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Description
Miyagi is an old man. He acknowledges this to himself, mainly because he has nobody else to acknowledge it. Miyagi is ninety seven years old in the spring, or what was at one time spring, when he was in the old country and the blooming cherry blossom filled the air with it's scent as the weather grew warmer.

But that was so long ago, too many lifetimes to count in Miyagi's thinking. Once Miyagi had seen the blue sky above his head, duck - egg blue in the brightness of the morning, the morning of his life. The sky is no longer blue and he knows that this is twilight, that the night of his day must soon come to him. Change in the morning, change in the twilight hours, the cherry blossom falling to earth as their time arrived in his memory.

Miyagi lives in an apartment block that stands, like a great pointed finger, stabbing into the polluted sky. The building is one hundred and eighteen levels tall, the tiny apartment that is his dwelling lies upon the fiftieth level, too high above the ground to even consider those milling below him on the crowded, insane streets of this sprawling city.

Once Miyagi kept the window of his apartment open continuously, but now it always rains and the air smells rank and acidic, so he trusts to the prehistoric air conditioning system and to a small electric fan that he has owned since his forty ninth birthday. Every year, religiously, for he is a man of great ritual, Miyagi takes the fan apart and tends it, replacing worn parts and fixing others that can no longer be replaced. He is proud in some ways, for he knows that today's appliances are of such high technology that their lifespans are very short, sometimes only months.

Miyagi has but one love in his life, one thing that he draws strength from in a world which he finds so grey after all the colours of his youth. This love is his bonsai, but only one, not many. A Cherry blossom tree, seven inches tall and of such perfection that he must not consider it for too long lest it break his heart. But look upon it he does, every day when he finishes the cleaning job that he has held for the past nineteen years.

Each day Miyagi comes home, cleans himself in the tiny shower stall and then sits slowly, cross - legged in front of the tree, considering it's beauty and it's welfare. He cuts back tiny shoots, cleans the branches of the dust which comes always from the air conditioning systems and then gives the tree a tiny portion of water and fertilizer mix, which he purchases at massive expense on the black market which flourishes in the lower levels.

After he has seen to the tree's welfare he sits in meditation, two long hours each night, contemplating the perfection of the tree, it's absolute harmony of form, it's all - encompassing perfection. Then, after a small meal of rice and soy cakes he goes to his bedroll, to rise at exactly six each morning. Miyagi is content in this, for he knows that he is lucky - not many live to his years, to see so much an consider it as he always has. And yet he cries for the loss of innocence, for the downwards spiral into decay that he has been party to for many years now.

This morning is no different to any other, Miyagi rises at six and dresses in light shirt and pants, cotton not synthetic. He puts on his sandals and, pulling the battered old umbrella from it's place behind the door, leaves the apartment. The lift is broken, as it always is, Miyagi must jog slowly downwards in the half - light of the graffiti soaked stairwell, downwards through the wobbly light of flouescents hanging from broken sockets to the twenty first floor. Here he takes the one working lift to ground level. Miyagi is proud for a moment, as always, of his still formidable physical prowess.

But only for a moment.

He exits through the wide front doors, not bothering to open them because they no longer harbour any glass, Down the narrow avenue walks Miyagi, small asian man unbowed by age, long white hair braided in the style of the old country. He moves quickly, not wishing to be soaked by a passing robocab, on more than one occasion he has almost been killed by the brutish machines, he cannot afford the signal device that warns them of pedestrian traffic in their path. Rain falls heavily from the grey - brown clouds overhead, tears of the gods, small 'g' for gods because nobody cares about them anymore.

On either side of him Miyagi sees the denizens of the lowers crawling and barking at each other, dragging a life out of their continuous struggle to survive and flourish amongst the garbage of their world. Amongst these poor sheep, shepherdless in the dust and garbage of decay, go the wolves. Miyagi sees these too, all of them, for he knows their type well. They are always armed and always altered, metal parts and cybernetic implants, savages in the depths of the nightmare city that they have made their paradise world.

This day Miyagi is not troubled, arriving early and in good shape at his workplace. He has been mugged before, not for money, but for enjoyment. He does not understand them, the crazy ones who live in this dream

Miyagi works in a restaurant. He cleans the floors and washes the dishes and sometimes eats the food, which is not a bad thing, for the restaurant is in a well policed section of the city - one of the few areas that is still well policed. The food is good.

And so goes Miyagi's day. He cleans the floors and washes up, slowly and methodically and at the end of the day receives his money, cash in hand, for that is the only pay to have in the lowers, where there is no pass card nor credit, no banks at all, just the black market and cold hard cash.

Miyagi walks home slowly, for he is very tired, the lift is slow and it takes him a long time to climb to his level up the many flights of stairs that he must traverse. Thence to his door.

