Descending Road - WHILE MY EYES DRY by Dana W. Paxson

WHILE MY EYES DRY

The days pass slowly now, as slowly as when the wall held me. The children only visit to clean and provide food. I tinker with the shixen some more, making their coats shimmer, giving their brains the tools for language mimicry, taking away the demorphin glands, and I name one of them after Alayre and speak her tones and accents to it.

The shix looks at me quizzically, and its tiny mouth forms the Taranese sounds I gave it, in a high soft pitch like Alayre‘s, “Jono, what will I do with you?”

Something in me leaps up at this, and I sit very still while my eyes dry again. I damn myself for this weakness, and then I teach the shix every little phrase Alayre would use on me in love. I damn myself again, and I forget to eat, and I feed this little creature and groom it and keep silent while it mixes the words of my dead love with its own squeaks and chitterings.

At last my obsession repels me, and I hear myself say to the shix, “Every place we choose is our home,” in Share, in the accents of the girl Mama Jones. I must forget Alayre.

The shix says it in the voice of this street girl, catching even my own tiny failures of enunciation. I want to hear it again, and as I teach the shix to say other things the girl has said to me, I realize that I am simply trading one obsession for another.

Taking the shix in my hands, I wring its neck.

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USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

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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


	WHILE MY EYES DRY 6303 Arcus The days pass slowly now, as slowly as when the wall held me. The children only visit to clean and provide food. I tinker with the shixen some more, making their coats shimmer, giving their brains the tools for language mimicry, taking away the demorphin glands, and I name one of them after Alayre and speak her tones and accents to it. The shix looks at me quizzically, and its tiny mouth forms the Taranese sounds I gave it, in a high soft pitch like Alayre‘s, “Jono, what will I do with you?” Something in me leaps up at this, and I sit very still while my eyes dry again. I damn myself for this weakness, and then I teach the shix every little phrase Alayre would use on me in love. I damn myself again, and I forget to eat, and I feed this little creature and groom it and keep silent while it mixes the words of my dead love with its own squeaks and chitterings. At last my obsession repels me, and I hear myself say to the shix, “Every place we choose is our home,” in Share, in the accents of the girl Mama Jones. I must forget Alayre. The shix says it in the voice of this street girl, catching even my own tiny failures of enunciation. I want to hear it again, and as I teach the shix to say other things the girl has said to me, I realize that I am simply trading one obsession for another. Taking the shix in my hands, I wring its neck.