The sky is deep blue the sun shines its ultraviolet light.
Summer is perfect, a plane the size of a grain lets out a faint whistle.
Above the rows of Japanese houses, this plane leaves a trail of vapor smoke.
Across from me, a family opens a Shinto shrine gathering around light, a small candle fire.
The shrine is outside their doorsteps. I walk to listen to the radio’s latest news inside my house.
The notch is turned all the way up. It’s the latest story of the Tokyo firebombing massacre.
Something parachutes down. The news said its clear, it is just a spy plane; no air raid massacre.
The innocent chute creeps closer to the suburb. The chute cast rays of an auspicious light.
The shine of a second sun appears making the paint job sizzle inside my house.
A gust pushes forward then pulls me outside. Solid walls become mist while the air whistles.
Everything the mist touched sparked a slow, wild, parasitic fire.
I can hardly see a typhoon made of fire, gust, and smoke.
From far, the second sun sprouted a long tree of thick, cloudy smoke.
People who stood close to the light, magnetic push, shattered like a glassy massacre.
Those who were caught by the mist, their skins hissed, formed bubbles, sparks of fire.
Eyes boiled to tears leaving dark holes all because they stared right at the light.
The tree made of thick clouds roars a terrible roar. Its growl dies down into a pervasive whistle.
I looked. I saw my home shrink then expand. The hot wind carries the remains of my house.
I see only my eyelids, then a blur. Large flames dance on top of my neighbor’s house.
I imagined its destruction right before debris smashed, fused, and carried away by windy smoke.
Dry blood trail down my ears because the wind hisses into a sharp whistle.
This is not a normal massacre.
This all came from that overlooked, auspicious light.
Who would have thought its brightness can bury a whole city in a blanket of fire.
Survivors squeeze through rubble and sojourn in a world of brimstone, and blankets of fire.
A family walk towards a river and away from the tangled mess of their house.
Blobs of skin hang from their forearms. Their stiff walk was caused by those rays of light.
With what is left of the creature’s good eye, it sees arising from the water, smoke.
All jumped in. Minutes after, human backs surfaced like buoys. They dived into their massacre.
On one of their backs, a gargling sound surrounds the jaw and dies to a bubbly whistle.
Life comes back. I get up and take a deep breath. A sharp stab comes in like faint whistles.
I limp toward the river and take a good look. But, a shiver comes. My insides burn by a cold fire.
Why are there floating backs? No matter what we do, were destined to this mosaic massacre.
Where is The Rising Sun? Does the Emperor know that the erased once made up a house?
A people of once flesh and bones now drown in sizzles of dust, and smoke.
A city of people now becomes a wasteland—all because of that flashing light.
The sky is a blend of amber and autumn along with gray smoke. The gust howls and carries debris. The sky rains black acid rain, yet the brimstone flames do not cease. My lungs freeze. I fall to my knees and collapse sideways. I face what’s left of my house.
Twisted metal, splintered planks, and concrete pebbles pepper the earth. The only thing that stands atop is a dancing fire.
A scratching wheeze escapes my voice. I vomit black blood to the side. The shivers intensify into stabbing needles; it grips my lungs and squeeze. Then, exhaustion takes me. My limbs fall loose. There, I see a black light.