[Week 9] Storytelling - Atungait's Visit

Author’s Note: The story of Atungait left the biggest impression on me. Not because it was profound or especially beautiful in some way, but because this guy just ran into a village of disabled people and stole their toy for apparently no reason. No explanation was given. He did nothing with the toy in the story. I’m so confused. So I decided to attempt to write from the perspective of one of the villagers. For your reference, here is the explanation provided for ajangat: "a game played with rings and a stick; the 'ring and pin game.'"

(Inuit artwork from Wikimedia Commons)

We were surprised to get a visit from Atungait and his wife. Happy, even! Not many people would choose to spend time with a village of disabled folk. We are seen as the lesser people in society, so it’s rare to have able-bodied visitors. What we thought was a blessing turned out to be a disaster.

Atungait and his wife generally kept to themselves. They would come out of their tent for a bit when we all played ajangat. Atungait would stare at our ajangat with hunger in his eyes. Strange that he would be so obsessed with our toy, but I suppose it was very beautiful. As we’re all disabled, there is nothing we can do all day but play ajangat. Our ajangat means everything to us, and the copper one we have now is the village treasure. We have plenty of food and plenty of fur to keep us warm, yes. But without amusement life is dull, so although it is just a toy our ajangat means a lot to us.

One day while we were playing, Atungait stood to the side watching again with that look in his eyes. It made me uncomfortable. I told one of my friends about the way he looked at it. Instead of being worried, my friend became excited. He was proud that such a fine, able-bodied warrior would admire our treasure. I tried to tell others but they all had the same reaction. And so I gave up on my warnings and the game carried on.

We were all outside playing ajangat (as ususal) when we heard loud cracking sounds. We went off in a hurry to find the source of the noise, leaving the copper ajangat on the ground. Atungait was standing surrounded by the remains of our broken sledges with a hammer in his hand. He had destroyed our sledges! Upon seeing us, he immediately ran in the direction we had just come from. We followed and saw him snatch up our copper ajangat before jumping on to his own sledge and riding off into the distance. Many tried to follow, but to no avail. Our treasure, our only form of entertainment, was taken away from us.

Eskimo Folk-Tales by Knud Rasmussen with illustrations by native Eskimo artists (1921).

[Week 7] Storytelling - Hase-Hime's Letter

Author's Note: This story is based off of the story of Hase-Hime in the Japanese Fairy Tales (Ozaki) unit. It's about a princess who is abused by her jealous step-mother after her real mother dies. At one point, the step-mother tries to have a servant kill Hase-Hime but instead the servant runs away with her and his wife and lives in the mountains with them until Hase-Hime's father finds her. I decided to write this story from Hase-Hime's perspective at that point in the story because I like to think that she wasn't oblivious enough to not think about these things while away from home. The biggest change is that in the original story, Hase-Hime doesn't actually seem to realize the wine her brother drank was poisoned.

(Japanese mountains from Pixbay)

Dear Father,

                I have no way of having this letter sent to you, but there are some things on my mind that I need to at least get out on paper. Maybe I will give this letter to you when we are reunited. I’m not sure yet.

                Before her death, mother told me to always be an obedient child. She told me to be submissive of my elders and kind to those less fortunate than I, and to always behave. I think that she was very wise to teach me this, and I have tried as hard as possible to follow these rules. But there are some cases in which an elder may not deserve such nice treatment. For example, what if an elderly woman tripped a child for no reason and laughed at him as he cried? Or what if I had an older brother who would always bully me and never let me have peace? In the past I have been a good girl in these kinds of situations. I would keep silent and take whatever was dealt to me. I’m beginning to think that I should stop. Mother wouldn’t have wished for me to be treated badly, right?

                You are a good and kind man, so I don’t think you would allow harm to come to me on purpose. You have shown me nothing but love and I have no reason to distrust you. But I can’t imagine what drew your new wife. Do you not see how cruel she can be? She becomes enraged with jealous at every little accomplishment I make. Remember when my little brother died? I saw the egotistical smirk on her face when she brought the wine into the room, and the panic in her eyes when our cups were switched around. I am very sure that she had poisoned the wine and was trying to kill me that day.

                And now, I am living with step-mother’s servant and his wife in the middle of nowhere. Why? Because he was asked to take me away and kill me because I had behaved “badly.” In truth, I did nothing but succeed and make her jealous. Is that so bad? I hope that I will be able to discuss this with you upon being reunited. I just haven’t had the confidence to do so until now, and I’m not sure I will later.

