Every Friday writers from around the world contribute 100 word stories prompted by a photograph supplied by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields to Friday Fictioneers. Everyone is welcome to contribute and we love comments on our stories.
That afternoon the cherry trees outside her dorm in Kyoto were inundated with ripening buds, and Keiko nearly burst with excitement. In a few weeks, when the blossoms frilled from their pods like cowry shell creatures, she could go home.
Her mother, father, sisters, cousins, aunts, would flood Sendai station to meet her train. There’d be a welcome banquet in their house in the fishing village: hot smoked fish, octopus balls, red paste cakes. She’d sleep in her pink time-warped bedroom.
Suddenly the air surged and buckled. The new buds, the cherry trees, her whole world, rippled as if she were looking through water.