Specializing in Bewitchment and Single Malt Scotch
This is my Friday Fictioneers contribution for this week. The challenge is to write a 100-word story using the photo as a prompt. Join the fun at http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/.
“The hay was wet with my blood. Your face in the moonlight is all I remember. I thought I was dead.” He sat his wine glass on the balcony railing and gazed at the street below.
“Many American pilots died. You were lucky.”
“The Resistance smuggled me to England, but I came back to France. To find you.”
“Thank God for hay wagons.” She smiled, leaning on his arm.
“How could we manage it now?” He nodded toward the tightly wrapped hay bales behind the grumbling tractor.
Her hand closed tightly over his. “We would find a way.”
The Red Kimono: A Novel by Jan Morrill
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
As delicate as a cherry blossom, The Red Kimono blooms quietly but persistently. It’s a gentle story of a very ungentle time. Mostly expressed through the words of young people, The Red Kimono is, of course, a comment on racism and war, but it is also a coming of age story not only for its characters but for a culture. Whether you buy the plot, or not—whether you appreciate the characters or the lovely prose or not, the premise for the story is true. Japanese interment really happened and it happened here in America. The resulting disruption to families was far reaching and long lasting. [a:Jan Morrill|5020480|Jan Morrill|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/authors/1358028386p2/5020480.jpg]doesn’t beat you over the head with it, but it’s impossible to ignore the unsettling feeling that the events she describes so clearly are shadows of events happening half a world away during the same time period. If you enjoy writers such as Amy Tan and N. Scott Momaday, you may enjoy the clash of cultures in The Red Kimono.
View all my reviews
“Why’d you come back?” He leaned against the doorframe—shirtless, tanned, beautiful.
“Missed your cooking.” My dress hugged shaking legs in the spring breeze. I sounded braver than I felt.
“Aren’t you sick of this—what did you call it?—backwoods boil on the Universe’s ass.” He spat the words.
Gentle chimes broke his mood. A rising wind swayed the black iron bell on the porch.
“It only rings for weddings and funerals.” His cat-green eyes slipped over me like warm water. ”Family legend.”
“Which one now?” I held my breath.
He stepped aside. “Come in and we’ll see.”
“He dropped me when I was forty. She was even younger,” said the lite beer motioning towards a Scotch-rocks at a nearby table, “I bet he’s already got another one lined up.”
“Why would he leave me for her?” wailed the marguerite, eyeing a tall sangria.
“Quiet. Here she comes.”
The sangria joined them under the yellow umbrella on the patio, the silence as icy as the fresh round of drinks.
“I suggest we work together,” said the sangria, smiling a Cheshire cat smile, “The bastard will be asleep by ten.”
“I’ll bring the shovel,” said the lite beer.