Love,

Your Daughter Hase-Hime

Japanese Fairy Tales by Yei Theodora Ozaki (1908).

[Week 6] Storytelling - The Sparrow's Revenge

Author's Note: This is the story of the Sparrow with the Split Tongue as told from the point of view of the sparrow. The original story is basically the same, except it focuses on the old man. I thought it was a really sweet story (although the ending is pretty grim) so I wanted to see what I could do with it. 

(Drawing of a sparrow by StevenWorthey on Deviantart)

I soared through a thick canopy of trees, just barely grazing my feathers on the branches. I hoped I could throw off the raven who flew close behind, as I know he wasn’t after me for a friendly conversation. And he looked like he would take great pleasure in tearing me apart. Either I wasn’t quite as agile in my sparrow form as I thought, or the raven was incredibly fast and graceful. Probably the former. I hadn’t taken to flight in such a long time and now I was remembering why. Humans are easier to reason with than hungry ravens!

I was beginning to lose hope when I caught sight of an old man in front of his cottage. Forgetting I couldn’t speak as a sparrow, I tried to cry out for help while I approached him but all that came out of my beak was a screech. But it was enough and the man offered to shelter me within his hands. I was happy for the chance at refuge and glided myself into them. The man may have been old, but he was certainly not lacking in compassion or energy. He stomped and yelled at the crow until it gave up on its chase and then he took me into his house and put me in a little cage.

Having never been kept as a pet before, I found the confines of the cage to be stifling. If someone had told me before that I would be taken away from my complete freedom to live in a small enclosure, I would have scoffed at them. But it was hard to not feel like a princess with the treatment I received from the old man. Sure, I had a limited amount of space to move around in, but being in a cage inside of a house meant no nasty ravens would be eating me! And the food the man gave me tasted better than anything I could have ever found for myself in a market or the forest. I was let out every day to spread my wings and get some fresh air, and immediately allowed back inside when I was done or being chased. The old man and I formed an odd friendship, one without language or much of anything that usually goes into friendships, really. But he found peace in helping me and I enjoyed my worry-free life, and we enjoyed each other’s presence very much.

The man’s wife, however, was a different story. When she tore into my cage the moment the man left to run errands, I wasn’t surprised. I knew that she was an irrational enough woman to become jealous of a pet, and I assumed I would be fast enough to fly away from her if she tried to harm me. I was able to dodge her hands and get myself out of the cage before she could grab me, but the old woman was smarter than she looked and managed to trap me into a corner. At that moment, I was sure she would kill me. For whatever reason she instead chose to pry open my beak and slit my tongue. The pain was blinding. Before I knew it, I was fleeing to my old home in the bamboo thicket cowering in my bed in my human form. I needed my friend’s comfort but I didn’t dare return to his home to face his wife.

A few days passed and I got over the trauma enough to leave my house. Pushing my door open, I was shocked to find the old man standing in front of my house looking around puzzled. I excitedly explained to him that I was his friend the sparrow and made him come inside to visit. Hours later he stood up reluctantly, saying he needed to take his leave. Probably because he didn’t want his wife to split his tongue too. Before he left, I gave him the choice between two chests: a smaller, modest chest and a larger, fancier chest. Being a selfless man, I wasn’t surprised when my friend took the smaller chest. He would find it filled with expensive jewels and small treasures when he opened it, and I hoped it would serve as a good thank you present.

I thought that was the end of my troubles with the man’s wife, but one day she showed up at my door fuming and boastful. I was caught off guard when she pushed past me and marched into my house, demanding to be entertained. I was scared and confused, but then I remembered the trick I always had prepared for visitors such as this one. After a bit of pretend-entertaining, I told the woman she needed to leave. As I expected, she demanded a present. I didn’t hesitate when I offered her the same boxes I offered her husband. I knew she would take the larger chest, as those who are greedy and ill-of-heart tend to do. I laughed to myself as she hauled the heavy box out of my house and into the forest. She would not find treasures inside the box, but poisonous snakes that would attack her the moment she opened it. No man would regret her loss, and my friend and I could once again live our happy lives.

The Pink Fairy Book by Andrew Lang and illustrated by H. J. Ford (1897).

[Week 5] Storytelling - What Happened in the Well

Author's Note: I had trouble getting inspiration from the Turkish Tales unit, so I decided to try to rewrite a bit of The Imp of the Well from the wife's perspective. For those of you who haven't read it, the story begins with a man being followed by his wife after he tries to hide some money from her to buy himself a rope. The wife is unhappy and follows after and ends up falling into a well. The man tries to save her by dropping a rope down but he ends up pulling up the imp instead. 

