______________________________________________________________________________________________
The Hope of a Thousand Paper Cranes
Written by Arkkwolf
______________________________________________________________________________________________
The unfathomable losses formed from the depth of Karakuran history cannot be summarized in a mere moment. The conflict, corruption, betrayal, and death is deeply scarred into the eyes of its citizens. Yet there lives one narrative, that carries a reminder of the good that dwells within those who reside there. It comes from the dark suffering of the Karakuran people, in a time not all that distant from the present day. Though as time has taken its toll, as the island has descended into division, the tale has been buried, replaced with a looming dread that has not ceased to this day. If for nothing else but to inspire hope into the hopeless, and bring peace upon the mourner, the faded memory deserves to be reminisced upon once more.
. . .
It begins with one of the most violent tragedies burned into Japanese history, the second world war. In which Karakura was dealt a heavy handed blow. Droves of its people were ripped from the loving arms of their families, far too many unable to return from the call of duty. As those at home mourned the losses of their sons and daughters, their suffering was far from at an end. The city was in uproar, terrorized by their losses and uncontainable rage, as neighbor turned against neighbor. Many wept during this time, their heads bowed in hopeless pleas to the gods they had entrusted their salvation to. As the war continued, with the mainland encompassed in ruin, Karakuran morale waned. A bitterness formed in its wake, the effects of which are still felt today.
For a time, the war felt far off, a distant memory, racked by blurry faces. Ghosts wandered the streets, unacknowledged by those who had seen them leave with packed bags. But the conflict would become very real to Karakuran citizens in time, turning forests into ash, bringing men to their knees, and forcing voices to cry out in agony. There were three bombs that were dropped over Karakura during the span of the war. The first of which was located near the Masahiko palace, in 1941. The second, the center of Karakura in 1943, and the final, later that year upon the Kaiga coast. Although the accounts of injured and dead lie buried in governmental records, one of the most prominent movements that came from this tragedy cannot be accurately recounted in any legal document. Only from the lips of those who witnessed the event, can its truly remarkable and profound message be understood.
The rubble of the second bomb, at Karakura’s center, decimated the hope for a better tomorrow. The lifeless were buried one after another. Many onlookers fell silent, tears streaking their exhausted faces. One of these broken people, a mother, fell to her knees, as her beloved daughter was laid to rest. The child’s father turned away, his face blank and his mind numb. The only thought weakly dragging on in his head: “Why have the gods punished me so?”
As the father attempted to save face, for he was of a well respected Itsbyoshi family, those of poor lineage mourned just as heavily beside him. It was at this moment he realized how unimportant a legacy was in the wake of tragedy, suffering did not discriminate, it simply rampaged. He finally dropped to his knees and wept as the casket of his child was buried in the earth. Another gentleman beside the father, with tattered clothing, dried by blood, staggered out through heavy sobs, about the loss of his three sons. The well respected man, Murasaki Kaeda, placed a hand on the poor gentleman's shoulder, and they wept openly together. Putting aside who they were before the tragedy, they were now nothing more than equally flawed humans. Each paying the price of the selfish human desire to be the victor of the war. Murasaki showed vulnerability to many that day, in spite of the adversity that had caused the war, the wounds bound a diverse array of Karakurans together. For what else could someone do in the midst of such a violent loss, less than succumb to bitterness?
. . .
The following days passed with the stalemate air of feelings far too impossible to grasp. Yet the names of those who had died could not be allowed to become taboo in the passing of conversation. Murasaki was unnerved by the idea his daughter’s memory might be thrown under the rug. It would prevent the acknowledgment of the war and its many open wounds but at what moral cost? This question raised inquiry by many of the weary town. Such an attitude towards these phantom losses, was nothing more than a mask that could be split in two with a mere mention of the bodies buried. It could not be left alone to rot and fester like an open wound. Something had to be done.
As word surfaced throughout the broken city, those of many standings conversed with one another about what was to come. Murasaki took the opportunity to mourn openly with many, who had become self appointed brothers and sisters in the wake of such a tragedy. They shared prayers, dined despite sorrow, and partook in the company of each other. Those who had never imagined they might share some commonality, found social standing made no difference, the human experience was far from adequate. Slowly, the people rose from the war’s horrid outcome, determined to gain relief from the building conflict that bound them in fear for so long. As days passed and as Karakurans grew desperate to express such feelings, a decision was reached.
