Digital Ischemia

23/03/2014

Netted

Filed under: Truthache — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 12:00

“This is the woman who thought flesh-eating bacteria was a good idea to clear a blocked shower drain.” Two workies procrastinate at the gate to a fermenting cottage garden. The leader of the pair feels a duty to share grotesque gossip. The other tries for clown.
“Ooh, look! I’m sinking! Where’s my feet?”
“This is the woman who thought you put the pizza in the oven on the polystyrene tray.”
“What’s that nasty smell? Why are my lungs dissolving?”
“This is the woman who called the police when her garden hose reel disappeared. Well, there could be a pattern of garden accessory thefts in the area.”
“So why are we here?”
“The same woman thought keeping crows in a raspberry cage was a good idea to keep down mice and stuff.”
“So?”
“And she liked to sit in there naked.”
The clown sniggers.
The grotesque continues, “oh, it gets worse: she liked to eat chorizo sandwiches.”
The clown nods.
The grotesque pushes, “chorizo.”
“Is what?”
“Cured meat? Uncooked?”
“Some folks have fancy tastes, hm?”
“Carrion Crow?”

My fish-eye view of the landscape whirls, making me queasy. It’s monochrome and low resolution, but I can make out house bricks, power cables, raspberry canes in their netted cage.

The sniggering one squeals most, wailing about wearing clothes. As if that was the point.

16/03/2014

Strays

Filed under: Truthache — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 12:00

The Caretaker manoeuvres the sit-on mower beside the tumbling boundary wall of the graveyard. He carefully avoids the toppled stones. He doesn’t move them. He pauses for a break from concentration.

He’s young, 20s, and big in all directions. His size makes him seem indolent but careful observation shows him to be minimalistically methodical. His body is coasting, his mind is humming. But he’s not who I came for.

He glances up, clocks me watching him, flickers a momentary grin. An earnest 50s male invades his space with twitches.
“Okay? Do you know: is this on the Churches Trail?”
“No.”
“No, it’s not, or no, you don’t know?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t–”
“I don’t know about the church. Sorry.”
The Caretaker reaches down into the mower’s engine to conclude the conversation.

Mr I Spy Churches isn’t the one. He’s not who the Caretaker is interested in either. A skinny, dorky, teenage girl meanders clumsily on the opposite side of the road. Her flight plan is miscalculated to smoothly intercept the caretaker at the elegant moment after Mr I Spy departs.

She stumbles around the back of the departing Mr I Spy. The Caretaker gives her his full attention, over the wall remnants. She blushes.
“Do you–can you–do you have access to the church?”
“You want in?”
“I left–dropped something, I think, down the back of some–furniture.”

I tune to track the conversation as it recedes and passes behind the building wall. He is genuinely benevolent. She is awkward, and not just for the obvious reason. (Seeds: is that all there is?) They re-emerge.

“Thank you for helping me find it.” She clutches her fist. He purses his face indulgently.
“Will you give it back?”
She’s startled, mortified. “Back where?”
“To your mother?”
“I–I didn’t take it.”
“I know. You didn’t leave it either. You don’t attend services. Neither does she.”
For a blink of a moment she submits to a furious deduction then stalls.
He chuckles. “No, not me. She shouldn’t have done that, not in there. Not where I could see.”
Pure, childlike evil bleeds across her face. She isn’t the one. Now something could happen. I can see it.

“Have you seen this woman?”
The Caretaker’s manner verges on indifference, but, like most people, this enquirer attributes it to a feature of his size.
“No.”
The Enquirer continues to wheedle around a line of questioning. The Caretaker’s gaze remains firmly fixed on his interrogator and not on the stone wall, which, remarkably, has been neatly reassembled overnight. It’s his job to maintain the grounds.

09/03/2014

Conveyor

Filed under: Truthache — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 12:00

“Learn, will you?! It’s a shoe!”
A conveyor belt shudders by a camera lens, carrying the rubble of domestic disposal. A lanky young guy with greasy hair flourishes impatient keystrokes at a computer. On its monitor, a rectangle frames the image then focuses on the extent of one object: a lampshade, worn but serviceable. The canvas and rubber sand shoes jerk out of field. Beyond the monitor, the guy’s hand ploughs them into a chute. He returns his attention to the focus frame, now flashing anxiously around the pixilated, sage green, hexagonal faceted, standard lamp shade. Below, five suggestions are fearfully offered: biscuit tin, confectionary tin, bucket, flower pot, breadmaker.
Incredulous, the guy spits, “breadmaker?! How the fuck do you know ‘breadmaker’?”

“Clever stuff, eh?” The voice behind lanky guy makes him flinch. An older lanky guy with greasier hair peers in, relishing the element of startle; “how many more tons do you reckon?”
Original lanky guy contorts his face. “Don’t know. Couple more days anyway.”
“I don’t know if they’ll wait two more days.” Greasier guy peers about, keen for interest, but finds none. He drifts away.
“They’ll have to. People aren’t going to segregate their waste so it has to be robots.”
“Is that…? How is a cat in here?” Greasier guy has found his further interest. Lanky guy sneers as his sociological point goes unappreciated.
He underplays, “same way as everything else.”
“Someone chucked it in a bin?!”
“Maybe. Or it hid.”

Both are captivated as a dainty black feline picks its way over the spasming refuse toward the camera. Unheeded, the computer monitor paroxysms its latest quandary.

I feel divine. I have perfect poise and power. And charisma. They can’t help themselves wanting to help me. Morsels, massages, protection. How to entice them… So many choices: feign getting stuck, disrupt the flow, vomit, cry?

The monitor frame pans and zooms out to circumscribe a larger than average object. Text suggestions are offered: inflatable doll, mannequin, duvet. They remain unconfirmed.

02/03/2014

Consumas

Filed under: Truthache — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 12:00

Lean in now, crane toward the festive bickering…

“It looks like you have a wrist injury!”
“I can’t think why that’d bother you.”
“Slut.”
“Why can’t she just send me cash?”
“I know. You’ll no’ get as good a deal out of Maclaus Macklows.”
“I wished I hadn’t opened it now. I’m just all annoyed.”
“Why did you open it?”
“One present, you said!”
“I know! I didn’t say that one!”
“I don’t know; I just picked it. Maybe I thought it’d be money. I thought she’d’ve set me up and I could go out all psyched.”
“Are you not wanting to go out now?”
“Yeh! No. I don’t know. It’s Christmas Eve; I’m supposed to be ‘woo!'”

Every time I move, my brain tickles. It’s the barrels: structures that anatomically map my whiskers and the sensory pulses from them. I don’t know how I know that. I seem to have been somewhere else, something else.

I’m overwhelmed with the smell of pastry. I must move up the scent gradient to the source. I also smell me, past-me, so I’ve run this path before. Along wood, up fibre, through nest, along wood. A chink of light sparks across my eyes. Voices.

Pastry makes me delirious. Grain and lard. Whiskers tell me I’ve reached the extent of the path. I nibble prospectively. Pastry smell but inconclusive taste. Firm texture then a pleasant tingle. A moment of lightning kick. I’m done.

“What?! No way! On Christmas Eve?!”
“What do you want to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t see anything.”
“Neither can I! Do you think I’m psychic or something?”
“Do you have a torch or anything?”
“Why would I need…”

Disappointing. Pegged it before my glorious vigilante moment. I’ll need to try a more sturdy creature. After indulging my strong craving for a mince pie.

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