(Illustration by Willy Pogany)

                A rope? A rope?! All of this happened because he wanted to buy a stupid rope?! I’m sitting at the bottom of a well, arguing with an imp, because my good-for-nothing husband was hiding money from me to buy a rope. Thankfully the imp keeps this place stocked like a normal home. There’s a kitchen of sorts with enough produce and salt to make a decent meal. A little bed made out of straw, and a shelf full of junk displayed like knick-knacks. How he got these things, I don’t know. Seeing as how I managed to trip into this well, I wouldn’t be surprised if people’s possessions fall in here all the time.

                You may be wondering why I’m arguing with an imp. Well, I did happen to land on him when I fell into the well. He’s fine, though, I barely hit him. Just crushed him a little bit. With my entire body. So he’s a little bit upset about that. But that wasn’t even my fault, it was my idiot husband’s fault. I also told him I’d cook up the veggies he’s been collecting down here for a nice dinner. He seemed appeased until he actually ate my delicious masterpiece of a soup. Complained that it’s too salty. Rude little shriveled up creature. We’ll see if I use any salt next time. He’s just like that husband of mine. Who, by the way, has yet to show that he even cares that his lovely wife is stuck at the bottom of a well with a terrible, hideous beast.

                Oh! A rope fell right before my very eyes from the opening of the well. I could faintly hear my husband shouting for me to grab hold of the rope. He didn’t forget me! He’s not entirely useless, I suppose! I try reaching for the dangling life-saver, but the imp slaps my hand away.

                “You crushed me, you used all of my food to make a disgusting, salty soup, and you think you deserve this chance at freedom?! I don’t think so. You’re just a miserable old hag, anyway.” The imp screamed at me as he got his grubby little fingers around the rope.

                I grabbed his entire body and threw him to the floor. “That’s my husband up there calling for me, not you! I’m a young, beautiful, talented maiden who doesn’t deserve to be trapped in a dark, dank, hellhole like this!”

                I must say my one and only flaw is my fiery temper. That’s what drew my husband to me in the first place, I think. Nobody can resist such a rebellious, independent woman. I would never even have thought of it as a flaw before, had this very interaction with the imp not taken place. I squeezed my eyes shut and stomped my feet while I ranted and raved at the little thing. When I finally open my eyes and took in my surroundings, all I saw was the faint figure of the imp being pulled up by the rope to freedom. Oops.

Forty-four Turkish Fairy Tales by Ignacz Kunos, with illustrations by Willy Pogany (1913).

[Week 4] Storytelling - The Long-Lost Sister

Author's Note: This story is based on The Wolf Aunt from the Persian Tales unit. Basically, it's about a poor man who meets a woman claiming to be his sister. His wife and her daughter find out the woman is actually a man-eating wolf, but he doesn't believe them. They leave without him and he's eventually eaten. I've modernized it and written it out as diary entries from the wife that are left for the husband to find. If he's alive, that is.

(diary image from anyvanille on flickr)

June 19^th, 2014

                My husband thinks he may have found his long-lost sister. She’s been missing for twenty years… Why would she just appear out of nowhere? We’ve been searching for so long, and yet she’s been in this town the whole time? We just moved here last year. This doesn’t make sense. I can’t trust a woman who just approaches James on the street like that. She probably knows he’s vulnerable and is just taking advantage of him. He’s asleep now so I’ll talk to him about how worried I am tomorrow.

June 20^th, 2014

                I woke up to an empty bed. James had left early this morning. He left a note on the fridge door saying he was off to meet with that so-called sister of his. I made the kids ramen noodles for breakfast (again…) and then did my usual job hunting until noon. Little Marie asked me why daddy has been acting so funny lately. I explained to her that daddy may have gotten some good news. I didn’t mention what kind, though. She seemed satisfied enough. She is only 6, after all.

                It’s nearly 1am and James still isn’t back. I don’t think I can stay awake much longer so I’ll just have to talk to him tomorrow.

June 21^st, 2014

                James woke me up excitedly this morning. I didn’t even have time to ask him where he was all night because he dragged me out of bed to help him prepare for tomorrow evening. He said his sister would be over and he wanted to treat her to something nice. We don’t have much money, but I took a couple of the girls shopping with me and we got ingredients for steak. I also picked up a little gift for my dear sister-in-law. I hope she likes magnets with sarcastic sayings on them. They were on clearance.

