a Typhoon in April
The scent of a foreigner’s potpourri decorates the young dolls whose excessively tattoo shoes mark them as impossible housewives. These grateful and guilty onyx tinted officers of excess melt inside a conclusion of access to modern prescriptions and jealousies.
_____Their hostess, Yui, suspects the compulsory motives of beauty, lust and job – scabs from lost letters now burrowed epidermal deep by half-eaten loves. “Everybody is a mistake, a victim, a ghost but with us girls a suspect is underground.”
_____Warm tea melts the bias patterned dream of a Sunday in Yokohama, “No, it won’t stop, inconsistencies, after-parties, vacations.”
_____Relaxed and excessive, Miyumi’s dangerous tears collapse a second wall and the whole peeks at rope persuasions and disproportionate motives of struggle and compulsive trust in a remodelled kitchen house.
_____Yui’s clothes scream future but are jaundiced by art, “Quit watching and arrange a mistake.”
_____Miyumi mulls access to a horrible act, a goblin of a storm that lashes to rip, to lacerate and to expel the second suspect in her house.
_____Somebody gratefully lassos her fancy, “No one loves the job of an immigrant harp.”
By early morning Geoffrey Miller is a writer of flash and science fiction, some of which has appeared in Crack the Spine, Midway Journal, and the Ilanot Review. By night he is the editor of NUNUM and a very slow jogger.
