A Kamikazes’s Collection of Macabre Thoughts

Submitted into Contest #48 in response to: Write about someone who always comes to the aid of others.... view prompt



Somewhere in Japan the streets are silent.

Well, in truth, we aren’t quite in Japan. We’re nowhere. But nowhere is simply a point of view, to the right eyes, we are everywhere. 

The usually busy shops are empty, looking naked without the constant stream of people. The street vendors left their carts abandoned, steam still rising off the unseen food. 

A man in aviators clothing is wandering down the street, calling for anyone and spinning aimlessly. 

He is the hero of our story. Or the villain, depending on your perspective. He is the hero of his everywhere and the villain of his nowhere. Mind you, he never wanted to be either.

He throws off his hat, the goggles clattering to the ground, shattering the fragile silence. He leans against one of the lonely trees, his eyes shut tightly and a bead of sweat runs down his forehead.

His name is Yukio Seki and he is going to die.


Roughly 30 minutes ago things were different. 

Yukio stands in terror, a hand against the cold, bitter, unfriendly steel of the plane. He looks at it with tired curiosity, it has no landing gear. No parachute. No method of escape. The eyes of his fleet burn into the back in his skull, he must appear brave, for their sake, without his firm nod and grunt of support they would never get out of this comfortably dead. 

Comfortably dead, what a funny phrase.

So utterly hopeless.

With a heavy heart he pulls himself into the cramped cockpit, closes his eyes and tries to calm his heartbeat as it gallops angrily away from him. 

Calm. Be calm.

This is an honor.

The words feel sticky and hot at the back of his throat and base of his stomach. He watches as friends board their own planes, each having the same look of fake calm on their faces, some of which he suspects is real. Another man walks up to each plane and locks the cockpits, eventually reaching Yukio’s and saluting. He salutes awkwardly back, unable to fully lift his arm. He expects to feel at peace when the bolt slides home, to feel proud.

Instead he feels enraged and claustrophobic. He has done so much for them, lost dear friends, killed strangers, left his family behind and had never asked for anything in return. And now they want this. 

He glares up at the beautiful sky in front of him and starts his engine, the rest of his fleet following quickly after.

He is a dangerous thing now, a tiger stuck in a miniscule cage while children laugh and poke at him through the bars, leaving him unable to even growl over the drugs in his system. The only thing he can do is plot his vicious attack on the members of the circus, on the public who walked by his cage and only laughed at his dulling stripes. He would rip them apart. Snap their necks with a bat of his paw, maul and claw anything that dared to exist in his presence. He would fight till the sound of a hunting rifle ruined his fun, and only then would he purr.

And this is what would happen. Simply replace terrible claws, razor sharp fangs and hundreds of pounds of pure muscle for a locked cockpit, tough metal shells and hundreds of pounds of various explosives.

This is the mission of a kamikaze soldier.


A little boy bolts silenty to the center of the road and stares at him, looking neither peaceful nor aggressive. Instead, there was a hint of disappointment in his eyes. He is dressed simply in grey tweed pants, worn leather shoes and a black coat buttoning nicely at the top.

His name is Yukio Seki and he is going to die.

“Are you alright?”

The words seem deafening in the silence.

Yukio glances up at the boy in surprise, a look of relief on his face. He scrambles up from his tree and dusts off his jacket, looking a little embarrassed. 

“Yes, I’m a bit lost. Ive been wandering for a while. I think I might have taken a wrong turn.” He looks up from his jacket, flicking a last bit of grass from the breast.

“My name is...” Yukio trails of and stares at the boy in awe, a deep sense of regret and jealousy grows in his chest as he stares at his past self.

Oh to be a child again.

Tears run down his face as the boy watches him, kicking the small stones on the street. The wind rustles his hair and he states:

“You are going to kill me.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Yukio whimpers, sobbing as he stares at the boy. He falls to the ground, his knee slamming against the rough concrete with a disgusting crack, the boy wrinkles his nose.

