Sparrow Swift
Sparrow Swift Race
by
Allan R. Wallace
"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing. To keep our faces toward change and behave like free spirits in the presence of fate is strength undefeatable." - Helen Keller
Published by Allan Wallace
On Smashwords
copyright © 2011 - 2012
License Notes
This book is licensed for your enjoyment. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please consider purchasing your own 99 cent download. Thank you for respecting the artistic works of this author.
These entertaining ePulps are fiction: people, places, times, and events. It's a coincidence they resemble last night's nightmares and today's fondest daydreams.
Table of Contents
• Chapter 4: Victory Against Odds
• Preview Chapter Of *hactivist*
The Harrisons
Relationships are my most valuable assets.
This story is personal, these are my parents.
Sometimes at family meals, one of us kids would take the framed ad off the wall and carry it to our dad. He would smile lightly, get control of his emotions, and tell this story word for word. Mom's eye's always misted in anticipation. Now my parents have passed. The Broach rests on a small jade pedestal, with the ad standing in a jade frame behind it, in the place of honor on my older brother's dining room mantle.
"I wandered through the high quality but not quite name brand furniture store in a daze. It was an active but not busy day. I held a broach in my hand. The broach held my mind. Dodging between case goods and questions I passed two boys in their Sunday best darting between office chairs, I was aware of them, but did not see or care.
Held by the thumb and first two fingers of my right hand was a work of perfection, a copy in cheap material, perhaps coconut shell washed up on the beach at the camp. Every dimple marking the bottom of three connected pieces look like replicas of a slice of a golf ball. This faux broach is the art of those who endured the occupation; here, not elsewhere fighting to get back here. I know the style of art, it would have sold for less than five cents at a local pawnshop. Someone who knew the broach had spent months and maybe the full occupation, first carving with improvised tools and carefully perfecting every detail, adding stars in important locations, and then caring for it. I will forfeit my life before I give it up.
When I reach the part of the store I claim as my own there is a sheet of paper on my desk. It is a typed copy of an add I've run in the Hong Kong Press, everyday, for the last ten years. I see it beside the broach peripherally and know I must review it, I will have no voice until my emotions free my throat.
Slightly to the right of my desk sits my most important customer, She is saying something impatiently. I wave the two right fingers of my right hand at her, asking her two hold. As she tries again, I wave the fingers at her again and she sits back in the flower patterned, nicely upholstered with accompanying dark woods, winged Queen Anne's chair she has occupied many times before. It is a match for ones she has in in the foyer of her hotel and in her formal reception room at home.
Carefully transferring the broach to my left hand, I pick up the letter whose contents hold my soul, and wonder at another woman standing directly in front of me. Everything visible about her is scrubbed clean and perfectly tended. The broach is slowly sinking to my side. My grip has not lessened, but the broach no longer holds my full concentration.
Her face is round with light freckling, her dark brown hair is coiffed in the above shoulder length style of today. She displays no ornamentation, not even lipstick, but something glorious shines through and out of her thin, pale skin. Her arms are a healthy round, not bone thin and bruised as they must have been during internment. Her hands are clasped before her. Her still marvelous legs are visible below the mid-length hem of her modest print dress. Her ankles are beautifully turned, her sandals have a low heel. My eyes scan upwards, I'm still speechless. She looks at me as I must have looked at the broach, but without the sense of ownership.
I glance at the ad, gaze back at her, then re-read something written as the first bombs dropped in the Pacific war. My head knew then that world wide, limitless travel might never return. My heart's only available response was to write. The ad has been published continuously, since the first day of Hong Kong English printing after VJ day. This is what I wept from my typewriter after hearing that ominous broadcast of declared war:
Wanted: a broach. I will pay 75 for information leading to my acquisition of a particular broach. It has three touching globes with the continents outlined in semiprecious stones, the cities where we traveled are signified by individual diamond settings. The gems themselves are not important, but if you have a jeweler remove them, warn him to be careful of the piece. I will pay twice Tiffany's retail market value if everything remains untouched. There are features only known to me and the woman I love, who said she never wants to see me again. I will always love her. I may be off the island and unable to return, but the American Express office, after a check of authenticity, will issue the first 25 to anyone bearing this ad, a photograph or useful information, or the broach itself. American Express will appraise and escrow the broach until I can send payment. Payment will be swift and sure. The owner will never see the holder again, but I'm sure she has no emotional attachment to the broach. She will haunt my days and bless my dreams forever.