                So, we spent the whole night cleaning and I once again didn’t get to talk to James. I swear it’s like the universe is trying to keep me away from him right now. But seriously, he’s acting crazy. I need to talk to him soon.

June 22^nd, 2014

                Well, today sucked. I’m not sure “sucked” is really the right word, though. Today was miserable, surreal, terrifying… lots of things. The “sister” got here at 2pm. Much earlier than I expected. The girls and I were still in the kitchen cooking so it was kind of awkward having her wait in the living room. And James couldn’t entertain her because he had decided to go out and buy flowers at the last minute. So as some kind of sign of peace I gave Marie the magnets and told her to go give them to the lady in the living room and to comeback immediately after.

                I’m not sure how to explain this next part. Even in my head everything is so jumbled up. Basically… Marie headed toward the door to the living room with the magnets. I got kind of paranoid and stopped cooking long enough just to follow her and make sure that creepy chick didn’t try anything. Marie opened the door just a little bit (she’s pretty shy) and we could see the “sister.” She was sitting there on the couch polishing a gun. I guess she had been keeping it in her bag. I yanked Marie back inside and sent all the girls into the backyard. Just for a little while. To play, I told them. Marie wouldn’t leave my side, though. She was scared. We sat in the kitchen and talked until James got back.

Now, I know very little about guns but I do know a real gun when I see one. But James says it was probably just a toy. He’s lost his mind. He didn’t even care! I had the girls eat their dinner upstairs. James and I sat with the woman at the table. It was weird. I don’t like her. I don’t know what I’m going to do.

June 23^rd, 2014

                Couldn’t sleep last night. “Sister” is coming over again today. I can’t do this anymore. I’m taking the kids and leaving. I told James and he seems to think he’ll eventually prove to me that she’s fine. But I have such a bad feeling about this. I’ll leave my diary here. James, I know you like puzzles. 57 65 27 72 65 20 77 69 74 68 20 6d 79 20 6d 6f 6d 2e 20 4c 6f 76 65 20 79 6f 75 2e 


Persian Tales, translated by D.L.R. Lorimer and E.O. Lorimer and illustrated by Hilda Roberts (1919).

[Week 3] Storytelling - Sara and Mahaffey

Author’s Note: This story is based off of Arachne and Minerva from the Ovid II. As I’ve been doing all along, I wanted to make the story lightly more realistic. In the original, Arachne refuses to praise Minerva unless she can beat her in a weaving competition. Tragically, Arachne ends up hanging herself and turning into a spider. So instead, there is a competition in my story but the girl who is based off of Arachne (Sara), leaves in a less dark, metaphorical sense. That is, she leaves her class instead of killing herself.

I was inspired to write this about a teacher and a student because I feel like one of the most unfortunate things that can happen to young people is for them to have to deal with a bad teacher. And of course, I picked Japanese because it's my second language! I do want to say, though, that I generally love my teachers! Truly terrible teachers are rather rare in my experience. But I think that in such situations, it’s important to fight for your education.

---

(Photo of Japanese writing system by mkhail on Flickr)

                It was Sara’s first day of college, and of all her classes she looked forward to Japanese the most.  She had studied the language by herself for four years and was excited for the chance to be properly taught and tested. Unfortunately, it was only fifteen minutes into the class and Sara knew she wouldn’t be able to tolerate her teacher.

                Because she studied so hard, Sara managed to test out of the first year of Japanese classes at the university. The second year classes seemed a bit easy, but she wanted to make sure she didn’t miss any important content. The teacher for this second year Japanese class was a woman named Angela Mahaffey, and she was also new to the school. While many of the students were disappointed that they would be learning from a non-Native speaker, Sara was excited to be taught by someone who would be more empathetic to the students since she would know about the difficulties of the language.  This optimism was quickly snuffed when Mahaffey sensei’s(teacher) true nature was revealed.

                “First of all, I expect all of you two obey me one hundred percent.” said the teacher. “There will be times when you have questions. You’ll wonder why some aspect of the language works the way I told you. Well, the key for this class is not to question me. Just know that everything I say is right. If you do question me, I’ll annoyed. And if you annoy me then I’ll kick you out. Simple as that.”

                Sara, who had picked a seat at the front of the class, scoffed loudly. This teacher had to be joking, right? Nobody could possibly be like this, much less a teacher.

                Mahaffey’s head immediately snapped to Sara. “Find something funny, girl?” she asked with a sneer.

