A Bento is Like a Love Letter

With each step to the main hall of the shrine, Satoshi’s heart was swinging between the thought of the wish and letting loose of love. The only thing he wanted from the shrine – where he almost never entered – was for his wish to be granted true, no matter how unlikely it was for him, Takuma Shijou, to accept a love confession from a guy. A guy! A guy having a crush on this heaven-sent prince, who had already enough girls surrounding him, trying to gain his favor – and one of his gay classmates? That was how everyone else, if they weren’t treating him as Takuma’s confident friend, looked upon him. Real life just wasn’t some yaoi romance fiction that offered much less for homoerotic – or just homosexual affection. Hope appeared dim for him, and only divine intervention could reverse this – as far as he wished. He was sweating from all the nervousness of reminding all those laughter in the dark, behind his back, for trying to take someone of the wrong sex, and a well-regarded one at that. Is being born gay a sin? Was it really needed for him to treat Takuma as just a friend – an affectionate one, instead of someone to be a partner with?
By then he was slowing at the middle of the steps, weighted down by the overwhelming indecision. But somehow, he needed to get to the top of it – someone was waiting for him, no matter what, maybe a change of mind, or some reasons for loving him or not. Besides, if he decided to wish something else, it could have been his middling grades or a better chance at entering the major he had been looking up to…
For the shrine itself, other than some of the more established gods and goddesses who bless the self-fulfilling, there was an Inari who, as local legends alleged, knew the quick way to succeed at anything. Sooner or later after the prayer, anyone in real desire to achieve would get an inspiration they never had in mind before, and that was said to the minds in a sweet mumble – the Inari answering and guiding them. Shake it off as a figment of imagination, and life went on. Take it and act exactly to her words, as some of them said, and life would turn in favor of their wish in unexpected but reasonable ways. This Inari – if the legends of the faithful were honest – would be the best girl in Satoshi’s life.
Now that he was standing in one of the side halls dedicated to Inari, he couldn’t help but to look at the offerings: a few cartoon animal plushes littering around the tables, some of them coated in dust and one or two with bright, new fur; a few bottles of tea, mostly cheap matcha pulled out from the vending machine downstairs, but one of them stood out for being Taiwan Oolong. The last one – almost obligatory by the legends – was where the subtly putrid tint came from. Onigiri piling up – if the Inari was real, she would have eaten some of them. This won’t be convincing enough for him to abandon the wish. He genuinely hoped for the onigiri he offered, made by his own hands, to be a price for summoning the Inari.
Alright, off to the main hall for some general school blessings. “Hey, what’s this, a shrine maiden slacking off?” A strange shrine maiden indeed, sleeping on the donation box and blocking any pious donations – or was she a shrine maiden? As much as her golden hair ply on the top of the wooden box, solar under the spring warmth, a pair of canine ears protruded seamlessly. The garment barely covering her and revealing her squeezing mammaries wasn’t properly what those serving or part-timing her would wear, but a scant blood-red kimono. And tails folded and unfolded on her back along with the bells and red-white ropes, one or two close to sweeping her crimson-tinted eyes.
Wiping his eyes didn’t send the Inari away; she was here, in a deep afternoon slumber. The problem was, she was taking her nap on the donation box – no wonder why some of them in the line before him turned away, apparently having a sudden change of mind. Throwing a few coins – bouncing off her skin and hit the ground. Satoshi reasoned, if Onigiri had been the most popular offering, could it have been her favorite food – and could it wake her up? Throwing Satoshi’s onigiri – she stirred at the vinegar stint, overturning and fixing her arm for the onigiri. Once grabbing the riceball, she was almost ready to sit upright and prepare for standing up, an eye tightly shut and the other half open. 
“Eh… this onigiri, Inari really like your own cooking… Um, a bento’s like a love letter, right? Inari’s so drowsy now…”
A voice from the back cut off Inari’s sentence. “I’m sorry, but please do not throw your onigiri to the donation box – a reminder for you to recognize its use.” Satoshi turned to see a nondescript shrine maiden, a plain and featureless staff comparing to Inari. Apparently, she wasn’t someone endowed with any divine power, since there hadn’t been an Inari lying on the box. “If you wish to offer to the resident Inari, please proceed in this direction and…” “Apologies, but I have already offered in the hall.” “Then…” Now knowing what she didn’t witness with her normal eyes, Satoshi had some white lie to tell. “And as you can see,” he turned his head to the box, “there was no onigiri left on the box, meaning that I have not thrown anything other than donations.”

