The geisha strummed the three strings of her shamisen for
her Samurai master. The instrument's body encased in catskin that held the sweet
vibrations like a purr. Its silk strings fashioned of the same material as the
kimono in which she was draped. Three ivory pegs chorusing the hairpins shaping
her high chignon hair. The three strings rubbed against one another to conjure
up the sound of a whole hive of bees. The plectrum caressing against the body
to conjure the rhythms of the hooves of her master's horse. Her fingers
palpating the frets to make the instrument sound like sweetly dripping honey.
She was his flower in the pleasure quarters and his willow
throughout the rest of the house, as she fed his soul with poetry, dance,
calligraphy and grace. At night, to preserve her elaborate hair pinned with
turtleshell, she slept with her head on a block and a bed of rice around its
base to alert her, were her crown to roll off the wood.
Then came the American bomb clouds that momentarily blotted out the
sun and stripped all the leaves from the trees. Those birds not in its vicinity,
till crashed in their flying, as they conceived night had descended. The bees
disappeared. Turtles retreated inside their shells never to resurface from
their hibernation.
Now her silk kimono sat uncomfortably. She could feel the
silk writhing over her body, as if the worms sought to reclaim their cocoons
for their unborn broods. The shimasen's silk strings came away from the catskin
body, as they too protested their indenture. Her master took his pitiless steel
and rendered Seppuku. His insides unravelling like the insurgent strings on her
shamisen. Her tresses escaped their turtleshell grips. No more of flowers and
willows. A perpetual winter had eclipsed Japan's ever rising sun.
The silhouette of an American GI stood behind her shoji. He
slid the screen door back, his bulk dimming the whole room. Save for the corona
of light from the burning tip of his cigarette waxing and waning as he breathed
heavily. Try as she might, she couldn't convince herself that it was a firefly
in the night attracted by the scent of her hair's pomade.
Taken from the Flash Fiction collection "Long Stories Short" available on Amazon Kindle
Taken from the Flash Fiction collection "Long Stories Short" available on Amazon Kindle
