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I still have one week till the deadline. Nothing else in the world fosters creativity more than last minute panic.
At least, that’s what Akaashi told himself.
No matter what Akaashi did he couldn’t put pen to paper. More accurately, fingers to keyboard. The moment he sat down to write the blank page chased away all the lyrical prose that grew in his mind throughout the day. Instead of writing he spent his time sitting in front of his laptop, face lit up by the terrifying whiteness of the document and the blinking text cursor waiting to move beyond words. It wasn't that he couldn’t write or that his well of inspiration had been sapped dry. The ideas were right there encased in his skull, overflowing with colours and feelings.
He sighed at the screen.
Maybe he was hungry or dehydrated.
Without basic needs taken care of he couldn’t write. Half an hour later he had cooked the most gourmet omelette he had ever made. Delicately seasoned with a touch of salt and pepper, basil and oregano, it was garnished with a sprinkling of finely diced, crispy bacon and a few sprigs of watercress. A few artistic strokes of tomato relish beautified the plate.
Not two seconds had passed since he grabbed a knife and fork when he realised he wasn’t even hungry in the first place. The rooibos tea he had prepared earlier had also gone cold.
Maybe he couldn’t think because his workplace was cluttered.
He cleaned his room meticulously until everything glowed with cleanliness. The blank screen seemed to glow brighter, glaring at him reproachfully saying, “Why haven’t you written me yet?”
Guilt swarmed in his mind at having written nothing when the deadline was a week away. He had jotted down his ideas and plotted out the story. He even had a few rough drafts, but he hadn’t written a single coherent sentence that felt right. Maybe he should throw the towel in. Maybe now would be a good time to—
Maybe he needed a change in scenery.
A change of scenery to halt this dangerous thought process. He shouldn’t give up. He shouldn’t inconvenience all the staff waiting for him. None of this was like him at all, procrastinating and tip-toeing around his fears.
Nonetheless, he all but sprinted out the door and took a plane to Kitakyushu.
The expense was a bit extreme. In his mind he reasoned, “What else am I supposed to do?”
In a pastel haze of white, lavender, lilac, pink and purple he was caught in the enchantment of the wisteria tunnel in Kawachi Fuji Gardens. His aunt knew the owner. With her help he was allowed into the gardens though it was closed to the public. Blossoms hung down like rain frozen in time. Everywhere he turned it was a floral wonder that perfumed his thoughts with creamy vanilla, honey and a spicy hint of cloves.
He couldn’t see the sky past the thick cloud of flowers above him. A cool breeze tousled his hair. He couldn’t help but close his eyes.
But with the breeze came an unpleasant smell. Musty, bitter, clingy, warm—it stuck out like a sore thumb.
Determined to find the source of the smell Akaashi intended to follow his nose. It wasn’t necessary. By a stroke of luck or misfortune, amongst fallen flowers were a number of crushed cigarette butts.
Whoever this was would be in for one hell of a fine. Maybe a lifetime ban from the Gardens. More importantly, who was this person? It had to be someone the owner had some kind of connection to. If that’s the case they should know the owner was not fond of smoking or littering.
Following the pungent trail he bent down to pick up every cigarette butt.
At the end of the trail he found...
A man? A woman? A beautiful person was chain smoking away beneath the wisteria blossoms in full bloom. The dying cigarette had barely fallen from their fingers before a fresh one was pressed between their lips. Their ears glittered with piercings. Where their ears weren’t pierced ear cuffs dripped with fine chains. Gold hair with dark roots flowed to their waist. Half of it was done up in a messy bun. Black and charcoal fabric fluttered about like dark wings. They seemed to be wearing some kind of dress, but there was nothing feminine about it. They wore boots glinting with half a dozen zips and buckles, too. There was nothing masculine about them either.
Akaashi blatantly stared at them. The person looked like they stepped out of a smouldering apocalyptic wasteland into perfumed paradise lush with life.
They stared back for a moment before flicking their gaze towards his handful of spent cigarettes.
“You shouldn’t smoke here,” Akaashi began, still unsure whether to end the sentence with sir or madam.
They averted their eyes with a small frown. Releasing a puff of smoke they replied quietly, “I know.” Smoke curled around their face. It smelled like guilt, like they didn’t want to smoke in the first place.
Akaashi was mesmerised. They weren’t like anyone he had ever met before. “Why do you smoke, then?”
“My career is ending. What else am I supposed to do?” They stared at the ground as stress lines wrinkled their forehead. “I’m a fashion designer, you see. I just wanted to make clothes I wanted to wear. If other people were into them that’s a great side effect, I guess. They loved it. For the past five years people loved the things I designed.” They paused for breath. Their voice was a monotone, but the speed at which words tumbled from their lips increased. “All this attention, all these expectations—it’s overwhelming and exhausting. I want to stop, but I can’t. I actually like my job.” With a frustrated click and a sudden flame they lit up another cigarette. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Expectations are terrifying,” Akaashi agreed. “I’m writing my first novel. I never thought I’d be paid to write. It was just something I liked to do in my spare time, but here I am, trying to write. Everyone is expecting me to come up with something amazing. I thought it would be like writing for fun. I was wrong. I’m terrified of letting my readers down, especially now that they have to pay to read what I write.”
It felt good to let everything out. Maybe he was lucky to find this person was smoking. Who else could he confide in with his fears aside from a stranger? His friends and family would tell him they believed in him, which only made the pressure more tangible.
“Why don't you give up?” They gave him a cheeky smile. “You know, Stop before you start. ”
Did they just reference an anti-smoking ad? Akaashi blinked owlishly at them. “I don't want to give up without trying it at least once.”
“There’s your answer.” Black-and-gold hair slipped over their shoulder as they glanced at him. “If you can’t think of anything you can go home and write about the pathetic little man in the wisteria tunnel.”
They left Akaashi with a fistful of burnt out cigarettes.
+
A few days before the deadline Akaashi couldn’t get that beautiful stranger out of his head. He wished he asked for their name. All he had were impressions, curiosity, flowers and smoke. Memories swirled together and out of the aether a whole new world crystallised before him.
In a flash of courage he deleted every word he had written. Brave or stupid? He didn’t care.
He closed his eyes and opened them with a slow exhale. Eyes sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel, his fingers flew across the keyboard with precision. Thoughts flowed like blood into words.
+
Two years later Akaashi stared up at clouds of purple, white and pink again. The flowers were just as beautiful as last time. Smoke wasn’t mixed with their perfume, so of course he was surprised when someone called out to him, “Mr. Author.”
The beautiful stranger still had the same black-and-gold hair braided to resemble roses. Instead of smoking they smiled softly. Flowing fabric and fine tassels draped over their body in peacock-green, white-and-blue stripes, and dashes of ruby-red.
Akaashi wordlessly handed them the book. It seemed their fashion career was going well.
Upon opening the book they laughed, enamelled bells on their ears tinkling.
Dedicated to “the pathetic little man in the wisteria tunnel”. Please, think of a better name when you meet strangers.
“You’re a writer. You could have named me something else with your creativity.” They stuck out their hand. “Kozume Kenma.”
He grinned. “Akaashi Keiji.”
“I can see that. It’s on the cover.” Kozume squeezed his hand. When they let go Akaashi found a crumpled piece of paper in his hand with numbers scrawled on it.
“That’s a bit old fashioned,” he said casually, fetching his phone.
Kozume’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Just give me your number.”