Descending Road - WITH NOURISHMENT, I STEP CAREFULLY by Dana W. Paxson

WITH NOURISHMENT, I STEP CAREFULLY

This dawn, many revelers return home. A man approaches, alone, and passes; I twist his neck and drag him into the shaft stairway landing-space, shutting the door. In the dimness, his eyes bug with terror. I have severed his spinal nerves. He lives long enough to feel his clothing and then his skin pulled free.

I feed on him. My so-long-useless digestive system awakens and complains, then settles to its ancient task. As plain honest blood returns to my body, strength comes quickly.

When I am done with nourishment, I step carefully into his flayed skin and work my feet and hands down to the ends. I ram my fingernails out underneath his. The skin is a little loose — he was somewhat overweight — but it will do until I reach my maze of rooms, behind the false wall not far from here. I pull the face over my own, clasping the skin at the back where I had split it, adjusting the eyelids and brows and lips.

My pain abates a little. I dress myself in his suit of clothing, not so tight on me. The suit and the skullcap he wore now serve to hold his skin in place. I hurl what is left of his body down Shaft Arbonel, to dissolve in the City‘s bottom slime.

The skin smells sweet and overripe. I emerge from the shaft entrance and walk slowly through an underground morning. The revelers are gone now, and only a few tradespeople and cleaners pass me, their eyes averted. I recover an easy gait, practice a strut, the skin shifting slightly if I move too quickly. I pat the nose back into place, and hitch uncomfortably at my scrotum frying in the host-skin’s antibodies.

A woman with a lush body laughs at me, says something in a musical tongue I do not understand. I raise my chin haughtily and walk on. She reminds me of damned Alayre, now long ages dead.

In a narrow side way, I find the pseudostone wall I had made. Will it still open under my hands, or in these twelve thousand years has someone broken it, gotten in, collapsed my rooms? No one is nearby. I place my hands on the wall in the two slight depressions I had left, and push eight times in the rhythm of the words in Taranese: Always I find my way back home.

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


	WITH NOURISHMENT, I STEP CAREFULLY 6303 Arcus This dawn, many revelers return home. A man approaches, alone, and passes; I twist his neck and drag him into the shaft stairway landing-space, shutting the door. In the dimness, his eyes bug with terror. I have severed his spinal nerves. He lives long enough to feel his clothing and then his skin pulled free. I feed on him. My so-long-useless digestive system awakens and complains, then settles to its ancient task. As plain honest blood returns to my body, strength comes quickly. When I am done with nourishment, I step carefully into his flayed skin and work my feet and hands down to the ends. I ram my fingernails out underneath his. The skin is a little loose — he was somewhat overweight — but it will do until I reach my maze of rooms, behind the false wall not far from here. I pull the face over my own, clasping the skin at the back where I had split it, adjusting the eyelids and brows and lips. My pain abates a little. I dress myself in his suit of clothing, not so tight on me. The suit and the skullcap he wore now serve to hold his skin in place. I hurl what is left of his body down Shaft Arbonel, to dissolve in the City‘s bottom slime. The skin smells sweet and overripe. I emerge from the shaft entrance and walk slowly through an underground morning. The revelers are gone now, and only a few tradespeople and cleaners pass me, their eyes averted. I recover an easy gait, practice a strut, the skin shifting slightly if I move too quickly. I pat the nose back into place, and hitch uncomfortably at my scrotum frying in the host-skin’s antibodies. A woman with a lush body laughs at me, says something in a musical tongue I do not understand. I raise my chin haughtily and walk on. She reminds me of damned Alayre, now long ages dead. In a narrow side way, I find the pseudostone wall I had made. Will it still open under my hands, or in these twelve thousand years has someone broken it, gotten in, collapsed my rooms? No one is nearby. I place my hands on the wall in the two slight depressions I had left, and push eight times in the rhythm of the words in Taranese: Always I find my way back home.