Predate by George Fenwick


There was no time. There were no seconds. Only force, air, tarmac. Pain, light, dark.
I am upside down. I am falling. I am spinning. I am inert.
I am sick. A hand on my shoulder. A voice. Voices. I gather fragments.
“Call an ambulance.”
“Where’s the car?”
“What’s your name?”
“Harry.” And that’s me, and it’s all I can muster before I turn and I hurl.
And the pain is a thousand knives in my abdomen.
And there are sirens.
But who will tell him?
Thumb-swiper, validator. Nice one. Six connections. Four interests.
Who will tell him? The café on the corner, that’s where.
Arms, stretcher, elevation. Slam, shut, black.



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