UPDATE: The winner is…Mary Preston!
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“Matsuri” by D.S. Dehel – An American woman searching in Japan for the man haunting her dreams is chased by a wily kitsune into a magical place where she meets a samurai warrior

One of the rare times I did a mood board for a project, I stumbled across this image and was struck deeply by what is to me a paradox: I adore fall, but there’s a melancholy atmosphere to this image, a feeling of being forgotten. This is how the heart of “Matsuri” was born. Yume is a samurai god who is still venerated, but not much thought about by his descendants.  Imagine his joy when he discovers a woman has come to see—and worship—him. As for Hanna, she’s been fated to find her soulmate, and has searched a long time. It just takes some magical intervention and one steamy night.

Snippet from “Matsuri”…

How do I ask for his name?

But the only words she could remember were rude. Finally, she blurted out, “Hanna desu.” She tapped her chest. “Hanna.”

“Ah.” He straightened and flashed a sun-bright smile. “Hanna. Yume desu.” He tapped his chest. “Yume.”

“Yume.” She suspected his name was far longer.

More silence, but this time, he opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. A moment later, he repeated the action. She stared, fascinated with how handsome he was when animated. Finally, he huffed a frustrated growl and stormed out of the room.

While she waited, she sipped the tea. Over the past few weeks, she’d drunk a lot of green tea, but this was by far the best. When he returned, she pointed to the cup. “Oishi desu. This is delicious.”

He bowed a thank you, then placed a tray on the table before returning to his seat. On it sat three leaf-shaped cakes and a pair of chopsticks. Carefully, he set the plate and chopsticks before her. “Taberu.” He pointed at the cakes, then at her, then mimed eating. “Taberu.”

Stunned at his bossiness, she contemplated the cakes. “What is it?”

“Taberu.” He nudged the plate.

“Eat it. Hmm.” She used the chopsticks and picked up one delicacy. “What is it?”

“Taberu.”

“What. Is. It?” She shoved the chopsticks at him.

“Iie.” He sighed and used his fingers to take the cake from the sticks. Then he broke it in half and popped it in his mouth. After a few seconds of exaggerated chewing, he swallowed, then opened his mouth to show her he’d done so.

Part of her knew she probably shouldn’t eat whatever this was, but she felt safe and secure in her fairytale. The cake tasted of red bean at first, then bursts of strawberry and something citrus. “Oh, that’s heavenly.”

If she’d thought he lit up before, he was incandescent now. The words began as incomprehensible babble, then a sound came as if a dial was being turned. “It is good, isn’t it?”

The sticks slipped from her fingers and clattered on the table. “I understood you.”

“Yes? I’m glad.” He picked up his cup. “This is so much better, isn’t it?”

“How?” She picked up her own cup, then set it down again. “How?” But she knew the answer. “Magic.”

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About the Author

D.S. Dehel is a lover of literature, good food, and the Oxford comma. She adores literary allusions, writing sex scenes, and British men. Actually, make that men in general. Her beloved husband is still convinced she writes children’s books. Please don’t enlighten him.

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