“You aren’t very brave, father would want you to get a hold on yourself” the boy growls, appalled by Yukio’s desperate gasps between tears, drowning in the restless sea of his own sorrow.

Yukio looks up at him, a new wildness to his eyes. The sort of look you see in a serial killer as they slam the knife through your ribs, the look an actor gets in the middle of a perfect scene, the look a lawyer gets when they know they have hit a chord with the jury, the look widows make in graveyards and the look you make when the goldfish you have cared for as best you could with your little hands and big curiousity apears belly up in his tank. It is dead dogs and published books. It’s first kids and good songs played at perfect moments. It’s a glossy eyed, clever, sorrowful, great, expression. It’s the fire you see in souls when they are devastatingly broken or passionately aroused. 

If you listen carefully, you can hear his soul shatter behind his eyes. 

The boy wiggles uncomfortably, feeling a little guilty as Yukio shudders. He hesitates, fiddling with the buttons of his coat before walking slowly over to him. He keeps his head down. Shuffling his feet before slowly wrapping his arms around the stiff, heaving body of Yukio, not quite reaching all the way around his heavy built shoulders and pats him with a tiny hand.

They stay like that for awhile. The boy shivering in the cold but stubborn in his mission and Yukio slowly calming down, praying desperately that the small boy would not leave him .

“Thank you.” Yukio smiles sadly, pulling the boy off him.

The little boy smiled back at him.

“It’s cold out. Would like tea?”

Yukio nods in reply, rubbing his bruised knee as he stands.

The little boy grabs his hand and starts to pull him down the street, rushing forward as quickly as he can.

As they walk, the world seems to erupt into color. The streets come to life, vendors return to their carts, women giggle with shopping bags, little boys run wildly down the streets and suited men heading hurriedly to work march down the road. The flowers seemed it glow a little brighter in their boxes, a sweet smell of fruit and honey filled the air. The cherry blossom trees bloom, despite not being in season.

To Yukio, this is the world now. Warm and inviting. Kind to him. 

The human psyche is such an evil thing.


They fly chaotically. Trying desperately to escape the rain of bullets that pummel them from every direction. The world has become a mess of smoke, where all he can hear are the screams and wails of comrades picked off one by one, he hopes that he can find a way out before he becomes just another obsolete tally on someone’s piece of expensive parchment paper. 

He is overcome with the urge to be more.

If he must be on the paper, he wanted to be written in large bold letters at the top, printed with expensive purple ink and written in beautiful handwriting.

If he must be a on the conscience of superiors he wanted to be a deep and burning scar. He wanted them to wake up in the middle of the night screaming, cursing themselves for killing him. He wanted them to secretly leave flowers at his grave and drink to his name.

This never happens.

There is a break in the suffocating smoke and he sees his target. With blood-red, furious eyes, he begins his deadly decent. The world seems to move to quickly around him as he flies.

They would remember him. He would make them remember him.


They arrive at a small antique shop near the end of the road. It is a modest place, the sort of little shop that makes you feel at home, like you were a part of the family. Flowers and a variety of other plant life bloom around the building, shrouding it in nature. It smells like sunshine, burnt sugar and fresh picked fruit.

Yukio freezes, stares at the building and smiles wide, an idiot laugh of joy leaping from his throat and echoing down the road.

“Welcome home,” chirps the boy before rushing inside.

Yukio follows him, nearly tripping over himself to reach the devilishly delicious smells wafting out the window.

The family sits waiting for him at an gigantic oak table, decorated with beautiful table cloths and precisely engraved animals across its sides. He had always loved the small middle spot with rabbits playing happily in the meadow.

The boy moves over so they can both share the spot, Yukio admires the rabbits, running a hand delicately across the surface.

After they sit, Father and Mother enter, Mother holds a tea set, smiling proudly at him. Father follows closely behind, nodding gently to him.

Here, they saved us a seat. Stay next to me and don’t interrupt.

Mother pours the tea gently into the cups and slowly begins to hand them out, Yukio and the boy accept theirs and nod their thanks. 

