Post by Shun Minamoto on Jan 2, 2017 16:16:42 GMT -5
Success.
For the first time, he could count his latest attempt—not to get home, however—as a real, verifiable success. He was figuring things out and finally felt like he was on to something. His first test of his current theory had a low threshold for measuring that success, however, and he knew it: All he had required of himself was to appear in a world, in the Rukongai, near the Minamoto estate.
Whether it still belonged to the Minamoto, he didn’t know. When he would appear, he didn’t know. But he focused himself, his vision, his intentions, on a world where that place would still exist. He held it all in his mind, the history around it, and all the pathways that might have led to it.
The big picture, seen and unseen, extrapolated from an unknown starting point and towards an end with a destination only vaguely defined. If he could pull even that little bit off, he would count his idea as having some merit, worthy of further investigation, and the ticket he needed to find his way home after so long.
And when he arrived, he arrived strained and tired, but not exhausted, as before. He was on his knees, leaned up against the back of a Rukongai building—made of stone, even, just as he remembered!—and managed to get on his feet. It only took a few steps into the street before him, and then he was able to get his bearings. He knew where he was only because this was where he had grown up, close to the Estate that his father and mother had worked countless decades to afford for their family of seven.
Well, seven for a while. It became six quite quickly.
But, at the same time, things weren’t as he remembered. Old buildings were gone, replaced by new, and new buildings from his childhood now looked very old, recently modeled, or some mix of both. Even the place he had appeared behind, a childhood favorite bakery, had a completely different construction—and now it was some sort of place for journalism.
The sun was already down and the stars of the night were clear above Shun’s head. He put a hand on the door to a place that he had, once, associated with the sweet smells of freshly baked treats. Even now, he could remember begging his parents for one or two. He, of course, also remembered the childishly joyous faces of Shinpei and Ayame as begged the same from their older brothers.
It was a shame, but not unexpected. He could be well past the point of his childhood, or maybe he was back in the past and this place had simply never been a bakery at all.
Instead, he let go of the momentary, warm trip down memory lane and began the walk back towards his home. The twisting path of the side roads as they broke away from the more commercialized, dense area of Rukongai that built up along the main pathways through the districts. Instead, he got closer and closer to the less dense, more “rural” parts of the endless city, if you could call it that.
The truth of the matter, it was just so far away from those main roads that no one usually bothered. Who would want to live there and then have to walk so far in order to find work or a place to sell what they made? The Minamoto, however, didn’t upset themselves with a long walk in the morning. It became a sort of tradition, a point of pride, that they lived far away from the rush of the city, and got to enjoy more natural greenery.
It was their own little pocket of paradise, away from the mass of human souls that otherwise packed themselves in together, tightly.
Soon enough, Shun found himself on the dirt footpath up to their old home. The grass was lush and a fine, dark green. There was already a shimmer of dew starting to form as the chill of the night set in, and even got to him through his dual-layered Shihakushō. Tree branches reached out to snag at the sleeves, and other bushes with sharp leaves threatened to cut at him and leaving annoying threads on his clothes.
Then, slowly, gentle splashing came into earshot. There was a small pond on their property that his sister had started a garden around, not to mention a much larger lake a little farther away—about a ten-minute walk, Shun remembered with certain clarity.
That’s when he heard a voice, and hardly believed it. Was this the past, as he suspected?
His pace picked up and, as it did, the lighted interior of the home came into view. Out in front, sitting on the wooden walkway that outlined the building, covered by the overhang held up by a series of well-finished posts, was Shinpei.
His younger brother, smiling, happier than he ever remembered him.
The house looked just as it did in his childhood, built by his father’s own hands.
Shun stopped, speechless, as his spiritual sense confirmed what they already knew: Everyone was together, with some additions. He could feel Shinpei, his mother, father, his older sister, his younger, and…
Slowly, afraid of what he would see, his gaze turned to the small pond that was over at his right. Barefoot, splashing around it, and making fun of her twin brother before Shun’s sudden appearance silenced them all, was Ayame.
Alive and well.
