By GJ Hart
He was the guy they sent in after the oil dogs had sniffed out their sett. Flying over fever into one shack aerodromes, with nothing save clean underpants, a laptop and a smile like flaming banknotes.
Many years later, his money made, he bought a stately pile on a smooth hill in a village that hung from London’s arm like platinum.
In the grounds he found a barn set on stilts like mushroom caps. He spent two years and enough money to service a small nation’s debt, converting it into his own private cinema.
He furnished it with a screen big as the Parthenon Frieze and one, single seat. A seat upon which he spent most of his days, legs crossed beneath cold glass, watching old films filled with pirates and forest bandits.
One evening, his wife took the pathway through Italian gardens, leaving guests tasting wine in the house.
She listened at the door, heard him laughing and decided, now was perhaps not the right time.
As she walked back, she looked out over the hills. In the distance she could see the turbines turning, their sinewy arms muscling erratic passions.
White. But not as snow.
GJ Hart currently lives in Brixton, London and is published or cued in The Legendary, Schlock Webzine, Horror Within Magazine, Three Minute Plastic, Literally Stories, Fiction on the Web, Shirley lit mag, The HFC journal, Under the Fable, The Unbroken Journal, Yellow Mama, The Pygmy Giant, Flash Fiction Magazine,Spelk Fiction, The Drabble, The Squawk Back and 521 Magazine. Learn more at https://gjhart.wordpress.com/.