. . .
On August 1st, 1943, a memorial was held, endorsed by several Itsbyoshi families, though in that moment, all attendees were the same, coming together, none with greater standing than the other, simply experiencing the pain as one unified city. Although the memorial recognized many losses of the war, the face that festered most in the minds of visitors was that of Saisei Kaeda, Murasaki’s beloved daughter. They had come to honor her memory after her father had shared a moment of grief with them. The bonds of loss were great, after all no man who lived within Karakura had been untouched by the war. Despite such heartache, Saisei’s memory became a reminder of how short life could be, how quickly the tides of war could turn, and how important it was to hold each moment close to the heart.
As Karakurans gathered around an iridescent pool, those of rich and poor standing, of young and old age, joined together in the folding of one thousand paper cranes. The sun reflected each of their faces into the waters, a soft breeze rippled the surface, blurring the reflections into colorful swashes. The rains that plagued the city ceased for this moment alone, as one thousand paper cranes were gently placed upon the pool, the wind brushing at their wings springing them forward in a variety of directions. Each Karakuran’s eyes filled with wonder, as the great flood of cranes covered the water in a colorful array. Many found themselves bowing their heads in request of the gods, that the souls of those lost would be cared for in the afterlife.
Yet, what occurred following these prayers, can only be described in realistic terms as a figment of the desperate, who wanted to believe so badly the gods have not forsaken them. An esoteric voice arose from the quiet prayers being muttered, the crowd’s eyes were quickly drawn up to the sky. Their vision was covered in a layered veil of black and white feathers. Each eye was attracted to the bright center of vivid red, framed by silk wings. A great bird, gracefully descending from the heavens. Its elongated legs reached out for the waters, softly verging the surface, before it landed upon the pool. It stood in a gallant manner, the veil of feathers brushed ever so slightly by the wind. The deep red color resting atop its head was that of a scarlet crown. The soft eyes of the red-crowned crane gazed at each of the mourners, who could not turn away from what they had just witnessed. A sight so uncommon to the region, a few Karakurans rubbed at their eyes, in case it was nothing more than a vivid illusion.
The red-crowned crane settled, its great neck extending upward, its head raised, calling out to the sky. A rough wind pushed past the crowd, nearly knocking several onlookers over, as hats and mementos were carried through the air. When the breeze reached the waters it sent vast ripples throughout the pool, the thousand paper cranes appeared for only a moment, to be flying. A curtain of color rose and fell with the wind, a phenomenon never witnessed before, so radiant and aweing, many mouths laid agape. As the paper cranes faltered and the wind ceased, rings of paper formed around the crane, ripples of change flooded the minds of the onlookers. The bird’s beautiful voice echoed throughout the island, rendering dread ineffective. The city was still, the people were quiet. Karakura wept openly, in hope of a better tomorrow. For the first time in years, since the beginning of the war, everything seemed as it should have been.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________________________
What occurred the day has simply been marked as, if nothing else, one of the only moments in Karakura’s history the city as a whole was unified. Yet many skeptics and religious believers indicate far more outlandish and hopeful claims. One of the most prominent notions that appeared, was that the crane itself was a reincarnation of Saisei Kaeda, a gift the gods left as a reminder Karakura was far from forgotten. A story that the family of the little girl held onto for generations that followed. Another far-fetched claim, that many Shinto followers came to hold dear, was that the feathers of the crane offered divine protection from spiritual evils, many of which the war’s wounds had caused. Besides these faith filled theories, the bird became a symbol of rebirth for the island. Rebirth, that in spite of the destruction and loss of the war, would make way for the city to rise again, more unified than before. One thousand paper cranes becoming one, formed from the remittance of a cruel shared experience.