Was it just his own hallucination and illusion that the Inari did answer his prayer, and was annoyed by him to the point that, as a vengeful trick, her voice was repeating the 4 dishes in his mind all the way on his trip back home? The same 4, starting from a whisper on the train, but increasingly loud and mesmerizing as he came close to his residence, until he was able to note them in reverse order: fried rice, ham-and-egg sushi rolls, tamagoyaki and salmon sushi. Yes, even Inari had a better taste than onigiri and knew what the best for the bento would be. With those in mind, he was hesitantly standing in front of the door, the key in hand grasping and ungrasping.
He decided to try anyway, after another trip to the supermarket for the needed ingredients. Those were more complex dishes than plain onigiri, but if he didn’t try, he won’t know if the Inari was real or just a figment of his imagination. If the Inari was real, the she might subtly change enough to aid him; or else, sending Takuma-kun a bento would still be a nice “expression of love”! Besides, he had better cooking skills than just onigiri – even though not cooking in ages.
The second thing he’ll need was getting into the right shape for cooking – and into the right persona for confessing like a girl. Sneaky Inari for injecting ideas into his stream of thought. Though being as tanned as him from being athletic might be far from some of those pale, quiet girls, he was still as convincing enough as he could to be “just a tanned school girl” – short stature, some nice make-up to take the most out of his already watery eyes and flushing cheeks, the right amount of padding, a good costume and wigs – after occasionally cosplaying and crossdressing for a few years, he knew fully what it takes to change his gender. Yes, a good costume and wigs, the female winter uniform’s necessary if he was to enter the school without rousing a few disciplinary eyebrows, long fed up with “her”. For the wig, it also had to be the usual one for school – long flowing black hair, tied into a back-reaching ponytail. “Her” usual school self was just handy for this love confession. If a guy confessing to his boyfriend was a laughing stock, then a “girl” would be far above the shame.
More time spent in the room, and a near-unrecognizable “girl”, in her usual serafuku, opened the door, passing to the miniscule kitchen. Good thing “her” mom was away for some community activity that left some time and space for her to mess around with the kitchen. “She’s” all ready for the great cooking in her apron!
Sooner or later “she” was holding the saucepan, slightly unwieldy for “her” than the last time “she” ever touched it, but still firmly throwing the mass of rice and choppings into motion. Wiping “her” sweat a bit, “her” hand – finer than ever – pulled out a streak of the long hair from the wig, so much like the real deal grown out from the scalp. And good thing “her” marine-colored lenses stopped soring “her” eyes, they were now no longer a pesky little annoyance! Getting tamagoyaki fried and cut was as simple as it got, the egg squishing as much as “her” full plumps on the chest. Quickly “she” was starting to test out the right mix of marinade for sushi rice, mixing tints of the right juice into the little dish of vinegar. Drops of this blend flowed down her throat, lightening the dry and stressed throat as far as clearing “her” voice, now octaves higher. At last, after wrapping up the bento, a gush of blushing just ran over “her” whole petite body – just getting crushed by the prospect of confessing to Takuma as a “girl” rather than his little boy! Instead of a little boy wishing, “she” might be one of those girls chasing after the prince – which would at least mean a few pairs less of glaring eyes.

Springtime and cherry blossoms – what a convenient backdrop for a romantic confession. “Akatsuki” was even more anxious to anticipate the man of “her” love letter – her tantalizing bento – Takuma Shijou. The warmth was almost freezing “her” from inching nearer to the campus. Would the prince accept a lowly “girl’s” bento, who had already redressed and refigured “herself” enough to be a crossdressing “girl”, one not too far from the mass of girls and boys chasing and leading him at the gate… But this time, as “Akatsuki” realized, was a far bigger crowd than the usual lovers. “Hanaori-chan? What’s up with prince Takuma-kun?” Just another familiar pair of feet was reaching the crowd. “Eh, nothing but him rumored to leave Japan for good – stuff about emigration, following the steps of his father, leaving for better education, blablablah. And all those talks are real – today’s his last day in this school. Geez, are you trying to bring him a farewell present, Akatsuki?”
If he was leaving, there would never be a chance for “Akatsuki” to embrace him – he won’t need too much of a love interest who won’t be coming to whereever he was heading to, let alone a strange “girl”? Wouldn’t any confession just fall onto deaf ears if he needed no serendipitous love tying him back from leaving? She was not getting anywhere – she was failing before she tried to confess. There wasn’t a way for her to send the cuisinary “love letter” at all – what had Inari done in all of those?
A sudden need took “her” to the male toilet, locking herself in the cubicle for her own business. Panties down, and “she” worked “her” hand’s way to “her” groins. Instead of the manhood “she” was going to manipulate for peeing, there was only natural cavities just suiting the rest of her body and attire. How far had Inari gone to feminize her for just a confession! Even without one, Akatsuki just felt eerily natural, feeling nothing out of her bodily instincts, without also inverting her orientation to yuri – just the right body for many other boys.
If she wasn’t sending away the bento, she could just have it by herself – that was what she thought she would have for the midday meal. Or until Inari came – not Inari, but a school girl with flowing blonde hair and curvaceous, a copy of Inari down to the turquoise eyes, but without the fox ears or tails that would have stood out. Yawning for a sleep, she picked her spot for a nap just besides her, consciously so before asking Akatsuki: “fuu... still with the bento?"



