The third prize this year went to “Harukaze” by Anna Quinn (Pittsburgh, USA). Judges were impressed by how within 300 words the author introduced three generations of women with their strong and weak points. The beginning and end of the story provide a pleasing framework that contrasts the simplicities of nature with the troubled world of human existence. Traditional characteristics, such as the sensitivity to nature and avoidance of conflict, are interwoven with different senses – the sound of the uguisu (Japanese bush warbler), the moulding of dough, the sight of the ‘crater’ in the midst of the wagashi sweet. There’s a strong Kyoto feel, and all in all, this was a fine example of what the judges hoped for in the competition.

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“Harukaze” by Anna Quinn

The uguisu’s breeding call, a fast and shrill sound that slowly rolled into alternating high and low pitches, echoed throughout the workshop. Hina tilted her head towards the shoji and strained to listen to the reminder that spring had descended upon Higashiyama.
“Next, we use the wooden pick to carve the petals…” Hina’s mother, Hanako, patrolled the cozy room of students, clad with aprons and eyes betraying their curiosity for wagashi making.
At sixteen, Hina could think of no fewer than 24 seasonal varieties of jou-namagashi that appeared in the window of the Wakamura confectionery shop each year. Despite years of training, however, the mochi flour invariably sank under her hands, twisted crookedly with every attempted crisp turn of the dough.
Suddenly, Hina’s mother’s footsteps came to a stop. “Your folds are sloppy,” her mother warned, and with a gentle press of Hanako’s thumb, the delicate dough dipped inwards upon itself, revealing a bud-sized crater in the middle of the blossom-shaped sweet.
Hina pushed her stool back. “I’ll get the tea for the guests,” she called, ignoring her mother’s weary reprimands. From the other side of the door, she closed her eyes and heaved a sigh.
“Hina-chan,” drawled a soothing voice, accompanied by the scuffle of slippers. Hina looked down the hall. Grandma Wakamura, carrying a tray packed with tea bowls, stepped carefully along the carpeting.
“Granny.” Hina’s face lit up. “Let me.” She took the tray cradled in her grandmother’s hands, trying not to notice the way it trembled in the older woman’s grasp.
“I suppose neither one of us is suited for this,” her grandmother said. Hina’s eyes widened with worry, but she was met with not a diatribe, but a wink. Hina began, “Granny, I don’t—“
“Hush,” her grandmother interjected. “Listen.”
   Ki-ki-ki-ki-kyo, kyo, kyo. The uguisu.