As the 40 days of summer vacation slipped away, I managed to make the most of it. Spent some quality time with Riri and Ruu, you know, the usual – being chased by Saya. I also decided to try my hand at kendo, thinking I'd channel my inner samurai from those anime shows. Turns out, swinging a bamboo sword requires more finesse than I expected. Progress, though, it's a work in progress.
And then there's Kyūdō. The bow is ridiculously long, like trying to shoot arrows with a tree branch. Still, I made more headway in archery than in my attempts at kendo. Go figure. At least I can now tell the difference between a katana and a yumi bow without embarrassing myself too much.
The first day at the Tennen Rishin-ryū dojo was an experience. Clumsily donning the traditional kendogi and hakama, I must have looked like a lost samurai from a low-budget movie. The sensei, a stern-faced older man, eyed me with a mixture of amusement and skepticism.
"Alright, let's see what you've got," he said, handing me a bamboo sword.
I gripped it awkwardly, mentally replaying scenes from samurai anime. As I attempted my first swing, the sensei corrected my stance with a few precise words. "Remember, Will, it's not about looking cool. It's about discipline and control."
Discipline and control, huh? Not exactly my strong suits. After a series of fumbled moves, I couldn't help but quip, "Maybe I should have stuck with the anime version. At least they make it look easy."
The sensei raised an eyebrow, clearly unamused by my attempt at humor. But as the training continued, I started to feel the rhythm and purpose behind each movement. Maybe, just maybe, I could become the real-life protagonist of my own kendo journey.
As days passed, the initial awkwardness began to fade. I started to appreciate the precision and discipline required in kendo. Ruu and Riri, being avid supporters, often joined me at the dojo. They'd cheer me on, but every now and then, they couldn't resist mimicking exaggerated samurai poses, causing a few amused glances from fellow practitioners.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow on the dojo floor, I couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Kendo wasn't just about swinging a bamboo sword; it was a journey of self-discovery and growth, much like the summer I spent on the farm.
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After a week of trying out kendo I decided to try Kyudo then the first day of Kyudo brought a unique set of challenges. Accustomed to the compactness of recurve bows, the elongated yumi felt unwieldy in my hands. As I tried to nock the arrow and find the proper grip, I couldn't help but fumble through the process.
Riri and Ruu, unfamiliar with archery, observed with curiosity. "Will, it looks like you're wrestling with a tree branch," Ruu commented.
Ignoring their banter, I focused on the instructor's guidance. The elegant and deliberate movements required in Kyudo were a stark contrast to the swift actions of kendo. Each step felt deliberate, as if I were navigating a meditative dance.
Ruu excitedly urged Will to shoot "Come on Nii-chan, the target won't wait for you to figure out that bow."
I shot her a wry smile, "Maybe if this bow wasn't longer than my wingspan, I'd have better luck."
Despite the initial awkwardness, the meditative rhythm of Kyudo began to sink in. The act of drawing the bow, feeling the tension in the air, and releasing the arrow became a harmonious sequence. By the end of the session, I started to appreciate the artistry and mindfulness behind Kyudo, even if my first attempts resembled a clumsy ballet with a bow.
Ruu, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, sauntered over as I grappled with the towering yumi. "Hey, Will, ever considered surviving a zombie apocalypse with one of these?"
I chuckled, a welcomed distraction from my bow wrestling. "Ruu, this thing is twice my size. I'd probably be the first casualty in a real zombie attack."
Ruu grinned, undeterred. "Nah, just imagine it. Zombie horde closing in, and you, with this majestic bow, taking them down one by one. It's like really cool, Nii-chan."
I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the mental image. "Yeah, cool in the form of clumsy archery."
She nudged me playfully. "You'll get the hang of it Nii-chan."
As I continued to grapple with the yumi, Ruu delved into hypothetical survival scenarios, weaving tales of zombie archery feats. Amidst the banter, the awkwardness of the oversized bow began to morph into a challenge I was determined to conquer. Ruu's infectious enthusiasm and imaginative scenarios turned what could have been frustration into an amusing venture into the world of unconventional archery survival.
The instructor, unamused by our banter, proceeded to give me careful instructions, trying to maintain a serious tone despite the light-hearted exchange with Ruu.
