The Hungry Algorithm

 

 

A speck of dust moves around a match flame. We go in circles to go forward. We blow out our candles, but only fools bother to make a wish.

 

Unpaid bills whisper on the kitchen table, and the refrigerator vomits synthetic light all over the linoleum. Something cold touches your shoulder, and the milk suddenly goes sour.

 

Freezing rain is falling hard like little suicides hitting the streets and the sidewalks. The bars have just closed, and a hedonist hurts in the wake of a cheap bourbon binge. The prophet is preaching, but the nihilist knows God is dead. Somewhere, the android is dreaming in algorithms again.

 

Your last dollar, your last chance. Match three like symbols to undo a lifetime of wrongs. Two pineapples appear out of the dust, but a horseshoe breaks the board.  The wind cuts into your marrow.  You should have bought a can of beans instead.

 

The Moon keeps watch with those empty impact crater eyes. It has no mega-meteors to report. No invaders from Mars, nor nearby exploding neutron stars. There will be no cosmic coup de grace. It's gonna be slow, and it's gonna hurt.

 

 

 

Sonny Traylor's professional writing has been limited to small, journalistic pieces. He hopes to break into the world of fiction soon. His real job is being a longshoreman on the Lake Erie Port of Cleveland. During his prime in 1993, he estimated there were less than five people on the planet who could seriously challenge him in a game of "Mortal Kombat" on Super Nintendo.