They Have Blood Oranges in Cyprus

By Kerry Rawlinson

Hoodie pulled low, he slouches in his chair, fingers flying over the keyboard like appendages to fantastical AI constructs. It’s the last day before year-end. Maintain awareness at all times, is his fleeting thought to himself as his digits tingle in the cold. He can see his breath.

"Crap-opolous!" comes the asthmatic roar from the far, front entrance to The Floor.

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Kerry Rawlinson

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