And just like that, 40 days of summer vacation went down the drain.
First day of middle school , and without Riri to teach me math, this is gonna be tough, man. I carefully look at the gate of the school, feeling a bit overwhelmed. I slowly walk over, glancing at the sheet of paper with my schedule, trying to figure out which room I belong to.
The gate of the school looms ahead, and I'm feeling more lost than a cat in a laser show. Slowly, I trudge over, squinting at the piece of paper that supposedly holds the secrets to my academic destiny.
"Sigh, middle school. No Riri to help me with math and my old classmates are not even going to this school. Why did I even choose this school?" I mutter to myself, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably.
As I approach home, I half expect Riri to walk home with me. But no, today is just me, myself, and my chaotic thoughts. Dad's probably off doing the bidding of Saya's dad, the ever-elusive businessman.
Unlocking the front door, I step inside. "Hello? Anyone home? No? Just me and the echoing silence. Great." I roll my eyes at the emptiness, contemplating the mysteries of middle school and the conspicuous absence of my dad.
And so, the saga of navigating through teenagehood begins. Let the chaos unfold.
I drop off my school stuff at home and head straight to the kendo gym. The familiar scent of wooden weapons and the sound of bamboo clashing fill the air as I enter. It's a strange comfort, a reminder of those lazy summer days when I thought I could be a samurai.
The sensei gives me a nod, acknowledging my presence. "Latecomer, eh? Better start stretching; we're about to begin."
I smirk, doing a half-hearted stretch. "Fashionably late, sensei."
The kendo practice is a mix of awkward swings and misplaced footwork. I can practically hear Riri laughing at my attempt to master the way of the sword. Well, Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither is my samurai career.
As the practice ends, I sling the bamboo sword over my shoulder and mutter to myself, "One day, I'll be splitting a mountain in half. Just you wait."
Sensei looks at me, "Keep practicing, Will. Discipline and dedication are the keys to mastering the art of kendo."
I offer a determined smile, "I'll keep that in mind, Sensei. Arigatou gozaimasu."
And with that, I exit the kendo gym, contemplating whether I should attempt Kyūdō again or just stick to swinging a bamboo stick. Middle school, the land of possibilities and questionable life choices.
As I leave the gym, I ponder whether I should give Kyūdō another shot or explore other extracurricular activities. Middle school is indeed a land of possibilities, and I'm ready to embrace them, one bamboo sword swing at a time.
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Walking into the dimly lit kitchen, I realize that I'm on my own for dinner. The fridge holds the usual suspects – some veggies, eggs, and a lonely piece of chicken.
As I slice and dice, I start to appreciate the art of cooking a bit more. The sizzle of the pan and the aroma of spices fill the kitchen, creating an atmosphere of self-sufficiency.
I can't help but think, maybe it's time to level up my cooking game. After all, who knows when I'll need more than just basic survival skills in the culinary department?
Stepping into the familiar surroundings of my home, I mumble to myself, "I'm back." The quiet response echoes through the empty hallway, a routine greeting to an unoccupied space. It's funny how talking to yourself becomes second nature when there's no one around to hear it.
Heading to the kitchen, I flick on the lights, revealing the modest space that has become my culinary battlefield. Pots and pans, each with its own tale of triumph or culinary disaster, await my next culinary endeavor. As I stand before the stove, I can't help but ponder if my future holds more than just the rhythmic clattering of kitchen utensils.
I grab a sleek, stainless steel pan and lay it on the stove, turning the dial to ignite the flames beneath. The familiar sizzle of oil comes to life, promising the crispy perfection that is tonkatsu. I glance at the pork slices, their pink hue ready to transform under the heat.
As I whisk together a concoction of eggs and flour, the anticipation builds. The pork takes a quick dip in the eggy bath before being cradled by the seasoned flour. My hands move with a practiced grace, a dance learned from trial and error in this culinary sanctuary.
Carefully placing the coated pork into the pan, the kitchen is filled with the satisfying symphony of crackling oil. I watch as the golden transformation takes place, my senses heightened with the promise of a delicious reward.
Once both sides achieve the desired hue, I retrieve the tonkatsu, placing it on a wire rack to drain excess oil. The rhythmic tap of the fried delight echoes in the kitchen, and I can't help but feel a sense of accomplishment as the aroma envelops the room.
