuggling with Gyousou to go and get them himself. And look, our neighbour's getting in on the action too. Apparently Youko wants books in Japanese. History books, and political philsophy. Looks like I need to have a sharp word with her kirin again.
"And Risetsu-nee... Oh, it's one of those Western things. Chan-eru Number Five? What in the name of the gods is that?" He shook his head. "I guess I should be glad that Ren-Ou didn't ask for a tractor."
The infamously uninspirational city blocks of Edo - Tokyo, he corrected himself - spread out below his feet. No matter how far up one sat, the sounds of traffic still floated up. The sun shone on uniform glossy black heads passing below. Huge signs advertising various products in florescent kanji were suckered to the grey buildings like crickets to a tree.
He lightly took a running start to the edge of the roof, putting some extra spring into his knees and sending himself in a graceful arc over the street canyon below. He spread his arms wide, hair streaming as he fell like a boy meteor towards the cars. The rushing air felt good in the dull summer heat. Before he hit the tarmac, he transformed into his beast form and galloped through bubbles of radio chatter, video advertisements on giant screens and pounding J-pop issuing forth from the clothes shops. From the sheer variety of hair colours on the teenagers below, one could almost be in Kankyuu.
As the lights turned green at Shibuya Crossroad, the space underneath him welled up into a scrambling mass of people clutching shopping bags or mobile phones. He caught his fractured reflection in a bank of mirrored office windows.
He winced at the sight of a subway station. Nasty things, them. So many dark thoughts and musings, all congealing together in that cramped, superficially clean place, sticking to his skin like beads of fat. A kirin was born for open skies and fresh air. Winds to blow away the stench of human corruption. Sometimes he wondered what these people had done with all their fresh air. Did they have a personal grudge against it?
He resorted to some less than pure methods to acquire his ill-gotten treasures - although after putting up with him for five hundred years, surely the gods should owe him a little slack. He slung an indigo Books Kinokuniya bag over his shoulder, a wooden case full of paint tubes under the other. It'd taken him ages to find one without a leather handle.
He stopped to stare into a drinks vending machine. "Pocari Sweat" he muttered in disgust. "These modern Hourai people sure are unbelievable." Hot and thirsty, he squeezed his way into the nearest teahouse. A nice cup of tea. The very thought made his cells cry out in pleasure.
"Hmm," said the suited and briefcased businessman in front of him, rubbing his chin. "I'll have... the tall mocha-choco vanilla-caramel cappucino, hold the caffeine, with soy milk, extra cinnamon. Leave some room."
Enki blinked and leant over the counter as the man moved away. "Can I get a cup of tea, please?"
"What kind?" chirped the barista, shiny ponytail bobing. "Earl Grey? Herbal? Black? Iced tea? Chai latte? And what size? To go, or stay in?"
"Eh...never mind." he muttered, slinking away, totally baffled. He passed a glass box of ridiculous pastries, pausing to frown at a siren's sigil on the wall. So this was the kind of mystical being their artisans depicted today. But just what was a staa-bahk? And why was it patronising this pallid excuse for a teahouse?
Tired of the heat, he returned to the air, taking a detour over the Imperial Palace. The extensive grounds were a green blotch on the city below, a patch of moss on a cement path. The skyscrapers huddled at the edges of it, as though backing away in reverence. After all this time, Rokuta found it strange that an Emperor should live amongst his people on the ground.
Hourai people - he still got a jolt when he found himself thinking of them like this - had changed so much during these centuries, or more accurately, the last one. Still the politeness, the ingrained self-control. But... there was something disturbing about this place. They planted cherryblossoms, redirected the city around the palace, dressed in kimono for special occasions. But they built dolphin-nosed bullet trains, they polluted the oceans and rivers, they marred the landscape. There were books on sale telling men how to get away with groping schoolgirls, and the poor were allowed to slip through the cracks into destitution.
But it wasn't just Hourai. It was the world. A place were 'incurable' disease could be stopped in their tracks, but millions were allowed to starve to death. Maybe Tentei had a point with the segregation of Over Here with the world Over There. Maybe by keeping the Twelve Kingdoms from sharing their problems and successes, he was trying to preserve something. Brotherhood, perhaps. Although he still liked the kid from Kei's ideas about the international aid thing. Maybe not all newfangled Hourai ideas were so bad after all.