When the crane passed on, its feathers were crafted into a wooden mask, a symbol of unity and hope in the wake of division. Whatever beliefs one may take away from this narrative, one unanimous truth remains, that from the bitterest of wounds hope can arise from shared humanity. It is only when we can put aside our pride, our fear of being vulnerable, that we can begin to heal, together. Hand in hand, reaching outward to the iridescent sky of daybreak.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
The Hope of a Thousand Paper Cranes
Written by Arkkwolf
______________________________________________________________________________________________
The unfathomable losses formed from the depth of Karakuran history cannot be summarized in a mere moment. The conflict, corruption, betrayal, and death is deeply scarred into the eyes of its citizens. Yet there lives one narrative, that carries a reminder of the good that dwells within those who reside there. It comes from the dark suffering of the Karakuran people, in a time not all that distant from the present day. Though as time has taken its toll, as the island has descended into division, the tale has been buried, replaced with a looming dread that has not ceased to this day. If for nothing else but to inspire hope into the hopeless, and bring peace upon the mourner, the faded memory deserves to be reminisced upon once more.
. . .
It begins with one of the most violent tragedies burned into Japanese history, the second world war. In which Karakura was dealt a heavy handed blow. Droves of its people were ripped from the loving arms of their families, far too many unable to return from the call of duty. As those at home mourned the losses of their sons and daughters, their suffering was far from at an end. The city was in uproar, terrorized by their losses and uncontainable rage, as neighbor turned against neighbor. Many wept during this time, their heads bowed in hopeless pleas to the gods they had entrusted their salvation to. As the war continued, with the mainland encompassed in ruin, Karakuran morale waned. A bitterness formed in its wake, the effects of which are still felt today.
For a time, the war felt far off, a distant memory, racked by blurry faces. Ghosts wandered the streets, unacknowledged by those who had seen them leave with packed bags. But the conflict would become very real to Karakuran citizens in time, turning forests into ash, bringing men to their knees, and forcing voices to cry out in agony. There were three bombs that were dropped over Karakura during the span of the war. The first of which was located near the Masahiko palace, in 1941. The second, the center of Karakura in 1943, and the final, later that year upon the Kaiga coast. Although the accounts of injured and dead lie buried in governmental records, one of the most prominent movements that came from this tragedy cannot be accurately recounted in any legal document. Only from the lips of those who witnessed the event, can its truly remarkable and profound message be understood.
The rubble of the second bomb, at Karakura’s center, decimated the hope for a better tomorrow. The lifeless were buried one after another. Many onlookers fell silent, tears streaking their exhausted faces. One of these broken people, a mother, fell to her knees, as her beloved daughter was laid to rest. The child’s father turned away, his face blank and his mind numb. The only thought weakly dragging on in his head: “Why have the gods punished me so?”
As the father attempted to save face, for he was of a well respected Itsbyoshi family, those of poor lineage mourned just as heavily beside him. It was at this moment he realized how unimportant a legacy was in the wake of tragedy, suffering did not discriminate, it simply rampaged. He finally dropped to his knees and wept as the casket of his child was buried in the earth. Another gentleman beside the father, with tattered clothing, dried by blood, staggered out through heavy sobs, about the loss of his three sons. The well respected man, Murasaki Kaeda, placed a hand on the poor gentleman's shoulder, and they wept openly together. Putting aside who they were before the tragedy, they were now nothing more than equally flawed humans. Each paying the price of the selfish human desire to be the victor of the war. Murasaki showed vulnerability to many that day, in spite of the adversity that had caused the war, the wounds bound a diverse array of Karakurans together. For what else could someone do in the midst of such a violent loss, less than succumb to bitterness?
. . .
The following days passed with the stalemate air of feelings far too impossible to grasp. Yet the names of those who had died could not be allowed to become taboo in the passing of conversation. Murasaki was unnerved by the idea his daughter’s memory might be thrown under the rug. It would prevent the acknowledgment of the war and its many open wounds but at what moral cost? This question raised inquiry by many of the weary town. Such an attitude towards these phantom losses, was nothing more than a mask that could be split in two with a mere mention of the bodies buried. It could not be left alone to rot and fester like an open wound. Something had to be done.
As word surfaced throughout the broken city, those of many standings conversed with one another about what was to come. Murasaki took the opportunity to mourn openly with many, who had become self appointed brothers and sisters in the wake of such a tragedy. They shared prayers, dined despite sorrow, and partook in the company of each other. Those who had never imagined they might share some commonality, found social standing made no difference, the human experience was far from adequate. Slowly, the people rose from the war’s horrid outcome, determined to gain relief from the building conflict that bound them in fear for so long. As days passed and as Karakurans grew desperate to express such feelings, a decision was reached.
