Digital Ischemia



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.



Filed under: Stalker — Teepwriter @ 17:07

Lying.  My face against hard, damp ground.  Restful.  Exhausted.  Warm.

Light.  Green.  Grass.  I can’t turn to the sky.  I can’t turn.

How nice to rest.

Sound.  Swish, swish and thumps.  Hurried crashing of feet.  Two feet.

A face looms into my perfect green close-up, red with strain and bulging with horror.  Movement.  I’m rearranged, drawn over and up.  Two arms are less comfortable than the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurts.

Am I dead?  Rush of anxiety.  Pointless.  Calm.  I try to turn to where I was, to see if I’m still there.  I can’t see, just bouncing sky and woolly neck.  He shifts his grip on me with an extra bounce.

Smell.  Wood.  Smoke.  Metal.

“You’ll be fine,” he gasps, as much for him as for me.

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