Whoever’s Buying All the Gold
Whoever’s buying all the gold is doing it fast, in secret, at double the rate of the previous quarter.
Whoever’s buying all the gold thinks in quarters, instead of sunrises, hangs blackout curtains to discourage natural influences, dissuade the day’s false starts and ends, persistence of rotating Earth.
Whoever’s buying all the gold is not a whoever, at all, is a country, or many countries, or a set of bots programmed by another bot, whispering pure binaries to its rapt progeny.
Whoever’s buying all the gold is me, I admit it, I don’t know how, I demonstrated against the Iraq War, in Boston, decades ago, but now I’m doing this, I’m sorry, I can’t stop.
Whoever’s buying all the gold trawls every bit of text online, about the purchases, and applies each supposition, every right or wrong hypothesis toward buying more gold.
Whoever’s buying all the gold tries to convince friends about biphasic sleep, says, “We weren’t meant to spend the night away, in dreams,” and gets angry when the friends point to jobs, family, children, as excuses, yes, just excuses, thinks whoever’s buying all the gold, for not daring to be different, not harkening back to what we used to be.
Whoever’s buying all the gold orders more blackout curtains, but doesn’t pay for them in gold.
Whoever’s buying all the gold was on the way to a date, years back, crossing Boylston Street, not paying close attention to the protest up ahead, and as a result got hit in the face with a polyurethane-carved yellow ingot, which was much less heavy than an actual bar of gold.
Whoever’s buying all the gold is also buying all the CPAP machines, so everyone with apnea is forced to wait, gasping in bed, till dawn, until the manufacturers can meet the new demand.
Whoever’s buying all the gold cannot imagine that it was once in the ground, is sure that it’s imaginary, which may make it more valuable.
Whoever’s buying all the gold walked up to the woman who threw the piece of foam, and said, “Do you want it back?” and she said, “Sorry, I thought you were a capitalist, the way you’re dressed,” and he said, “No, I’m on my way to meet someone,” and she asked, “Are you registered to vote?” and he responded, “Exactly, why all the theatrics? It should be, you vote for someone, and if they do a bad job, you vote them out,” and she said, “This,” pointing to the swelling crowd, and “this,” taking more fake metal chunks out of her bag, “are to remind us what’s at stake.”
Whoever’s buying all the gold eats all the steak on the plate, on the date.
Whoever’s buying all the gold is still awake, though it’s been days, and years, and empathies, and open-pit mines, and time, sweet time, which has a price, higher every moment that goes by.
FROM THE AUTHOR:
“I wrote this flash fiction after reading about the mystery surrounding the recent influx in gold purchases. I was reminded of the Iraq War protests, in Boston, almost twenty years ago now, all the people, the effigies, the flash and shock of costumes and home-made signs, complementing the chorus of voices, chanting dissatisfaction, wanting change. Countless painted backdrops and clever props - often tying together the war, money, oil, injustice - lent the scene a carnival quality that I've always wanted to write about.”
©2023 Thomas Mixon
THOMAS MIXON has fiction and poems published in Rattle, Sundog Lit, At Length, and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @truckescaperamp.