                “Before you demand that the class obey you unconditionally, you should prove that you’re really so good at Japanese. If you are, then I promise to do as you’ve said. If not, you should probably rethink your attitude.” Sara replied with unwavering confidence. “As the word suggests, a teacher’s job is to teach. Not to intimidate students into submissiveness. So, go ahead. Let’s see if you speak better Japanese than I do.”

                Mahaffey was not amused. “Really? You think you speak better Japanese than your sensei?” She then began to insult and berate Sara in Japanese. Her accent, while not terrible, was not good enough to set an example for the students. But compared to her use of vocabulary and grammatical structures, her accent was heavenly. Mahaffey stumbled her way through her curses, awkwardly combining the wrong forms until she said something equivalent to, “a cow the mother of you student are being,” rather than the intended insult.

                Sara was appalled but slightly amused. How did this woman get a job teaching Japanese?

                “Well, good. Thank you for telling me not to trust anything you say.” She said with a smile as she packed her bag to leave. “I think people in power need to take more responsibility than they sometimes realize. And you are definitely one of those people.” And with that, Sara left the classroom.

                 It was later discovered on Angela Mahaffey’s Rate My Professor page that she was a notoriously bad teacher. She had jumped around from school to school, filling in positions where Japanese teachers were desperately needed and somehow lying about her skill level. Sara and other students complained to the head of the Japanese department, and Mahaffey was eventually relieved of her position. 

Ovid's Metamorphoses, translated by Tony Kline (2000)

[week 2] Storytelling: The Man Behind the Mask

Author’s note: The following is loosely based on the story of Cupid and Psyche. I’ve never written anything even vaguely romantic before but I wanted to get out of my comfort zone a bit. I decided to go modern and also trade Psyche’s psychical beauty for a beautiful personality and Cupid’s godliness for musical talent. The fantasy elements have been taken out since I wanted to touch on how their meeting might have occurred under more “ideal” and modern circumstances, while keeping the whole, “I don’t really know you but I love you!” thing. It was definitely a challenge for me to fit everything I want in to write into less than 1000 words, but I hope my main point gets across!

(Cupid and Psyche: Wikimedia Commons)

The Man Behind the Mask

                She had never heard the voice of a god, but she knew if she did it would sound like this. The lilt of Cupid’s baritone voice drifted through the speakers, putting Psyche into a trance while she prepared for work. She had been obsessed with the musician from the moment he made his debut. The mask concealing his identity did nothing to muffle the sweet siren song from escaping his lips, and she knew right away that she had fallen for him with a strength not usually found in silly celebrity crushes. True to his pseudonym, Cupid had struck Psyche with his arrow.

                Psyche — who preferred this nickname to her real name Penelope — devoted her life to helping others. As a nurse, she played an important role in giving aid and saving lives. From women bringing life into the world to men taking their last breathes, Psyche had experienced every facet of joy and sorrow that came along with her job, and she wouldn't trade it for anything. She was praised for her passion and selflessness. Friends, family, and strangers constantly came to her for advice. While she loved helping them, her work and her frequent unofficial counselling sessions left Psyche with little time for herself. She told herself her life was great and she had what she wanted, she was useful. But nobody ever took the time out to get to know the real Psyche or help her when she needed advice. Deep down inside of her lived a nagging loneliness, one that only lifted when she heard a certain masked musician’s voice.

                It was a particularly slow night at work, so Psyche made herself busy attending to a young man who was recovering from surgery. His parents had stayed with him for the whole week. They were fortunate to have flexible jobs in the music industry that allowed them to decide their own schedules.  The parents would ask Psyche about her life every time she walked in to check on her patient. She had told them nearly everything: her hopes and dreams, her favorite book, and even hinted at her love for Cupid. That night, instead of asking more questions, the parents had a surprise for her. To thank her for taking care of their son, the couple presented Psyche with a concert ticket to see Cupid. She was floored. And she almost passed out when she heard the words “backstage pass.”

(Keane in concert: Geograph)

                Four months passed, and it was now the night that Psyche had been waiting for with a nearly debilitating mix of excitement and anxiety. She thought her emotions would settle after the concert, but standing in the room meant to entertain her favorite musician and his band was overwhelming. And when he walked into the room her emotions swelled to such heights that she was sure this was a sign of her impending death. But she didn't die. Rather, she stood with her mouth open, gaping at the confused masked man who hadn't been told of this visitor. Collecting himself, Cupid invited the girl to sit with him. They talked for hours and he was instantly attracted to her beautiful personality. He knew he needed her in his life.

