Descending Road - FRAGMENTED by Dana W. Paxson

FRAGMENTED

1560 4D

Silence breaks open into a thousand flowers of speech. Wings flutter all around. The air explodes into all colors as birds erupt from hidden nests and the world shifts back and forth, swings madly, and whips past. An urgent feeling comes, and wings accelerate to a hum, then a squeal, and the wet dirty air of the City‘s deep streets fouls tiny lungs.

Arrival, perching on a naked, painted young woman’s finger as she sings a polyrhythm chant. She whispers anjive in sweet accents to the bird’s tiny ear. An image forms, and the bird knows its next path.

Down one street, through a tunnel to another, diving through crevices too small to see beneath wall vines, at last to land on the shoulder of a girl.

She swipes angrily; the claws dig in. She plucks the tiny body from her clothing. Words form in the beak: “She says meet her at Joovlies, at halflight and a half. It’ll pay well.” The words mean nothing. The girl stares, her hand warming the bird’s body, then she releases it. It banks away through street drum sounds pounding its brain, back through mazes and portals to silence and rest in pure air and darkness.

Many turns of this: many travels of the bird, many scenes, many words. Self creeps in, a center to the many things repeating. The birds sleeps. Something in it is dreaming. It is my self. Retreat from it in fear. Sleep.

Story List	SURPRISE ME	Author Page
USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
HOVER Palatino Linotype FULL	HOVER Times New Roman BARE	HOVER Times New Roman FULL
PAD Arial BARE	PAD Arial FULL	PAD Lucida Bright BARE
PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	FRAGMENTED 1560 4D Silence breaks open into a thousand flowers of speech. Wings flutter all around. The air explodes into all colors as birds erupt from hidden nests and the world shifts back and forth, swings madly, and whips past. An urgent feeling comes, and wings accelerate to a hum, then a squeal, and the wet dirty air of the City‘s deep streets fouls tiny lungs. Arrival, perching on a naked, painted young woman’s finger as she sings a polyrhythm chant. She whispers anjive in sweet accents to the bird’s tiny ear. An image forms, and the bird knows its next path. Down one street, through a tunnel to another, diving through crevices too small to see beneath wall vines, at last to land on the shoulder of a girl. She swipes angrily; the claws dig in. She plucks the tiny body from her clothing. Words form in the beak: “She says meet her at Joovlies, at halflight and a half. It’ll pay well.” The words mean nothing. The girl stares, her hand warming the bird’s body, then she releases it. It banks away through street drum sounds pounding its brain, back through mazes and portals to silence and rest in pure air and darkness. Many turns of this: many travels of the bird, many scenes, many words. Self creeps in, a center to the many things repeating. The birds sleeps. Something in it is dreaming. It is my self. Retreat from it in fear. Sleep.