Post by Machi Kawamura on Nov 17, 2019 2:06:58 GMT -4
It's a lovely, fall afternoon. Where summer leaves found their orange suits, trees held sturdy against a whispering breeze. Butterflies and their bretheren carried pollen and hope across falling, yellow skies. The orange wings shone well against the stonecutters' work, where all kinds of marble buildings stood tall and proud. The management clearly afforded cleaners, as the likes of dust and dirt were nowhere to be found. A long bridge, extending from district to district, separated a bank and its surrounding firms from a variety of dwellings and storefronts. With its sheen came its people, many of them driving well-maintained vehicles and wearing decent, fitting clothing. Only the occasional pizza scooter dared tarry the atmosphere.
The sun shone equally across Tokyo, but not all of its images were as fancy or piscturesque. In fact, one can ignore the painted paradise, entirely. Picture the matted underside of a marble walk. The power washer had not been paid in quite some time, and the buildup of dark, oily residue proved this. A small stream jutted from the underpass to the short, unguarded sidewalk. A person could barely cross the width of the concrete with both hands before touching the nearby wall.
Picture a tall girl. Ponytail wavering, eyes fixated, turning only every here and then to check for wandering eyes. At this underpass, they likely wouldn't have found anyone; not anyone trying to hide.
Picture her around a red bicycle.
Twitching a wrench between a hubcap and a polyethrene tank.
With a match.
With twine.
With a cloth, covered in grease and grime.
A certain Ms. Kawamura found herself at the edge of a potential adventure. Or a hospital visit.
Was it a wise idea? Shop class taught the woman the dangers of combustion. The wrong temperature could have turned hot ride to hearse drive. That didn't seem to stop her, but the shakiness of the makeshift engine almost certainly was. The "exhausts" were practically carved in, for all intents and purposes. This was as makeshift a vehicle as one could get.
And yet, Machi just had to try it.
The sun shone equally across Tokyo, but not all of its images were as fancy or piscturesque. In fact, one can ignore the painted paradise, entirely. Picture the matted underside of a marble walk. The power washer had not been paid in quite some time, and the buildup of dark, oily residue proved this. A small stream jutted from the underpass to the short, unguarded sidewalk. A person could barely cross the width of the concrete with both hands before touching the nearby wall.
Picture a tall girl. Ponytail wavering, eyes fixated, turning only every here and then to check for wandering eyes. At this underpass, they likely wouldn't have found anyone; not anyone trying to hide.
Picture her around a red bicycle.
Twitching a wrench between a hubcap and a polyethrene tank.
With a match.
With twine.
With a cloth, covered in grease and grime.
A certain Ms. Kawamura found herself at the edge of a potential adventure. Or a hospital visit.
Was it a wise idea? Shop class taught the woman the dangers of combustion. The wrong temperature could have turned hot ride to hearse drive. That didn't seem to stop her, but the shakiness of the makeshift engine almost certainly was. The "exhausts" were practically carved in, for all intents and purposes. This was as makeshift a vehicle as one could get.
And yet, Machi just had to try it.
