First the devil must convince us
our dreams are real.
A torquoise sky, calm seas, in the shadow of the pavilion’s shell: an ugly room, a snapped ankle, an abscess curing beneath an air-con unit hacking as Kukacoins and Zeocoins lutz across a screen fringed with the cataracts of cracked equations
You are safe for now.
Counters spin like the pinions of a hurricane, heart and bone – new memories – patches of damp, the nurse’s tattoos are faded but dangerous: a lassoed dolphin, a crucified Redhawk.
Swinging like a bare bulb, you catch the stink of juniper on the Doctor’s breadth.
The markets are tearing themselves down.
You switch perspective as your growth data bucks the screen like Kukulkan.
You are now just one algorithm short.
Your vision dims as one conductor nudges deeper into the gristle above your eye. The other burns so bad you can barely stay down.
Here time rolls between hemispheres as the moon plods over the horizon followed by all its idiots – should have listened, paid the bills, now the sockets are withered, the fridge filled with cold blue echos.
1) The markets have rallied.
2) Do not move.
You push the first into your chest, the next into your mouth, return to the terminal, enter the code you branded into your ankle with a glowing paper-clip.
Now Listen.
The markets are exploding like December skies. France is a tapestry of filaments, England dark as eclipse.
No more now.
They are here.
GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, The Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.