On the door is a small rice paper envelope, duck egg blue like the sky in Miyagi's memory. He lets himself in and opens the envelope, slowly and carefully, not wanting to tear the pretty paper.

DEPT. OF WILDLIFE PRES. AND CATALOGUE.
LEVEL 206, GOVERNMENT ENCLOSURE,
EASTERN QUADRANT, NEO SYDNEY.

DEAR SIR,

IT HAS COME TO THIS DEPARTMENT'S ATTENTION THAT YOU HAVE, FOR A CONSIDERABLE PERIOD, HARBOURED WHAT IS AND HAS FOR THE PAST EIGHTEEN YEARS, BEEN A SPECIES OF ENDANGERED FLORA OF THE HIGHEST DEGREE. ACTION WAS TAKEN IN YOUR ABSENCE AND THE TREE HAS BEEN REMOVED TO UNDERGO DNA TESTING TO ASCERTAIN IT'S VIABILITY AS A SPECIMEN FOR INCLUSION IN THE CITY'S DNA BANKS. LEGAL PROCEEDINGS ARE NOW IN PROCESS. IT IS STRONGLY SUGGESTED THAT YOU ENGAGE A LAWYER WITH REGARDS TO THIS MATTER.

YOURS SINCERELY,

A.F. JENNINGS

DEPT. OF WILDLIFE PRESERVATION AND CATALOGUE.

The paper slips from Miyagi's nerveless fingers to float floorwards like a wounded bird, never to rise again. He falls cross - legged in front of the empty table that he had carved with his own hands for the tree. He runs his hand over the top of the table, the smooth wood where the tree had sat. It's perfection is still there even now. For at least an hour Miyagi sits, quiet and still, eyes closed in front of the empty table. The world falls apart around him, chaos at hand in every breath of the stifling, too - warm wind.

Miyagi stands finally and moves to the window, old hands pulling hard at the handle, shaking free the rust that has formed in the frame. He feels the acid - tasting water on his face as he stands on the ledge fifty stories above the teeming ground. Even from here Miyagi can see the crowds, ant - small and jam packed in the streets. Too crowded, too dirty.

As Miyagi's body falls forwards, like a bird or a piece of blue rice paper that has outlived it's usefulness, he remembers spring and a pagoda, the smell of the cherry blossom and the clean rains of his childhood. Miyagi smiles and tears form as he slips noiselessly downwards. His tears disappear into the acid rain as Miyagi disappears into the dark.

And so to the blackness and the velvet night.

Description
Miyagi is an old man. He acknowledges this to himself, mainly because he has nobody else to acknowledge it. Miyagi is ninety seven years old in the spring, or what was at one time spring, when he was in the old country and the blooming cherry blossom filled the air with it's scent as the weather grew warmer.

But that was so long ago, too many lifetimes to count in Miyagi's thinking. Once Miyagi had seen the blue sky above his head, duck - egg blue in the brightness of the morning, the morning of his life. The sky is no longer blue and he knows that this is twilight, that the night of his day must soon come to him. Change in the morning, change in the twilight hours, the cherry blossom falling to earth as their time arrived in his memory.

Miyagi lives in an apartment block that stands, like a great pointed finger, stabbing into the polluted sky. The building is one hundred and eighteen levels tall, the tiny apartment that is his dwelling lies upon the fiftieth level, too high above the ground to even consider those milling below him on the crowded, insane streets of this sprawling city.

Once Miyagi kept the window of his apartment open continuously, but now it always rains and the air smells rank and acidic, so he trusts to the prehistoric air conditioning system and to a small electric fan that he has owned since his forty ninth birthday. Every year, religiously, for he is a man of great ritual, Miyagi takes the fan apart and tends it, replacing worn parts and fixing others that can no longer be replaced. He is proud in some ways, for he knows that today's appliances are of such high technology that their lifespans are very short, sometimes only months.

Miyagi has but one love in his life, one thing that he draws strength from in a world which he finds so grey after all the colours of his youth. This love is his bonsai, but only one, not many. A Cherry blossom tree, seven inches tall and of such perfection that he must not consider it for too long lest it break his heart. But look upon it he does, every day when he finishes the cleaning job that he has held for the past nineteen years.

Each day Miyagi comes home, cleans himself in the tiny shower stall and then sits slowly, cross - legged in front of the tree, considering it's beauty and it's welfare. He cuts back tiny shoots, cleans the branches of the dust which comes always from the air conditioning systems and then gives the tree a tiny portion of water and fertilizer mix, which he purchases at massive expense on the black market which flourishes in the lower levels.

After he has seen to the tree's welfare he sits in meditation, two long hours each night, contemplating the perfection of the tree, it's absolute harmony of form, it's all - encompassing perfection. Then, after a small meal of rice and soy cakes he goes to his bedroll, to rise at exactly six each morning. Miyagi is content in this, for he knows that he is lucky - not many live to his years, to see so much an consider it as he always has. And yet he cries for the loss of innocence, for the downwards spiral into decay that he has been party to for many years now.

