The Kite Flyer book cover

The Kite Flyer

I am writing this story because it is amazing and true. My Canadian cousin Andrew told me that his father was sent to Japan in 1946 as a Canadian bandsman. In the midst of such destruction a beautiful gentle experience of making and flying kites.


Autumn 24 
Year:
2024
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Submitted by mike.pettifer on October 02, 2024


								
The Kite Flyer I remember watching the bulldozers, five of them working in a criss-cross pattern. Most of the buildings had disappeared in the blast-and-fire produced by the point-perfect delivery of the bomb. Twisted and bowed metal lamp posts, surreal in their shape, like Salvador Dali creations stood like tortured bowed sentinels at the side of the road. Acrid metallic tasting dust filled the air making the drivers of the ‘dozers wear a loose cloth covering their nose and mouth as they went about their business. The flattened landscape had a limited numbers of cleared roadways accommodating trucks, jeeps and other service vehicles. In the city, small groups of survivors shuffled their way through the barren almost featureless cityscape trying to locate their neighbourhood by turning their heads looking for familiar landmarks. There were none. They had all gone. Occasional open topped army vehicles carried unmasked visitors who surveyed the results of the airborne attack. A surreal excursion of a lunar landscape. Away from the city carnage, and free of any duties required of me , I walked outside the barracks. One day, close to a nearby river, I saw a man with his back to me kneeling on the ground. He had in his hands an enormous deltoid shaped kite with a long patterned tail. The kite was red in colour with the top rising above his head and shoulders. He was unaware of my approaching company. I stopped as he stood up and holding the kite by the main vertical spar, launched it into a stiff breeze that frequented that stretch of the river. The kite caught the breeze and rapidly ascended as the old man ran out the attached thin line, his only means of controlling his creation. The kite gently curved, swerved and dived in the thermals and was soon nearly out of sight. I looked skyward as this fragile artefact embraced and played with the wind guided by the man with the attached thread like line. He sensed my presence, turned and smiled. I raised a hand. He bowed. I returned to barracks. Most days when I walked he was there flying his kite. Even though I had my English Japanese dictionary I had little confidence to speak to him, and he spoke no English. But this gentle old man with almond eyes and smiling face sensed my curiosity with the art of kite flying and ,on our second or third encounter, he offered me the chance to fly his kite. And with each meeting, albeit clumsily, with hand gestures, smiles and sometimes laughter he showed, pointed and in his own way taught me how to fly and make kites. The gentleness of this man, the silence of the flight, the beauty and simplicity of the airborne wonder with its colourful flowing tail sat in stark contrast to the desolation just a few kilometres away. I often think about that- a red kite using nature's bounty- the breeze, the wind - and on that day a bomb- sucking the air out of the city. That was in 1946 and after my six months posting I returned to British Columbia and finished my army career. I moved from Chilliwack to Victoria some years later. In the rebuilt city of Hiroshima a museum is dedicated to the events of that fateful day. There are stark and disturbing images, photos, in black and white. For many ,that day defines the history of the city. But for me, I remember the gentle Japanese man who taught me how to make and fly kites. I still make them, in different colours and styles but all with long colourful tails. Not far from where I live in Victoria the coast line offers wide expanses and brisk breezes that quickly engage with my handiwork and take my creations skyward. And as they curve and swirl on the ocean breeze I can see the man with almond eyes and his smiling- lined face who shared his craft with me. My name is Charlie. His name is still a mystery to me.
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Michael Pettifer

Michael Pettifer has an MA in screenwriting and an Honours degree in Chemistry. He writes flash fiction and short stories and enjoys writing short plays for friends. more…

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1 Comment
  • hartlau
    It moved me. And it harkens back to a time, in our not so distant past, that has either been forgotten by many, or pushed aside by more recent, heinous events. This author found a sliver of humanity that found its way through. Bravo. 
    LikeReply17 days ago

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"The Kite Flyer Books." Literature.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2025. Web. 20 Jan. 2025. <https://www.literature.com/book/the_kite_flyer_3635>.

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