Digital Ischemia



The Lassie and The Legume continued

[ Starts at ]

The Folly

“I should extroduce myself: I’m Percy; I’m the prince. Prince Percy.” Rich waits in vain for Cecilia’s awe. “Would you like to uncounter my parents?” She accepts, for a shameless fantasy of a biscuit, and not a little curiosity about this non-Percy prince business.

They squish along beside the right branch of wall – or perhaps it’s the left, that bit actually doesn’t matter. The putrid water seeping into her shoes would be unpleasant if it weren’t counter-balanced by fetid fog bubbles adhering to her face. Yet neither assault is sufficient to detract from Rich’s flinching. He cowers with foreboding glances at the obscured sky.
She tries for sympathy but achieves tetchy. “What’s wrong?”
A drip splats on his nose. He recoils, reflexes his finger to the origin of the sensation then suspiciously examines its wet tip.
“What’s this?”
He’s quite unnerved. “Are you postcipitating it?”
She purses her face. He increases his pace. He’s petrified by the water pouring from the sky and her proximity. A trickle gathers on his scalp, hurtles down his forehead. He panics.
He bursts a confession. “You know I’m just the surrogate?”
She doesn’t even understand the term in this context. She attempts a fierce expression through the flushing effort of mentally and physically keeping up.
Penitently he offers, “the stunt-double, the substitute.”
She extends to a baffled grimace enhanced by dirty drizzle.
He has another. “The stand-in.”
Marvelling at the alliterated synonyms, she awaits cognitive aid.
He unleashes the punchline with lung-emptying gusto. “I’m not Percy.”
Indeed. There must be more. “But you pretend..?”
“To get girls.”
She’s horrified. He scrabbles to mitigate the unfortunate impression. “I mean for him.”
Not any better; she’s still horrified.
“I mean for his parents to meet. Before he puts them off. He pays me.”
Hence Rich. However she views it, it’s offensive: audition, imposter, coward. Now she has a decent inferno going with her jealousy, her disgust and her pangs of adolescent mush.

At full seething slither, Rich yanks her at the wall. Luckily there’s a gap, which turns out to be a gateway, which turns out to have fully roofed, gargoyled and crenelated posts. They shelter under the ostentatious eaves.

Cecilia notices that which you surely have too.
“You speak differently…”
“When I’m being Percy. He has a style.”
Indeed again. She also notices something that you’d be prescient to have managed: a brass plaque establishes the gateway as to Fellwell Folly.

Leave a Comment »

No comments yet.

RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URI

If you spot a typo, I shall gnaw off an unworthy phalange.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Blog at

%d bloggers like this: