10
“Why are they sending you out there?”, she asked, breaking the silence, “God know how many others like you are out there and what kind of life is that? You could be the one making history.” Daisy punctuated her questions with gestures of a mug she had pulled from a cabinet, not expecting an answer to her questions because she knew Malcom didn’t have the answers.
“I am making history,” Malcom cut in, rising from his resting spot, “in a sense. I mean, there wouldn’t be history if someone didn’t write it down, it’d just be forgotten.”
Something clouded the bliss on her face and her eyes became sadder. The uncontained glee from minutes before was gone as her smile tightened. To mask her disappointment, she turned to the coffeemaker to fiddle with the controls.
“Mal,” Daisy started, watching coffee begin to fall and its smell crowding the space, “no one’s even seen this history book you’ve been working yourself to death over, not even you.” She spun on her heel, one hand laced through the handle of a mug threatening to spill as the other arm snaked around Malcom’s middle. A stuttering sigh escape her lips, the telltale sign she was holding back tears.
He cursed in his head as he glanced to the clock and took the mug from her grip, ignoring the scalding porcelain against his palm. Malcom dropped it to the table behind him and pulled Daisy close. “I love you,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as if it would change a thing.
“Who decided that you don’t get to exist,” Daisy cried softly, her face pressed into his coarse shirt collar.
“I,” he gasped, licking his dry lips before continuing purely to stall, “I have to go.”
They stood there a moment longer, each second stretching into another before it finally broke. As much as he tried, longer or more nights together could never be guaranteed. Time meant little to him but everything to Daisy, it passed at pace and in order which was unfathomable to Malcom.
Time meant little to him but everything to Daisy, it passed at pace and in order which was unfathomable to Malcom.
“Time’s up?”, she chuckled humorlessly and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Yes,” he confirmed heavily, “Time’s up.”
Cherry Blossom Memories by Ariana Aikan
It was the first day of spring in Takayama and the flowers had bloomed. The vibrant colors of the yellow and pink flowers reflected against the passenger side of the cars that were passing each other on the mountain road. A single, white car indicates to the left and turns. The car comes to a stop outside of an iron gate that reads “Graveyard” in Japanese.
A man dressed in a black and white tuxedo stepped out of the car holding a bouquet of dark red roses. The man continued to walk, stones crunching under his feet as he stepped, until he stood in front of two well tended tombstones. The inscription on the stones read, “In dedication to the Hana family.” He bowed and placed the bouquet against the cold stone. The man held up a Polaroid picture of a young boy with black hair wearing a traditional Japanese school uniform. He sighed deeply and placed the Polaroid back in his suit pocket and spun around to walk in the direction of the parking lot.
The car roared as it came to life and followed the path that led to the main road.
An hour passed, and the man had reached his destination. The man parked the car outside of a gated house --the tiled roof peeking out from the top of the gate. The man stopped and stared at a sold sign at the front of the house. A wave of nervousness had overtaken the man. His hands were beginning to get clammy and his heart started palpitating fast. The man had only talked to the owner of the house once on the phone making his anxiety much worse. He gulped and knocked on the wooden door of the house. A short bald man, who looked to be in his late 40’s, opened the door.