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  • Writer's picturebucky

"Coin, Final, Retire" (2023)

๐šŒ๐š˜๐š’๐š—, ๐š๐š’๐š—๐šŠ๐š•, ๐š›๐šŽ๐š๐š’๐š›๐šŽ;

Staring into the bathroom mirror, Bailey was ๐˜ด๐˜ถ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ he was hallucinating.

Caught in the swell of his cheek, ridged lines seemed to push outwards from within. Watching in real time as the skin whitened around them, the pressure mounted behind stretching skin, further, further, until finally, with a small pop, the flesh tore open... Pushing a single, gold coin out of Bailey's cheek and sent careening into the porcelain sink below.

Aghast, the brunette thirty-something stared at the offending coin. It was about the size of a two pound coin, entirely gold, with ridged edges and a strange, curved insignia in the centre. It was bloody, obviously, having taken some shredded flesh with its expulsion, the pink tatters clinging to the edges.

Before Bailey could look back up, tend to his mysterious, lucrative wound, the pressure returned. Passing more quickly this time, Bailey barely had time to frown in confusion as another coin plopped out of his face and joined the one already in the sink.

A third, a fourth, coming quicker and faster now, gold coins began erupting out of Bailey's face. The old route seemingly no longer efficient, brand new, gaping exits opened up across his face, each one bursting with new, fresh coins. The pressure would be temporarily monumental as each one forced itself through his flesh, quickly easing as the first burst through, making safe passage for the flowing riches.

With a sink spilling over with gold, Bailey would have enough to retire on. He could live out his days on some exotic beach, sipping mimosas without a care in the world, watching the sunset and sunrise as he pleased.

That was, until, the coins filled his eye sockets, his airways, every canal and passageway in his fragile human body contorted and warped as riches pushed through and filled them up. Coins squeezed into the chambers of his heart, choked his lungs, forced their way into the folds and curves of his brain until grey matter became gold, until Bailey was little more than a convulsing, dribbling ATM.

Originally written and shared as part of Verbuary 2023:

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