Clockwise Rain

The Price of Things
By Gj Hart
I was stupid, not paying attention and now the house prices are rising and I'm exposed. I
live in a place where tides meet. A nexus of doffed hats and carriages and lies stuffed
with additives and the truth is: they’ll never know. Here, the starving split seats and the
rich pound rubber piped from gun barrels. Where nostalgia is the taste of Mie Goreng,
costing more than rent on the home they left to afford more than Mie Goreng. Where the
poor hang mid-kiss, after money's crush is minted down to an electronic wink, bullet
hard.
I pass terraces bristling like weightlifters and townhouses that march toward the station
carrying lamp posts like umbrellas. My ear buds protect me from failed economics, but
not these prices that sweep me up with lucky cats and tambourines for Jesus. A man
passes, still smiling, in a phone kiosk smaller than a restaurant toilet. Others cling to pita
and cement sacks stuffed with Senbei.
In the distance I see them, Sailing slowly up Hill Street, Scented like roses and looking to
trade with sweetness and the glint snapped from budding stones.
They loosen ties and discuss where best to eat.
I was stupid, not paying attention. I point myself toward an unlatched window. The house
prices are rising and I'm exposed.
Author bio: Gj Hart currently lives and works in Brixton, London and is published or
queued in The Legendary, Yellow Mama, Spelk Fiction, Schlock Magazine (UK), Horror
Within Magazine, Three Minute Plastic, Literally Stories, Fiction on the Web, Shirley lit
mag, The HFC journal, Under the Fable, The Unbroken Journal, The Pygmy Giant, Flash
Fiction Magazine, The Drabble, The Squawk Back, 521 Magazine, Visual Verse, Fewer
Than 500 Magazine, Scrutiny Journal and others.