Digital Ischemia

28/01/2012

Winter

Filed under: Jalopy — Teepwriter @ 10:32

Initially it all looks white.  Gradually your eyes discern contrast, shades, shapes.  The carse is blurred and simplified by thick snow.  Trees are diffused, fences diminished, the rising hills more distant.

Snaking in silent stillness, the charcoal river.  Scaured inharmoniously across the foreground, a charcoal road.

Your eyes, relaxed by the suspended vista, become aware of movement: green.  Such a scintillating lime green couldn’t have escaped your attention for long.  More remarkable is that this green moves, secretly, silently across a field, leaving no trace.  It’s not that the distance tricks your eyes; there are no tracks.

You allow your eyes to draw closer to the halting vehicle.  Its door hinges open, a wild Norseman unfolds from within and rises beside it.  This figure casually leans side to side, perhaps inspecting the car or stretching.

The deliberate driver gazes across the carse, scans an arc until he faces you.  You raise an arm.  He reciprocates and re-enters the cabin.  You retract your arm, surprised that you are palpitating.

The car glides to a gateway bordering the road, awaits an approaching car then joins the carriageway leading to you.

This vehicle pulls up like any other.  You stare for any clue.  Vaguely you reach for a non-existent door-handle.  The door opens.  Nicol Mor grins from the spacious, unfamiliar interior.  Your eyes flit around, seeking anything recognisable.  A seat is a start and welcomes your confused body into moulded jelly.  The door reseals with a gentle clunk.

Nicol chuckles softly.  You focus on the stingy window strip ahead, perturbed by scenery and road passing without you sensing movement.  He turns to you, one hand ruffling his hair, the other on his thigh.  His feet are similarly unoccupied.  He glances at something in the traditional visor area, shifts a knee, drawing your eyes to the sight of the ground receding from the floor.  A split windscreen then.

Finally your voice returns, after a fashion.
“You got it working?”
“Aye,” purrs Nicol, “more than working.”

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