This morning is no different to any other, Miyagi rises at six and dresses in light shirt and pants, cotton not synthetic. He puts on his sandals and, pulling the battered old umbrella from it's place behind the door, leaves the apartment. The lift is broken, as it always is, Miyagi must jog slowly downwards in the half - light of the graffiti soaked stairwell, downwards through the wobbly light of flouescents hanging from broken sockets to the twenty first floor. Here he takes the one working lift to ground level. Miyagi is proud for a moment, as always, of his still formidable physical prowess.

But only for a moment.

He exits through the wide front doors, not bothering to open them because they no longer harbour any glass, Down the narrow avenue walks Miyagi, small asian man unbowed by age, long white hair braided in the style of the old country. He moves quickly, not wishing to be soaked by a passing robocab, on more than one occasion he has almost been killed by the brutish machines, he cannot afford the signal device that warns them of pedestrian traffic in their path. Rain falls heavily from the grey - brown clouds overhead, tears of the gods, small 'g' for gods because nobody cares about them anymore.

On either side of him Miyagi sees the denizens of the lowers crawling and barking at each other, dragging a life out of their continuous struggle to survive and flourish amongst the garbage of their world. Amongst these poor sheep, shepherdless in the dust and garbage of decay, go the wolves. Miyagi sees these too, all of them, for he knows their type well. They are always armed and always altered, metal parts and cybernetic implants, savages in the depths of the nightmare city that they have made their paradise world.

This day Miyagi is not troubled, arriving early and in good shape at his workplace. He has been mugged before, not for money, but for enjoyment. He does not understand them, the crazy ones who live in this dream

Miyagi works in a restaurant. He cleans the floors and washes the dishes and sometimes eats the food, which is not a bad thing, for the restaurant is in a well policed section of the city - one of the few areas that is still well policed. The food is good.

And so goes Miyagi's day. He cleans the floors and washes up, slowly and methodically and at the end of the day receives his money, cash in hand, for that is the only pay to have in the lowers, where there is no pass card nor credit, no banks at all, just the black market and cold hard cash.

Miyagi walks home slowly, for he is very tired, the lift is slow and it takes him a long time to climb to his level up the many flights of stairs that he must traverse. Thence to his door.

On the door is a small rice paper envelope, duck egg blue like the sky in Miyagi's memory. He lets himself in and opens the envelope, slowly and carefully, not wanting to tear the pretty paper.

DEPT. OF WILDLIFE PRES. AND CATALOGUE.
LEVEL 206, GOVERNMENT ENCLOSURE,
EASTERN QUADRANT, NEO SYDNEY.

DEAR SIR,

IT HAS COME TO THIS DEPARTMENT'S ATTENTION THAT YOU HAVE, FOR A CONSIDERABLE PERIOD, HARBOURED WHAT IS AND HAS FOR THE PAST EIGHTEEN YEARS, BEEN A SPECIES OF ENDANGERED FLORA OF THE HIGHEST DEGREE. ACTION WAS TAKEN IN YOUR ABSENCE AND THE TREE HAS BEEN REMOVED TO UNDERGO DNA TESTING TO ASCERTAIN IT'S VIABILITY AS A SPECIMEN FOR INCLUSION IN THE CITY'S DNA BANKS. LEGAL PROCEEDINGS ARE NOW IN PROCESS. IT IS STRONGLY SUGGESTED THAT YOU ENGAGE A LAWYER WITH REGARDS TO THIS MATTER.

YOURS SINCERELY,

A.F. JENNINGS

DEPT. OF WILDLIFE PRESERVATION AND CATALOGUE.

The paper slips from Miyagi's nerveless fingers to float floorwards like a wounded bird, never to rise again. He falls cross - legged in front of the empty table that he had carved with his own hands for the tree. He runs his hand over the top of the table, the smooth wood where the tree had sat. It's perfection is still there even now. For at least an hour Miyagi sits, quiet and still, eyes closed in front of the empty table. The world falls apart around him, chaos at hand in every breath of the stifling, too - warm wind.

Miyagi stands finally and moves to the window, old hands pulling hard at the handle, shaking free the rust that has formed in the frame. He feels the acid - tasting water on his face as he stands on the ledge fifty stories above the teeming ground. Even from here Miyagi can see the crowds, ant - small and jam packed in the streets. Too crowded, too dirty.

As Miyagi's body falls forwards, like a bird or a piece of blue rice paper that has outlived it's usefulness, he remembers spring and a pagoda, the smell of the cherry blossom and the clean rains of his childhood. Miyagi smiles and tears form as he slips noiselessly downwards. His tears disappear into the acid rain as Miyagi disappears into the dark.

And so to the blackness and the velvet night.