Digital Ischemia



Filed under: Jalopy — Teepwriter @ 16:34

You marvel at rippling dunes of cloud, repeating a peach to mauve progression between ribbons of pure sky.  Your eyes drift down to peaks drizzled white on their northern faces then settle on something new.

You allow a grin at a perspective you’ve only imagined.  The charcoal river, the ranked pines, the furry moors glide beneath.  Embarrassingly your head tilts unconsciously with the banking.  You notice the glass between.

Nicol pilots attentively, with slightly forced nonchalance.  Is he concerned about your opinion or the integrity of the craft?  Has accounted for the weight in your pocket?  You plead for mindfulness.

Time to summon a first question; make it a good one.
“It doesn’t feel…  I thought I’d notice… turbulence?”  Not quite.
Nicol smirks as he down-shifts the intellectual level of his reply, “I pre-sense changes in air pressure and adjust.”
“When you turn or just coming up ahead?”  Awkward but passable recovery.
“I don’t distinguish.”

Nicol isn’t deliberately evasive; his frame of reference is quite warped.

“Where do you want to go?”  Enquiring after launching you into sensory bewilderment did not elicit a sensible or helpful answer.  You think, hope, he’s decided to confine this inaugural passenger flight to local, familiar territory, soft terrain, walking distance.  You remember blotting his blood even if he doesn’t recognise the scars.

Still it is remarkable.  A frisson of giddy giggling rushes up through your viscera.  You’re beyond self-consciousness now.  You reach in awe to the floor-screen, actually wishing people could see you.



Filed under: Stalker — Teepwriter @ 17:45

I edge along the chicken wire, scanning conifer needles and guano for colour.  A pheasant explodes from the cover of bracken, in a flapping, squawking frenzy.  As I return to earth myself, just as startled, I understand why they flee.

A rustle behind me.  It’s the breeze, I counsel myself as I twist too quickly for my scar tissue.

It’s him.  He reaches toward my wince, checks himself and steps back.  The face I remember looks rough, weary.  I hadn’t thought about him beyond my own purpose.  His body is scrawnier than I expected for the strength he managed.

“Will you take me back?”  My imperative.

“Do you need carried?”  He’s genuinely self-conscious.

“Not yet.” 


On cue my memory returns.  A completely unremarkable walk in the woods, right up to that moment.

There it is.  The ground is normal.  There’s no depression, no blood, no scar.  Only I hold on to that moment.

“I’m so sorry I shot you.”  He crumples.

“You didn’t shoot me.  You shot.”



Filed under: Stalker — Teepwriter @ 18:06

My mother’s unusually ethereal voice wafts into my attention.

“What were you doing wandering about up there? Frankly you were bound to get hurt.” The familiar reproach.

“Mum!” snaps my sister. The familiar dynamic.

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling, but lying in bed isn’t going to help anyone! You need to pull yourself out of this.” The familiar tense, queasy tingle.


“Where’s the guy?” Surely they heard me. I can’t expel more than a feeble hiss. This guy puckers his face a little. The girl contorts her face a little, deciding.

“We can’t tell you. You’re not pressing charges?” She appears to understand. I crank my head side to side: no. He took my pain away.


The girl is at the window. She catches my eye, breaks into a grin. My hope surges, I drag myself toward the doorway as she enters.

“How are you today?” I manage only a desperate smile.

“You look like you have more energy.” She did listen. Everyone else asks about my pain. I have no pain. I stare at her. Tell me, tell me, tell me.

“I understand you might manage an outing soon.” She’s not asking, just treading carefully. All my blood is rushing at my ears now. If she doesn’t give it up soon I’ll pass out. I’m tired of lying.



Filed under: Stalker — Teepwriter @ 17:16

Bounce, bounce, jiggle. He bumps me against a flat, hard surface.

“Help me!” He sounds more angry than desperate. A car door clicks and creaks open. Defensive aggression stumbles out.

“What the fuck are you doing?” This voice is tremulous and young.

“Bringing you your fucking hit, arsehole.” That dissolves my peaceful reverie. Previous lack of conversation was actually lack of… My consciousness expires before my judgement matures.

Hum. Vibration. Swaying. New surface: undulating, cushioned. Bickering.

Nausea. I need stillness for just a little while. Another sway. My stomach empties. A cooling trickle on my cheek. The bickering stops.

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