Satisfied with my creation, I plate the tonkatsu, ready to savor the fruits of my labor.
I carefully wrap the second tonkatsu, keeping it snug within the folds of the parchment paper. It's a silent gesture, a slice of consideration reserved for my dad when he returns from his job. The kitchen, now filled with the savory aroma of my culinary endeavor, seems to hold a whispered promise of warmth and comfort.
As I secure the package with a neat twist, I can't help but think about the shared moments around the table – a simple yet profound connection. The anticipation of his reaction fuels a subtle satisfaction, a son's unspoken expression of care.
I place the wrapped tonkatsu in the refrigerator, a culinary surprise waiting to be discovered. The kitchen, once a solo stage for my culinary creations, now bears the traces of shared moments and the echoes of unspoken connections.
The flickering light from the TV casts shadows across the room as the movie unfolds its suspenseful narrative. I find myself engrossed in the scenes, the fictional world of the film providing a momentary escape. However, as the plot takes an unexpected turn and the protagonist's father transforms into a zombie, a shiver runs down my spine.
In the eerie glow of the television, I can't help but ponder the hypothetical scenario. If my dad were to face such a fate, what would I do? The absurdity of the thought juxtaposes with the seriousness of the film, creating a surreal moment of reflection. Lost in contemplation, I wonder about the resilience needed in the face of unimaginable challenges, even if they're confined to the realms of fiction.
As the suspenseful scene unfolds on the screen, the protagonist's father transforms into a zombie, and the tension in the room grows palpable. The eerie silence is broken by the protagonist's frantic shouts.
"Dad, no! Snap out of it!" The main character of the movie shouts.
The ominous groans of the on-screen zombie create an unsettling atmosphere, and my own imagination starts to play tricks on me.
In a hushed tone, I mutter to myself, "Well, that escalated quickly." The absurdity of the situation clashes with the seriousness of the film, prompting a nervous chuckle. It's a strange mix of tension and amusement, accentuated by the flickering light of the television.
Shaking off the uneasy feeling, I watch as the protagonist on screen, armed with a makeshift weapon and a gun, confronts the zombified version of his father.
"I never thought it would come to this. But I have to do it."
The atmosphere in the movie turns somber, mirroring the conflicting emotions I feel. As the protagonist takes aim, I find myself caught between the fictional world of the film and the reality of my own life.
In a half-joking manner, I comment, "Guess I need to add 'blacksmithing' to my skill set. Just in case." The irony of the statement hangs in the air, making me chuckle at the absurdity of imagining such a scenario.
As the movie progresses, the tension subsides, and I find solace in the familiarity of a cinematic escape.
The sudden sound of a gunshot from the movie startles me, echoing in the quietude of the evening. I glance around the living room, half-expecting to see something out of the ordinary. The movie's suspenseful soundtrack heightens the moment, and for a brief second, I question if reality has blended with fiction.
I mutter to myself, "Maybe I should switch to those comedy specials," attempting to ease the tension that lingered in the air. As the gunshot echoes in the movie, I remind myself that it's just fiction – a movie meant to entertain.
However, the subtle unease remains, prompting me to ponder the unpredictable nature of life and the unexpected turns it can take. With a thoughtful sigh, I decide to continue watching, hoping the movie's plot takes a lighter turn, offering a reprieve from the eerie shadows it had cast in my imagination.
The eerie atmosphere from the movie still lingers in my mind as I make my way to the bathroom. I splash my face with cool water, as if washing away the remnants of the unsettling scenes. The flickering light casts distorted shadows, making the surroundings seem unfamiliar for a moment.
Dryingmy face, I shake off the residual unease. "It's just a movie," I reassure myself, attempting to dispel the lingering spookiness. Heading to my room, I change into comfortable pajamas, ready to put the unsettling thoughts behind me.
Climbing into bed, I glance at the clock – it's later than I thought. The day's events, the return to school, and the movie's unexpected twists create a whirlwind of thoughts. I switch off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
As sleep gradually claims my consciousness, I find solace in the simple routine of everyday life, hoping that the dreams that follow will be far less ominous than the fictional tales on the screen.