Harajuku Flicker: A Short Novel of Recurring Nows
The crêpe tasted of neon and fractured dreams. Not the sweet, strawberry-laden delight I craved after navigating the chaotic kaleidoscope of Harajuku, but the cloying, artificial tang of something…looped. I almost threw it away.
The girl with the rainbow hair giggled, a sound as sharp and bright as shattered glass. She wore platform boots that added an extra foot to her already imposing presence, and her eyes, framed by thick lashes and glitter, held a knowing glint.
“First time?” she asked, her voice a synthesized melody.
I stared at her, the half-eaten crêpe a sticky weight in my hand. “First time for what?”
She gestured vaguely around us, encompassing the throngs of cosplayers, the blaring music, the overwhelming sensory assault of Takeshita Street. “For this, of course.”
“This is just Harajuku,” I said, feeling a slow burn of irritation. “It’s always like this.”
Her smile widened, revealing a row of perfect, unnervingly white teeth. “Is it? Or is it always becoming this? The same…but different.”
I took another bite of the crêpe, the artificial sweetness clinging to the roof of my mouth. I thought about the morning. I’d woken up with the distinct impression of having already lived it. The crowded train, the stale coffee from the vending machine, the exact same argument with my boss about the revised marketing campaign. The details, the emotional undercurrents – all precognitively familiar.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Time, darling. It’s not a straight line. More like…a glittery mochi, constantly folding in on itself. Harajuku is just where the folds are thinnest.”
I looked around again, this time with a different perspective. The faces seemed subtly altered, the music a dissonant echo of something I couldn’t quite place, the fashion choices a bizarre remix of past trends and future fantasies. It was all…familiar, yet fundamentally wrong. Like a photograph printed with reversed colors.
A wave of nausea washed over me. The crêpe, the rainbow-haired girl, the entire street—it all felt like a recurring nightmare.
“How do I get out?” I asked, my voice trembling.
The girl shrugged, a cascade of iridescent fabric rippling around her. “Get out? Why would you want to get out? This is where the real fun begins.” She pulled a small, mirrored compact from her pocket and checked her reflection. “Besides,” she added, her voice muffled by the compact, “you’ve already been here a thousand times. You just don’t remember.”
She snapped the compact shut and offered me a dazzling, unsettling smile. “Want another crêpe?”
I dropped the half-eaten monstrosity on the ground and ran.
I didn’t know where I was running to, only that I had to escape the saccharine prison of Harajuku, the looping echo of time, the knowing smile of the girl with rainbow hair. And even as I ran, I knew, with a chilling certainty, that I would be back. Again and again. Trapped in the glittering, inescapable vortex of recurring nows.
The Aftertaste
Later, I realized the crêpe hadn’t just tasted of artificial sweetness; it had tasted of inevitability.