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    A Touch of Jade: Geriatric Magic: A New York Collection Short Story
    A Touch of Jade: Geriatric Magic: A New York Collection Short Story
    A Touch of Jade: Geriatric Magic: A New York Collection Short Story
    Ebook87 pages1 hour

    A Touch of Jade: Geriatric Magic: A New York Collection Short Story

    By Stephanie Writt

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    About this ebook

    A Touch of Jade (Short Story):  Hoshi and her husband love to watch the ebb and flow of the city’s people passing through the park. They sit upon their bench and watch. Holding hands. Her hand over his. To warm him. But before Hoshi leaves the park that morning a secret will be revealed, a spirit will command her and a gift will be given. And every moment left to spend with her husband will have a value more precious than Jade.

    “A Touch of Jade” is part of the Geriatric Magic universe and can also be found in “The New York Collection: Five Stories of Magic & Life,” with foreword written by Kristine Kathryn Rusch. The New York Collection’s complete short story list is:
    • Geriatric Magic
    • A Touch of Jade
    • Subway Drummer
    • Streets of Light
    • A Little Park Wind

    The Geriatric Magic Short Story Series:  A hawk-face woman in a red dress walks city streets on a mission of magic. To find those with the indomitable spirit to live, though their bodies will shortly fail them. To each she finds she gives a gift. A gift of magic. And from the least expected of benefactors: Death.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWayne Press
    Release dateMar 13, 2017
    ISBN9781386637776
    A Touch of Jade: Geriatric Magic: A New York Collection Short Story

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      Book preview

      A Touch of Jade - Stephanie Writt

      A Touch of Jade

      A Touch of Jade

      A New York Collection Short Story

      Stephanie Writt

      Wayne Press

      Contents

      A Touch of Jade

      Read and be happy!

      Want to read more in this series?

      Free Story: 1st in Storyteller’s : Volume 1

      Rebellion of the Princess of Argon

      Want to read more in this collection?

      Free Story: 1st in Tony & Gage’s: The Junior Year Collection

      Free Story: The Day Tony Earned Detention

      Want to read more in this series?

      Preview: Love & Jinx

      Part One

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Love & Jinx: Want to finish reading?

      Also by Stephanie Writt

      About the Author

      A Touch of Jade

      They sat holding hands as the last remnant of winter leaves rolled along the sidewalk, passed under the green slatted park bench they sat on. The city’s buildings hovered protectively overhead between the budding green of the trees. New green. Jade green. The clouds had slid by, parted, and allowed the sun to gently tip all the moist edges with white light and rainbows. Warmed the wet earth. A rising heat, for the spring of life to grow.

      The morning light, new itself to the day, warmed their wool jackets. His grey and striking. Hers red, like a rose on fire. The silk edge of her jade head-scarf, a gift from her husband, caressed her cheek as she turned to scan the little park. One of the many scattered oases within the island metropolis.

      So few walked the paths at dawn, nor just after. But in less than an hour the paths would be streaming with the rising tide of life.

      Hoshi and her husband loved to watch the ebb and flow, night and evening, of the city people passing through the park, just one hundred and eighty-three steps from their tiny flat. At the break of day and dawn of night, they sat upon their bench, silent and companionable, and watched. As they held hands.

      Her hand over his. To warm him.

      He refused to wear gloves of any sort, no matter the chill or the snow. Isamu never spoke of the reason why. The war, she supposed. A personal horror moment connected in some way to hand coverings. She never asked. Just pretended to sleep when he woke with the shakes. Or the shouts. Even after she had shaken him free out of his nightmares, Hoshi would quickly curl back into a sleeping pose. Let him recover in private.

      She had held him once.

      Shortly after they had moved to the east coast, away from the west coast. Too sharp with their eyes, too close to the Hawaiian bombing. The internment camps. The unforgiving looks. The expectations of betrayal.

      She had held him, after he screamed like a frightened child in his sleep. He had not fought her. Just held her away from him. Turned his head. Kept his face from her. Kept her face from his sight.

      But the moment before he had turned from her, Hoshi had seen his face transform at wakefulness into shame. Shame she had seen him in such a way.

      So she feigned sleep after that. Left him to his private battle, while she ached at her helplessness.

      Hoshi felt great pride in his strength. No matter the past, he remained a man.

      So she washed his feet. Her way to tell him she loved and honored him as her husband. With hot water that left his feet pink, a sign the blood flowed. More and more important as they aged together.

      And they did age. Time passed. Children grew and moved away. Grandchildren were born and raised.

      An early dog walker followed the lead of her mustard-colored dog with a white-haired rump as it sniffed invisible trails up off the sidewalk and into the patchy grass. It burrowed its head between the knotty roots of a black oak that had been reaching its tangled branches out to its brethren for many more decades than she and her husband had between them.

      Many decades.

      Hoshi squeezed his hand in hers. It had begun to cool a bit. She shifted her own hand over his to cover it more completely.

      Isamu squeezed her hand in the faintest reply.

      She looked up into his stoic face. Stern and knowing. Concealed and guarded.

      Their children, born and raised in the American culture that encouraged emotional openness, a spray of feelings on the unexpectant masses, saw him as cold. The grandchildren either feared or ignored him.

      If they just understood him, saw what lay beneath. The softest of heart, the greatest of love.

      But her children moved too fast, didn’t want to invest. Felt it should all come to them, and be easy. They did not see the value in observation, patience, awareness of others over self.

      If they understood that, they would understand the heart-swelling joy of that tiny squeeze of her hand by his. The fireworks within the glitter of his smiling eyes as he looked at her. The undoubtable knowledge of his caring for her.

      He moved his gaze back to the park. The bare bones of its wrought iron railings, and sidewalks empty of its people. The scattered uneven mounds of grass, green patches in a quilt with grey concrete seams.

      She followed his gaze, content with their watching the world together. She heard him exhale, as content a sound as she felt.

      His hand began to chill

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