Fan Fiction ❯ The One Thing ❯ Chapter 1
[ A - All Readers ]
By: Kouki Takayama 
After listening to my Really Big CD of Pretty Asian Music, I was inspired to write some tale of a samurai torn away from his family and killed with many regrets, but this seemed much more appealing. Short, but slightly depressing.
Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Supernatural | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 12.25.2004 | Pages: 1 | Words: 879 | Visits: 288 | Status: Completed
After listening to my Really Big CD of Pretty Asian Music, I was inspired to write some tale of a samurai torn away from his family and killed with many regrets, but this seemed much more appealing. Short, but slightly depressing.
Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Supernatural | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 12.25.2004 | Pages: 1 | Words: 879 | Visits: 288 | Status: Completed
On the darkest of afternoons the wolves would cry out the story of the lonely demon man to the moon, and the tale leaked out over the village touching the most sensative of ears. But the tale that reached the human ear was not the original story, but that very story mixed with the ominous fog and the dreadful night. The faceless man, believed to be a monster, wandered the streets of all human kind and knew the name of every babe that was born in his presence. And he was everywhere at all times.
A face as dark as the smoke from a man's pipe, he glided over the streets as if he were made of smoke himself and peered longingly into windows, as if he searched for where he belonged and would not rest until he found home again.
"He's been wandering for some time now," an old man croaked as he sat outside his house with his grandaughter at his side. He took a hearty puff of his pipe and thick gray smoke eluded from his lips and mixed with the fog.
"Dad, you shouldn't smoke your pipe so often," his daughter scolded as she poked her head out the door.
"If you're not gonna listen, mind your own business," he ordered sternly, his brow cocked. The young woman sighed and continued her work in the kitchen as her youngest daughter listened intently to the old man. "He wanders around the town like a ghost; forgotten where he is and what he was meant to do. He's a spirit tha' weren't put to rest yet, I think. A spirit lookin' fer somethin'."
The man took another puff of his pipe, his eyes looking as gray and clouded as the smoke. "He's ou' there now. Out in the street." With a quivering hand he pointed out the tall, ghostly man with the stride of one who had died and returned to Earth with no notice. His movements were slow and untrusting, and he walked as if he had been wandering the streets his entire life, searching for what he so wished to possess while his body was turning in his grave.
"Grampa, he's kinda scary lookin'," the girl squeaked, the hairs on her neck standing on end. "What's he looking for?"
"Your old grandpa 'as learned a lot over the years," he rasped with a distant look in his face. "But he knows nothin' about the intentions of ghosts." And with ears so wise and strong, the legend could not reach the old man, but the truth was known by his youngest grandaughter, for her ears were still new and pure.
"I hear he's some kind of monster," a woman would occasionally say to another while gathering food from the market. "I wouldn't be surprised if he attacked us all while we slept."
"Don't talk like that," the other would reply. "Think of the children around here. They must toss and turn in bed thinking of that strange man wandering about."
"He's no man. He can't be a man. He has no face." Then they were certain that he could be no mortal man, for a mortal man would not be a black, unidentifiable shadow. A man would have a face. A recognizable, normal face. One which he would use to send unwritten or unspoken messages to passerby, and tell his wife and children when he is in any sort of anguish. One which he would use to tell the world that he was real and needed love from his family.
One night the youngest girl with the most sensative ears approached he who was not mortal and offered him friendship. He stared down at her with his blank blackness, but from the invisible look he gave her she realized he was indeed a man, but a cursed one. A man who had been deprived of the one thing that proved he was like everyone else. His loving, kind face.
The faceless, kind, cursed man could not accept her friendship, for he could not speak, he could not see, and he could not hear. But sensing that there was another near, he reached out for the girl to touch the very tips of his blackened fingers, and he knew that he did not need the one thing that made him mortal, for he had something else. From the girl there radiated unconditional love and admiration. No matter how cursed he was, he was a kind man, and he was no demon.
A face as dark as the smoke from a man's pipe, he glided over the streets as if he were made of smoke himself and peered longingly into windows, as if he searched for where he belonged and would not rest until he found home again.
"He's been wandering for some time now," an old man croaked as he sat outside his house with his grandaughter at his side. He took a hearty puff of his pipe and thick gray smoke eluded from his lips and mixed with the fog.
"Dad, you shouldn't smoke your pipe so often," his daughter scolded as she poked her head out the door.
"If you're not gonna listen, mind your own business," he ordered sternly, his brow cocked. The young woman sighed and continued her work in the kitchen as her youngest daughter listened intently to the old man. "He wanders around the town like a ghost; forgotten where he is and what he was meant to do. He's a spirit tha' weren't put to rest yet, I think. A spirit lookin' fer somethin'."
The man took another puff of his pipe, his eyes looking as gray and clouded as the smoke. "He's ou' there now. Out in the street." With a quivering hand he pointed out the tall, ghostly man with the stride of one who had died and returned to Earth with no notice. His movements were slow and untrusting, and he walked as if he had been wandering the streets his entire life, searching for what he so wished to possess while his body was turning in his grave.
"Grampa, he's kinda scary lookin'," the girl squeaked, the hairs on her neck standing on end. "What's he looking for?"
"Your old grandpa 'as learned a lot over the years," he rasped with a distant look in his face. "But he knows nothin' about the intentions of ghosts." And with ears so wise and strong, the legend could not reach the old man, but the truth was known by his youngest grandaughter, for her ears were still new and pure.
"I hear he's some kind of monster," a woman would occasionally say to another while gathering food from the market. "I wouldn't be surprised if he attacked us all while we slept."
"Don't talk like that," the other would reply. "Think of the children around here. They must toss and turn in bed thinking of that strange man wandering about."
"He's no man. He can't be a man. He has no face." Then they were certain that he could be no mortal man, for a mortal man would not be a black, unidentifiable shadow. A man would have a face. A recognizable, normal face. One which he would use to send unwritten or unspoken messages to passerby, and tell his wife and children when he is in any sort of anguish. One which he would use to tell the world that he was real and needed love from his family.
One night the youngest girl with the most sensative ears approached he who was not mortal and offered him friendship. He stared down at her with his blank blackness, but from the invisible look he gave her she realized he was indeed a man, but a cursed one. A man who had been deprived of the one thing that proved he was like everyone else. His loving, kind face.
The faceless, kind, cursed man could not accept her friendship, for he could not speak, he could not see, and he could not hear. But sensing that there was another near, he reached out for the girl to touch the very tips of his blackened fingers, and he knew that he did not need the one thing that made him mortal, for he had something else. From the girl there radiated unconditional love and admiration. No matter how cursed he was, he was a kind man, and he was no demon.