This was one of the first short stories I ever wrote.


A lone cherry blossom tree sat comfortably on a green-carpeted, gently sloped hilltop. From the weeping branches, fuchsia pink petals were stolen by the late autumn breeze and drifted with a carefree abandon, all the while perfuming the damp air with an intense red rose fragrance, enticing the image of passionate kisses of a late night romance.
Bees hummed, bobbing itinerants suckling the sweet nectar from tiny flowers peeking through the pasture as ants prepared for the upcoming winter. As sparse clouds lazily danced towards an unknown location, they lightly drizzled drops that sparkle like pear-shaped diamonds in the late afternoon sun, the dewy shades of pinks, reds, purples and oranges of the sky reflecting off  them.
A samurai walked over the hill. His red kimono was flowing gently in the breeze as his long jet-black hair caressed his face as if trying to take away the pain etched on his scarred face. His wary eyes scanned the surrounding environment and his war-ravaged mind  was somewhat soothed by the scene. He stood still, letting the atmosphere take over his soul, letting the sound of the wind travelling through the grass console his heart and mind, driving out the cries of the injured and dying. The scents of the cherry blossoms and the afternoon rain forced the scent of blood from his lungs; he breathed deep, taking it in. He could almost taste the purity of this hilltop, not devastated by war; he could feel the peace seep into his core, a lavender coloured lake of serenity, washing over every crack and crevice, purging him of the acts he committed in the name of justice and the peace for his village, which sat undisturbed below the hill. He stood there for who knows how long; minutes, hours, eternity, taking it all in, trying to leave the sins of battle behind. Trying to cleanse the images away.
The picture of his family flashed through his mind: his fragile, delicate wife with a heart filled with courage and bravery and his sweet and innocent son and daughter. They were the reason he fought this meaningless war; the reason that he still lives. To keep them safe, he would do any and everything.
He opened his piercing hazel eyes slowly and looked down on his village. Feeling the pull of home, this battle-scarred soldier took his first step; then the second; the third, his sword forgotten on his hip. A smile briefly touched his lip as a pink petal drifted by.
He had finally come home.

Here's a short poem. Enjoy!!

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