*****
922 Words
Shinpei Minamoto
For the first time, he could count his latest attempt—not to get home, however—as a real, verifiable success. He was figuring things out and finally felt like he was on to something. His first test of his current theory had a low threshold for measuring that success, however, and he knew it: All he had required of himself was to appear in a world, in the Rukongai, near the Minamoto estate.
Whether it still belonged to the Minamoto, he didn’t know. When he would appear, he didn’t know. But he focused himself, his vision, his intentions, on a world where that place would still exist. He held it all in his mind, the history around it, and all the pathways that might have led to it.
The big picture, seen and unseen, extrapolated from an unknown starting point and towards an end with a destination only vaguely defined. If he could pull even that little bit off, he would count his idea as having some merit, worthy of further investigation, and the ticket he needed to find his way home after so long.
And when he arrived, he arrived strained and tired, but not exhausted, as before. He was on his knees, leaned up against the back of a Rukongai building—made of stone, even, just as he remembered!—and managed to get on his feet. It only took a few steps into the street before him, and then he was able to get his bearings. He knew where he was only because this was where he had grown up, close to the Estate that his father and mother had worked countless decades to afford for their family of seven.
Well, seven for a while. It became six quite quickly.
But, at the same time, things weren’t as he remembered. Old buildings were gone, replaced by new, and new buildings from his childhood now looked very old, recently modeled, or some mix of both. Even the place he had appeared behind, a childhood favorite bakery, had a completely different construction—and now it was some sort of place for journalism.
The sun was already down and the stars of the night were clear above Shun’s head. He put a hand on the door to a place that he had, once, associated with the sweet smells of freshly baked treats. Even now, he could remember begging his parents for one or two. He, of course, also remembered the childishly joyous faces of Shinpei and Ayame as begged the same from their older brothers.
It was a shame, but not unexpected. He could be well past the point of his childhood, or maybe he was back in the past and this place had simply never been a bakery at all.
Instead, he let go of the momentary, warm trip down memory lane and began the walk back towards his home. The twisting path of the side roads as they broke away from the more commercialized, dense area of Rukongai that built up along the main pathways through the districts. Instead, he got closer and closer to the less dense, more “rural” parts of the endless city, if you could call it that.
The truth of the matter, it was just so far away from those main roads that no one usually bothered. Who would want to live there and then have to walk so far in order to find work or a place to sell what they made? The Minamoto, however, didn’t upset themselves with a long walk in the morning. It became a sort of tradition, a point of pride, that they lived far away from the rush of the city, and got to enjoy more natural greenery.
It was their own little pocket of paradise, away from the mass of human souls that otherwise packed themselves in together, tightly.
Soon enough, Shun found himself on the dirt footpath up to their old home. The grass was lush and a fine, dark green. There was already a shimmer of dew starting to form as the chill of the night set in, and even got to him through his dual-layered Shihakushō. Tree branches reached out to snag at the sleeves, and other bushes with sharp leaves threatened to cut at him and leaving annoying threads on his clothes.
Then, slowly, gentle splashing came into earshot. There was a small pond on their property that his sister had started a garden around, not to mention a much larger lake a little farther away—about a ten-minute walk, Shun remembered with certain clarity.
That’s when he heard a voice, and hardly believed it. Was this the past, as he suspected?
His pace picked up and, as it did, the lighted interior of the home came into view. Out in front, sitting on the wooden walkway that outlined the building, covered by the overhang held up by a series of well-finished posts, was Shinpei.
His younger brother, smiling, happier than he ever remembered him.
The house looked just as it did in his childhood, built by his father’s own hands.
Shun stopped, speechless, as his spiritual sense confirmed what they already knew: Everyone was together, with some additions. He could feel Shinpei, his mother, father, his older sister, his younger, and…
Slowly, afraid of what he would see, his gaze turned to the small pond that was over at his right. Barefoot, splashing around it, and making fun of her twin brother before Shun’s sudden appearance silenced them all, was Ayame.
Alive and well.
*****
922 Words
Shinpei Minamoto
