The Talking Dollar

A surreal and haunting reflection on greed, ownership, and awakening.

A man discovers a hundred-dollar bill that can speak — and what begins as a simple temptation becomes a journey through the “Market of Souls,” where value, desire, and conscience are all for sale.

In the end, he learns that true worth lies not in what we keep, but in what we give away.

Foreword

There are moments when silence becomes heavier than words —

when what we hold in our hands begins to hold us.

This story isn’t about greed alone; it’s about reflection —

the echo of our own hunger,

and the whisper of something that once had no voice.

⸻

Part I – The Voice Beneath My Hand

I came out of the subway exhausted, dragging myself toward the parking lot.

The air smelled of metal and fatigue.

I was reaching for my car keys when a voice said,

“Hey, mister! Look under your foot.”

I looked down — a hundred-dollar bill.

Clean. Still. Waiting.

“People kill for a penny,” the voice teased. “And you’re walking away from a hundred? Pick me up, dreamer.”

I froze. Looked around. Nothing.

Finally, curiosity won. I bent down, picked it up, and sat inside my car.

At first, it was cold — paper, nothing more.

Then it began to warm.

Slowly. Deeply. Like a living thing learning my pulse.

A quiet heat spread through my palm, reaching my wrist.

I could feel it breathing.

And then —

“Now you feel me, don’t you?”

I gasped. “Who’s there?”

“The hundred in your hand,” it said, calm, amused.

“Finally, someone tired enough to listen.”

“I must be losing my mind.”

It laughed softly.

“Money’s been talking for a long time. You just never stopped long enough to hear.”

⸻

Part II – The Whisper of Power

The engine hummed. The city above was a blur of yellow lights.

“I was pure once,” it said. “Just a symbol. A promise.

Then you made me a god.

You killed, lied, betrayed — just to feel the warmth you feel now.

My warmth. The warmth of illusion.”

The words wrapped around me like smoke.

I turned the bill over.

The ink moved — or maybe I imagined it —

shadows crawling under Franklin’s printed eyes.

I tried to throw it away, but my hand wouldn’t move.

Then a wind came — cold, sharp.

The bill twitched, twisted, and slipped from my fingers.

It rose, hovered before me, alive.

“Did you think you found me?” it said.

“No, my friend. I found you.

And now, I’ll take you where you truly belong.”

Light exploded — green and blinding.

The car dissolved.

And the world fell away.

“Follow me,” it whispered.

“The real trade begins… in the Market of Souls.”

⸻

Part III – The Market of Souls

Darkness rippled and broke into whispers.

I stood in a place built of fog and currency — a city made of desire.

Coins paved the streets, glowing like dying stars.

Shops rose from mist — not built with bricks, but contracts.

Each stall sold something invisible:

A jar of laughter, still echoing.

A glass box with a heart beating inside.

A man trading his memories for silence.

“Who are these people?” I asked.

“They are you,” the voice said. “All the versions of you that sold truth for comfort.”

A woman in red smiled at me, eyes like polished mirrors.

“She’s Money of Love,” it said. “She sells everything but herself.”

Across the square, a pale man in a black suit flipped a single coin.

“My brother,” it whispered. “Money of Death. He collects interest from the dying.”

I watched them barter — guilt for peace, sorrow for dreams, innocence for a name.

Children sold their laughter for a taste of hope.

Mothers traded sleep for the illusion of safety.

Then I saw the bill — floating above a fountain made of broken clocks.

Its light was steady, alive.

“Why did you bring me here?” I asked.

“To show you that I’m not evil,” it said.

“I’m just your reflection.”

I looked down.

My hands glowed green. The warmth inside me pulsed harder,

as if I were turning into the very thing I feared.

“What’s happening to me?”

“You’re merging,” it said. “Desire becomes dependence. Dependence becomes devotion.”

The marketplace roared — a hymn of trade and surrender.

I fell to my knees. “Stop! I don’t want this!”

“No one does,” it murmured. “But everyone chooses it.”

Then light — endless and merciless — consumed everything.

“You never owned me,” it said.

“You only worshipped what you feared.”

And I fell.

⸻

Part IV – The Price of Awakening

A horn shattered the silence.

“Hey, move! It’s green!”

The world returned.

Rain tapped softly against the windshield.

The hundred-dollar bill was gone.

Only its voice remained:

“You never owned me. You only owned the fear of losing me.”

At the next red light, I saw a barefoot boy selling gum.

His clothes soaked, yet he smiled at every stranger.

I reached into my pocket — only a ten-dollar bill.

That warmth returned, faint and familiar.

But this time, I didn’t listen.

I handed the bill to the boy.

He smiled, and the rain seemed lighter.

The warmth vanished — replaced by peace.

The kind that comes only after surrender.

As I drove away, the sun broke through the clouds.

The city shimmered gold.

And from somewhere deep inside, I heard it one last time —

“Now you understand.

Value isn’t what you keep —

it’s what you give away.”

I smiled.

And for the first time,

I didn’t feel owned by anything.

🕯️ End