Oh, and don’t drink the tea. It will give you a rather terrible headache if you do.

We all sit in silence for a while, everyone’s eyes trained proudly on Yukio as he sips at his tea. He smiles up at them.

“It is so good to see you all, it’s been so long. I’ve missed you.”He remarks, trying and failing to express the epic happiness inside him.

No one replies. His father nods sadly, hypnotically, rocking gently in his chair. His mother bursts into tears. The little boy looks afraid, curled up in his chair, glancing up him nervously.

“We are so, so very proud of you,” whispers his father avoiding Yukio’s eyes and instead focusing on a the small threads of his vest.

His mother nods, tears of either joy or sadness still running down her face.

Yukio assumes it is joy. He hopes it is.

He is wrong.


The ship is closer now, he can just about see the terrified faces on the people onboard. He grins.

His entire fleet is nearly gone. Most were blown up far before they came anywhere near their targets. The few left skydive into the ocean, narrowly missing ships or they crash hard into the steel decks. He looks around at the terrible destruction surrownding him and frowns. He wants to go home. He wants to see his mother’s face and return to the small streets they used to inhabit. He wants to go back to being that small boy running down the road in his worn leather shoes and grey tweed pants. He wants cherry blossom trees and women giggling with shopping bags. He wants men rushing quickly to work. He wants warm food and tea.

As the deck of the ship comes closer he stares at one frozen American, his eyes wide in fear, his arms splayed out like a scarecrow.

The American screams.

Yukio screams back.


“Would you like more tea?” His mother questions, barely able to speak through her tears, a smile still stuck to her face like a stubborn leach.

Yukio ignores the way her hands shake.

He ignores the way his father rocks slowly.

He ignores the whimpering of the little boy.

He ignores the new stinging smell of gunpowder.

He ignores the screaming erupting behind him.

Calm. Be calm.

This is an honor.

They have to be proud.

I truly wish that they were, for his sake. What a terrible thing, to jump of a cliff alone and afraid, no one there to talk you out of it, no one there begging you to stay, making exotic promises on how life will be if you give it just one more shot. There are no police. No megaphones and screaming mobs. What a terrible thing to instead have a passionate audience cheering you on, making you believe things they dont believe themselfs. I wonder what it’s like to fall then. I’m sure they would stop cheering once you leap of the edge. Maybe in the air you would realize the flaw in your plan and wish you could go back, try again, cursing at the birds as they fly beautifully above you. And then you land and it’s over. That’s it. And if it’s not yet over you better pray it ends soon for your friends on the cliff have long since departed and forgotten about you.

Yukio stares in to the eyes of his mother as the world collapses around him.

Calm. Be calm.

This is an honor.

You are the divine wind.

July 03, 2020 16:08

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08:42 Aug 29, 2020

Excellent use of the present tense — you’ve kept up a breathtaking pace throughout. Very complex characterization! Only saw a few minor punctuation errors: “You aren’t very brave. Father would want you to get a hold of yourself,” the boy growls, appalled by Yukio’s desperate gasps between tears, drowning in the restless sea of his own sorrow.


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Ethernia Thiadi
09:18 Jul 08, 2020

The final line gave me chills. Aside from the grammar and spelling mistakes, this story has drawn me in, and the transition between his current situation to his delusions is very wonderful. Great use of imagery as well. I truly felt for Yukio Seki, great job portraying a kamikaze pilot's perspective. Wonderful concept and characterization.


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Lori Kuechler
11:19 Jul 06, 2020

I really enjoyed the idea of the child, and the perspective of approaching death with thoughts/memories of family. The doubts, and conviction all so very real. It's a dark place, well written. :)


B.T Beauregard
18:57 Jul 07, 2020

Thank you!! I really appreciate it, your comment just made my day :)


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Show 1 reply
21:29 Jul 29, 2020

Wow, wow, wow, YOU ARE SUCH A GOOD WRITER!!!


B.T Beauregard
22:03 Jul 29, 2020

Thanks!! I really appreciate it.


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