. . .
On August 1st, 1943, a memorial was held, endorsed by several Itsbyoshi families, though in that moment, all attendees were the same, coming together, none with greater standing than the other, simply experiencing the pain as one unified city. Although the memorial recognized many losses of the war, the face that festered most in the minds of visitors was that of Saisei Kaeda, Murasaki’s beloved daughter. They had come to honor her memory after her father had shared a moment of grief with them. The bonds of loss were great, after all no man who lived within Karakura had been untouched by the war. Despite such heartache, Saisei’s memory became a reminder of how short life could be, how quickly the tides of war could turn, and how important it was to hold each moment close to the heart.
As Karakurans gathered around an iridescent pool, those of rich and poor standing, of young and old age, joined together in the folding of one thousand paper cranes. The sun reflected each of their faces into the waters, a soft breeze rippled the surface, blurring the reflections into colorful swashes. The rains that plagued the city ceased for this moment alone, as one thousand paper cranes were gently placed upon the pool, the wind brushing at their wings springing them forward in a variety of directions. Each Karakuran’s eyes filled with wonder, as the great flood of cranes covered the water in a colorful array. Many found themselves bowing their heads in request of the gods, that the souls of those lost would be cared for in the afterlife.
Yet, what occurred following these prayers, can only be described in realistic terms as a figment of the desperate, who wanted to believe so badly the gods have not forsaken them. An esoteric voice arose from the quiet prayers being muttered, the crowd’s eyes were quickly drawn up to the sky. Their vision was covered in a layered veil of black and white feathers. Each eye was attracted to the bright center of vivid red, framed by silk wings. A great bird, gracefully descending from the heavens. Its elongated legs reached out for the waters, softly verging the surface, before it landed upon the pool. It stood in a gallant manner, the veil of feathers brushed ever so slightly by the wind. The deep red color resting atop its head was that of a scarlet crown. The soft eyes of the red-crowned crane gazed at each of the mourners, who could not turn away from what they had just witnessed. A sight so uncommon to the region, a few Karakurans rubbed at their eyes, in case it was nothing more than a vivid illusion.
The red-crowned crane settled, its great neck extending upward, its head raised, calling out to the sky. A rough wind pushed past the crowd, nearly knocking several onlookers over, as hats and mementos were carried through the air. When the breeze reached the waters it sent vast ripples throughout the pool, the thousand paper cranes appeared for only a moment, to be flying. A curtain of color rose and fell with the wind, a phenomenon never witnessed before, so radiant and aweing, many mouths laid agape. As the paper cranes faltered and the wind ceased, rings of paper formed around the crane, ripples of change flooded the minds of the onlookers. The bird’s beautiful voice echoed throughout the island, rendering dread ineffective. The city was still, the people were quiet. Karakura wept openly, in hope of a better tomorrow. For the first time in years, since the beginning of the war, everything seemed as it should have been.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________________________
What occurred the day has simply been marked as, if nothing else, one of the only moments in Karakura’s history the city as a whole was unified. Yet many skeptics and religious believers indicate far more outlandish and hopeful claims. One of the most prominent notions that appeared, was that the crane itself was a reincarnation of Saisei Kaeda, a gift the gods left as a reminder Karakura was far from forgotten. A story that the family of the little girl held onto for generations that followed. Another far-fetched claim, that many Shinto followers came to hold dear, was that the feathers of the crane offered divine protection from spiritual evils, many of which the war’s wounds had caused. Besides these faith filled theories, the bird became a symbol of rebirth for the island. Rebirth, that in spite of the destruction and loss of the war, would make way for the city to rise again, more unified than before. One thousand paper cranes becoming one, formed from the remittance of a cruel shared experience.
When the crane passed on, its feathers were crafted into a wooden mask, a symbol of unity and hope in the wake of division. Whatever beliefs one may take away from this narrative, one unanimous truth remains, that from the bitterest of wounds hope can arise from shared humanity. It is only when we can put aside our pride, our fear of being vulnerable, that we can begin to heal, together. Hand in hand, reaching outward to the iridescent sky of daybreak.
______________________________________________________________________________________________