Creative Writing, Venue

Bitcoin beach

I arrived at bitcoin beach. Picked up a coin and flipped it into the sea. I watched it smack the water then glimmer to the bottom. It hit the water but hadn’t made a sound. I squirmed my feet in the sand of dulled gold and the pieces caved and fell over my toes until I couldn’t see them. They were hollow like bottle-caps but felt to my feet as heavily bolstered as cement.
I reached down to grab another. Looked at it, tipping precariously on my finger. The gold came away, thick and chocolatey. I rubbed it between finger and thumb and the thing started to disappear. I picked up another and it did the same, disappearing faster than the first. Quick, I shovelled a handful into my pocket, grabbing great amounts of them, packing my body with their hollow-weight. My pockets were empty before I reached for another, hands like spades hitting the bottom of my hard leather apron. The sun began to dribble into the sealine, splitting into fractures of pinks and whites. I would try one more time before it got dark. I marched up the beach, watching my pockets as I ran. The bitcoins filtered away the faster I moved, thighs rubbing and hitting them. Their silent jangling teased me, almost like they were giggling amongst themselves in their pact to vanish. Meddling bits of schadenfreude. They wet my pouch with gold.

I reached the pavement. I checked, my spade-hand searched the tough sutures plaiting the cold animal hide. To no avail? Then, one – Cold and hard. I slipped it out, threw it between two hands. It now had the weight of a pound coin. I checked my hands, no golden residue. It stayed, reluctantly bold on my palm.

21/11/2017

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Freya Broomfield


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