Flashfiction – Ameravith

Astonishingly, Hanagawa

The dark little birds hurtling from the sky sent Hiroshi scrambling towards shelter. Once safely under the bamboo shed’s roofing and conscious of the hammering overhead, he looked back. Astonishingly, Hanagawa was walking calmly down the forest path towards him. Her wide-brimmed farmer’s hat offered paltry protection and seeing her continue stubbornly, despite being knocked-off stride repeatedly by the beaked projectiles, turned Hiroshi’s blind panic into disbelief.

Was she mad? Why wasn’t she running for her life?

He knew he had not married an ordinary country girl. Since their wedding, Hiroshi had heard whispers about Hanagawa, her family and their habits. Whenever he asked for an explanation, the wagging tongues of the village would say that the peculiarities of Hanagawa’s character were typical of north country people. Then the voices would fall silent. A silence caused more by uneasiness than deference, Hiroshi always felt. Subjecting oneself to lashings by suicidal birds would only serve to lend credence to such wild rumors.

As she entered the shed, Hanagawa took off the hat, letting her hair fall loose. On seeing him staring at her, she laughed disquietingly.

“Why are you laughing? Why did you not hurry when the birds were attacking you? You might have gotten yourself blinded!”

Hanagawa’s expression changed to the kind of concerned look that always made him uneasy.

“Hiroshi-san,” she began gently, her voice carrying an undercurrent of concern,
“Birds, you said? What birds?”

Hiroshi followed her gaze back up the forest path which was littered with dozens of . . . tempting, rosy peaches. Had his eyes deceived him?

“Dear husband. Did you say that birds attacked me? Those are only ripened fruits. Be truthful. Are you seeing and hearing things again?”

Hanagawa gave Hiroshi the look again.

Photo from Unsplash.com by Masoomeh Salek

The Fistfight

In a dramatic twist, N- cornered his bitter enemy F- at the entrance to the Christmas market before starting a fistfight. Constables on duty rushed to the scene to find both men grappling one another like imitation sumo wrestlers. Instead of jumping in to separate the sizable duo, the constables argued about whether the city had already instituted rules about acceptable behavior at the markets and whether it was the responsibility of the constabulary to intervene during such altercations.

As N- and F- crashed and landed on an ever increasing number of stalls – they’d already smashed a row of trinket stalls – half-a-dozen desperate stall keepers decided to take matters into their own hand, before the fight led to financial losses for them. As they were preparing to plunge in and as the constables forged an agreement on how best to proceed, N- and F- got up off the floor, dusted themselves, eyed each other stupidly and then looked around to notice the crowd that had gathered.

The vendors and constables exchanged glances. One of the constables, to break the awkward silence, said in a loud, condescending voice, “Barring the exceptions – and there are always exceptions – this is exactly how all fights should end. By themselves.”

At which point, the half-dozen stall keepers launched themselves gleefully at the constables.

Photo from unsplash.com by Daniels Joffe.

The Displaced

I notice the pores on his craggy face. His split eyebrows. Crow’s feet and sombre eyes. I see all this but I don’t recognize the Latino man’s face staring back at me from the bathroom mirror.

Getting up abruptly, I begin walking, trying to quell the murmur of panic inside me. People are scattered around the spacious terminal. Some are observing me casually. I’m stopped by a firm hand on my shoulder. A man in a bright uniform, either a paramedic or a firefighter, tells me calmly:

Sir, please return to your bench and remain there. We will examine you again as soon as we are able to.

He wouldn’t let me cross the barrier. I see another uniform approaching. Uncomfortable with the odds, I decide against resisting.

Outside the barrier, an Indian lady in a beige sweater is standing with one hand on her chest. She’s following my movement, her mouth partly open.

I return to the bench by a ceiling-to-floor glass wall and sit, lowering my eyelids. My anxious thoughts haven’t subsided. Outside, planes are landing, taxiing, and taking off.

I saw my husband being restrained by the paramedics. Yes, he was able to walk back to his seat unassisted. His gait was familiar. But I noticed that when he looked in my direction, there was something missing in his eyes. He didn’t recognize me. I’m pretty sure he didn’t.

She’s a black girl, around my age. Her Afro and jacket went nicely together. I was so close, I could see the evening light on her bewitching irises. I could almost peer into her soul. But why am I seeing a stranger’s face in the mirror?

photo from Unsplash.com by Serrah Gallos