It is a summer afternoon, waking from an idle slumber with night sweats and chills. There is no sign of anyone in the room, on the dining table is a piece of paper left by the tax inspector, an escargot fork with hair shining like maple syrup curled around it. The floor is littered with old family albums and souvenir photos of parents in fancy dresses with big smiles. As if bandits had sneaked in. Time fades quietly in the sunlight through the kitchen window. 

Goblins hatched from the graveyard play tricks with humming in the town square. The zelkova tree standing on the patio grows bigger, leafier and more colourful over the years. When the shadows of clouds disappear into the sky opening up wide. Every day at a fixed time between 4pm and 7pm, the dusk-clad postman delivers parcels sealed with a fairy tale.

The phone rings.

“The night will soon be upon us.”

A bemused voicemail streams out of the lemonade bubbling in the tumbler glass.

…

hiromi suzuki is a poet, fiction writer, artist living in Tokyo. Her writing has appeared in 3:AM Magazine, RIC journal, Berfrois, Minor Literature[s] and various literary journals on-line.