                Cellphone numbers were traded and Cupid and Psyche’s relationship began to bloom. They chatted primarily through text and phone calls, and although she had yet to see his face, Psyche learned more about Cupid than anyone else would ever know. His real name was Christopher, but he had taken on his childhood nickname as his musical persona since it sounded catchier. He grew up in a strict household where he was molded into a child prodigy. His musical training stuck with him through the years, and that’s how he got into the entertainment business. He decided to use a mask to conceal his identity in attempt to keep some semblance of privacy in his life. Cupid told Psyche about his beautiful but often irrational mother whose love life, he thought, should have a novel dedicated to it. He worried that upon meeting, she would put Psyche to impossible tests to prove her love for him since his mom had a habit of trying to bring down other women who she thought were getting more attention than she was.

                Psyche asked for permission to tell her two best friends that they were dating. They were like sisters to her, and she hated to keep such important secrets from them. Cupid reluctantly gave her permission, but asked her not to indulge too much if they asked for details about his life and appearance. She agreed and enthusiastically told her friends the story of how she met one of the world’s most famous musicians. When asked for details, she made up a story about his life and the girls believed her. But they were extremely jealous that their friend managed to catch such a rich and famous man while they were stuck dating men who couldn’t even find a proper job. After much prying, Psyche admitted that she didn’t know what her boyfriend looked like. It had never bothered her before, but she began to feel uneasy when her friends started coming up with stories of how disfigured he must be.

It was his voice that originally attracted Psyche to Cupid. She liked to think that any disfigurement wouldn't be a problem, but now she needed to know. She discussed the issue with Cupid and he decided he trusted her enough to confide in her his identity. They met at his place and when Cupid took off his mask to reveal the handsome young man underneath, Psyche thought nothing could ever get in the way of their love. But then his mother arrived at the door.

The End.

Apuleius's Golden Ass translated by Tony Kline (2013).

[Week 1] Storytelling: The Ant and the Dove

It was half past noon in Tokyo, and Narita airport was as bustling as ever. A frantic-looking Japanese business man pushed his way through the crowds of fellow countrymen and foreign visitors blocking his way to the exit. His flight had arrived in Japan late and he had exactly fifteen minutes until the bus would arrive and take him to his workplace. The man wanted nothing more than to go home and be with his family, but a very important business meeting would take place at two that afternoon.

"Fifteen minutes until the bus arrives. Then an hour and twenty minutes on the bus. I'm not going to make it. This is bad. This is very bad." He worried to himself.

(Narita Airport: Wikimedia Commons)

Needless to say, the man was stressed. And it didn't help that he had at the bus stop just in time to see an obviously foreign woman struggling to communicate with a taxi driver. The woman seemed to speak a bit of Japanese, but the taxi driver spoke in such a quiet, mumbling voice that it was difficult for even native speakers of the language to understand him. The woman's obvious distress triggered something in the business man. He remembered the times he went abroad and had trouble communicating due to a language barrier. There was nobody there to help him then, and now he was faced with the opportunity to help someone in a way that he had so desperately needed back then.

Just as the business man made his way to the foreign woman to help her, he saw his bus pull in to the station. He was torn between the two. Should he catch the bus and ignore the woman, or help the woman and risk missing his bus? He reckoned that because the bus had just arrived, it would sit at the stop for a few minutes waiting for passengers. In the meantime, he would help the woman.

(Taxi in Tokyo: Wikimedia Commons)

It took five minutes to explain to the taxi driver where the foreign woman needed to go. By the time they were finished the bus had already pulled away and the business man cursed to himself. The woman saw him watch the bus anxiously and put her hand on his shoulder.

"You were very kind and I would like to repay you," she said. "Where are you going? I'll give you money for a taxi."

The business man explained to the foreign woman that he was on his way to a very important business meeting in the heart of Tokyo. They continued to chat and realized they were both going to the same place for the same meeting! They both climbed into the taxi and set off to the city center. The business man was glad that he stopped to help the foreign woman. Not only did he get to help someone in need, but she in turn helped him as well. That day he realized a kindness is never wasted.

Author's Note: This story is based on Aesop's story The Ant and the Dove. I wanted to personify the characters and make the situation seem more realistic (and less life threatening). I haven't had to write stories since middle school so I'm really out of practice! I'm hoping this class will help me figure out how to be more creative with my writing. 

The Ant and the Dove by Aesop (2006). Web Source: Project Gutenberg.