Post by Mizukami Ayumu on Nov 16, 2009 2:50:09 GMT -6
Ayumu smiled. He sat cross-legged on the wooden platform. Wooden swords and sweat adorned the floor. By his side was Mizukami Juana, his adoptive sister, his little sister. Her hair was a mop of black curls as she laid on the floor, snoozing off, her forehead not completely dry from perspiration. Her older brother watched her prone form tenderly; though they weren't blood-related, it did not change how much the boy cared for his sibling. He jested with himself that she shouldn't become too beautiful; he would have difficulty fending off suitors that way.
The white-haired youngster turned his gaze outside. They were in their grandparent's house, though it was more of a mansion, because of its sheer size. Once in a while, every other weekend or so, they would be compelled to visit; it seemed such a contrast to their humble apartment. Their father insisted that they would live apart from the elders, and well, that was enough of a compromise for them. He had come back to his homeland, anyway.
The sliding door was open, and the teenager's sight went off to admire the grassy yard, in its muddy state. It was raining; the sound of the raindrops rhythmically drummed on the rooftop, like the most patient of fingers, and fell down the slope to make a curtain that glistened Ayumu's view of the wet outdoors. Ayumu was serene, relaxed. The smell of the rain tickled his nose, and he liked it.
He propped up the sketchpad he had on his arm; he double-checked his illumination and the angle that it hit him, from the fluorescent lamp that hung from above. He was... thinking. After your little sister challenges you to a mock sword match, even if you two both don't know anything about Kendo or Arnis or whatever, and she falls down happy, exhausted and asleep, the nicest thing to do was mull things over. It helped that the air was cooled by the downpour. A lot of things have happened since they had come here; he had met his grandparents, made friends, learned about this country's, his father's homeland's, culture. It wasn't as bad as he thought it would be; it was very far from his imagined worst-case scenarios. He wondered what would be nice to write.
His eyes fell again to Juana. She must be dreaming, and he found it a little funny that her mouth was a little open. He would probably tease her about it later. She must be dreaming... her body, her shell, here, while her mind, unshackled, traveled elsewhere, to places real and imaginary, but simply true. Wasn't writing like that? Writing is the commemoration of experience, actual or imagined, but who could say that what is imagined wasn't true? If it is true in your heart, then it could be true... it is true for you, and maybe... you could make it true. He had to smile yet again. Maybe this idea can be turned into a poem or essay or something.
He remembered his mother. His mother... would Juana be dreaming about her right now? She had not known her as much as he. Mother, if she was here, she would make a nice conversation partner. He could talk all about these things with her. Would she be seeing... would she be hearing him right now? There were a lot of things he wanted advice from her. Maybe he could ask her about Furukawa-senpai. They might not look alike, but they were both kind... well, it was not like he saw Furukawa-senpai as her mother... he shouldn't use psychology on himself. He laughed discreetly, shortly, at himself, looking once again outside. The rain might continue for a little more time. He wondered if Furukawa-senpai would listen to him like his mother did...
Well, Mother just might be hearing him right now, even if he wasn't seeing her or anything. He grinned towards the plants taking a shower outside, arrayed in their flowered glory. They looked as happy as he. "Mom." he said, to the silence. "I have a story."
After all, this was one of the few days that heaven stooped, letting its hair down onto the earth.