April Yu

July 2, 2022


Friendship, like a roulette wheel, its rainbow-colored glass panes spinning into oblivion. Every twenty-four hours my new companion arrives, rosy-red or sparrow-blue or the golden hues of a sun not yet swallowed by sea. In the dark of the gambling halls, I’ll be a wraith festering in the scent of human bodies. Ankles locked without a key, chewing tobacco like every man must, swapping drinks that bleach my mouth sour green. Once I choke on the toxins enough, I’ll grow to like the taste. It’ll come my turn to leave neon souvenirs when I kiss my ghostly suitors goodbye. The little ball will tick-tick-tick along peeling panels in dingy light, spurning the dust of old men, breathing booze-tainted air in the few seconds it takes flight. Tick. I’ll get a green panel the color of my kisses. With my tongue pressed against yellowed teeth, my smile will sister a leer. I’ll take a bow to kismet and become famous as a self-made puppet. Grime, heat, and envy are the only tastes I know, but I wish I knew the underbelly of the deep sea. The next day, when I spin the wheel again, I’ll tuck a clover into my mouth and tell everyone it’s good fortune.

April Yu is a young writer from New Jersey with an affinity for language, running, and human anatomy. Although she was indeed born in April, her favorite season is winter. Her work has or is slated to appear in Milk Candy Review, The Aurora Journal, and Ice Lolly Review, among others. She is a graduate of the Alpha Workshop for Young Writers. Visit her on Instagram @aprilblossom, Twitter @aprilgoldflwrs, and at