Back on the streets, he frowned as he passed a mother desperately trying to engage her son in conversation as they sat at a streetside cafe. The kid scowled and mashed a few buttons on his black game-box, tinny music forming a wall between them. Scratch that last thought.
He couldn't find Risetsu's mysterious request. Instead he bought her several slabs of chocolate. She couldn't get enough of the stuff. He'd once walked in on her feeding pieces to Ranjou. He slipped a postcard of a maiko, a flamboyant apprentice geisha, from a wire rack outside a tourist store. She'd get a kick out of the costume.
Pausing beneath a shady tree on a street corner, he watched a group of giggling girls in buckles, ruffles and thigh-high boots clomp past. Perhaps he should get something for Shouryuu. But when he'd asked, his master had looked up with a lazy smile. He'd given the impression that he was only paying attention because there was a junior member of the Ministry of Heaven bobbing at his elbow, flustering for his seal on a bit of paperwork.
"What do I want?" he had said slowly, tapping one forefinger agaisnt his jaw. "Nothing I can't get here. Bring yourself back quickly."
Rokuta's eyes narrowed. He stared at the sidewalk. Specks of chewing gum dotted the cement, almost as if someone couldn't bear the monotony of all that grey.
"Yokuhi," he called softly. His nyosen materialised by his side. "Take the bags and fly with Rikaku and Kibou. Meet me at Genei Palace."
Faster than any earthly eye could see, he was galloping free of the needle-spined skyscraper jungle and into the open air-
Flat out, hide coated in a sheen of sweat, he crossed the dark ocean, blinking salt spray free of his eyes.
It wasn't often that he really got to stretch himself like this. Were it not for the pressing thoughts on his mind, the joy of it would have overwhelmed him. As it were, there was only one thing he wanted to think about.
It was late when he finally dove through the skies above Genei Palace. He zeroed in on the precise building, the precise hall. He shot sinuously around the screen in the entryway, folding into a heap of naked young boy on the carpet by his master's feet. He rested on all fours, head unintentionally bowed, as he panted from the exertion.
Shouryuu calmly surveyed him from over the top of his sake cup. "Well, well. A naked kirin lying prostate before my feet, short of breath. What shall I do with you?"
Rokuta raised his head, eyes never straying from his master's. Strands of sweaty golden hair hung down in front of his face.
He opened his mouth to make a caustic comeback, but Shouryuu waved one hand in an amused fashion.
"There's a pile of clothes on that sidetable. And I have tea ready to brew, and fresh peaches. I've been expecting you home for about an hour already. What took you so long?"He made no pretense of looking away as Rokuta pulled on his familiar clothes, tugging his sash straight.
"I've been running errands," he grumbled. "The world seems to think I'm it's delivery boy."
"What did you bring me?"
Rokuta rolled his eyes. "Nothing. You didn't ask for anything."
"I shouldn't have to. You should revere me as a god."
"Hah!"
"If it annoys you so much, why can't Taiki go? He's old enough."
Rokuta pulled out the chair on the other eide of Shouryuu's desk.
"Can't have the White Tiger going hungry".
"But it's fine if I go hungry?"
Rokuta snorted. Shouryuu just smirked and tossed him a peach from a celadon bowl on the desk.
"You look a bit peckish yourself. I'll bet they don't have peaches as good as these in Hourai."
It gave way sweetly beneath his teeth, perfectly ripe, almost melting as good things do. But then, these peaches always did. He tossed the stone out of the window.
"You're disgusting when you do that."
"You're disgusting all the time."
Dark eyes under dark hair glinted. He was dressed in his usual careless manner, robe gaping wide open over his chest, hair loose over his shoulders. His presence filled the room, dominating it, monolithic.
"You sure you didn't bring me anything?" he asked.
Rokuta stood up, arms outstretched, and spun around slowly. "One kirin," he said, half-sarcastically.
His master smiled and drained the sake cup.
A/N More stories soon. Feedback most appreciated.