Yes, the bento was just open, with only a piece of tamagoyaki picked out by a hamster. “Inari, even though I failed to confess, I would still be grateful to offer some of the… augh, do you want some of my bento? A sushi rolls of for starters?”

Written for a DeviantArt group.
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Cafe work

All art used here are under fair use.

Ice Cream of Change

Ice cream was my favorite. Only two kind of people love ice cream: little girls being handed one by parents or whosoever, and fat guys sitting in front of the TV watching reruns. To be honest, I’m the latter. While film goers prefer popcorn and some prefer bags of air (with some potato chips), I gulped loads of ice cream down my throat. In my fridge I always had 2 or 3 flavor, often 4 or 5. Every time I’m in Walmart or anywhere I would buy some ice cream.

I didn’t go out too often since I prefer staying at home outside of work, but sometimes I went to the nearby Six Flags with my 3rd grade boy. Once while walking pass the line of concession stands, my son pointed to a new ice cream stand, located where a bush had been last time we visited. It was not weird for stands to be added or removed, but my son was pulling me to the stand as if there was some attraction compelling him.

“You want ice creams? It takes you a lot of money here, you can have much more at home, and a lot of flavors!” But my son won’t stop pulling me. The attraction might exist, since we saw many other parents buying ice cream scoops for their children, while the candy shop opposite had lost most of their customers. Something might be weird, but still, I was being begged eagerly.

My son instinctively pointed to cookies n’ cream, his favorite and the only flavor he would eat. Defeated, I ordered what he want for him, and a chocolate flavored one for myself.

For some reason, the chocolate ice cream was more deeply flavored than what it seemed. The chocolate was not the one I usually had at home, but one that was crafted by one of the master chocolatiers, and seeped deep into my taste bud. It certainly was worth the popularity it had, and after that visit we would fetch some ice cream there.

Due to my frequent return I came to know the one selling ice creams. A woman in her late 30s, she usually tied her cream-colored hair into a short tail, and wore her own apron on top of the shirt. In fact, she rented an apartment the floor below, something I didn’t realize until meeting her. This meant that we meet quite often not in Six Flags, but much nearer to home.

From her I knew that her ice cream was homemade- I wondered how she could managed the time, but then, every night, while I was comfortably seated, she was working on new flavors restlessly, and this answered the chocolate ice cream’s taste, since she told me she ordered Belgian chocolate in bulk. We became good neighbors and exchanged often.

In return, I shared moments of my daily life, how I went to work and then sat in front of the TV for the rest of the day and night. “That’s not good enough,” she went on to encourage me to change, like when she quit her job to pursue her dream and set up the ice cream stand she had.

She wanted change for me, but not myself. I just wanted more TV time and scoops of ice cream, and she was not listened to at best, if not denied up front. That way, I continued my routine life, and licked from my spoon every night at 2, while my son was sleeping and the TV was on playing a DVD.

One day, she called me to her place, just to discuss her future since she claimed to be moving away to open a new shop on the West Coast. Seated, she ported a cone of mint chocolate ice cream, and which was said to contain some “special ingredients”. I didn’t know what special ingredients it had, but that “This is for me?” “Yes, please enjoy it and treat it as some kind of parting gift.” 

Upon tasting the ice cream with the spoon the woman gave him, the world around the fat guy started spinning. Strangely a mint-colored background, embroidered with chocolate stripes, formed. He thought it was some kind of psychedelic, since he was dazed by the flashy surroundings and the sickness it caused spread to his whole body, and even stranger, he could actually notice the surrounding getting larger, and himself shortening to a mere 4’4”.

Meanwhile, his fat belly disappeared, the fat being moved under the skin to all parts of his body, some to his chest and hips which were a bit thickened. While the shoulders collapsed, the proportions become more of a little girl than a fat guy, and so was the limbs and hands, being more refined and lengthy. Most of the body hair fell off, except those on the head, turning dark beige and growing rapidly, eventually tied into a twintail by an unseen force. The skin took on a lighter color, as smooth as a child. While the head became rounder, the eyes was larger and had amber color instead of the old blue, and the nose and mouth much smaller than before. The T-shift and shorts gave way for a cute chocolate and mint-colored dress, decorated with lushy green bows; new leather shoes and long mint socks replaced the worn sneakers. Finally, at the most intimate part, what had made the transformed one a man was no more, replaced by something appropriate for a little girl.

“Mama makes the best ice cream,” I said. Mama told me something I didn’t understand, “my girl, you are going to lead a new life from now on.”

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