Descending Road - RIVERING MY STOLEN FACE by Dana W. Paxson

RIVERING MY STOLEN FACE

I turn and trundle away alone, back toward my hideaway, the walls of my mind scrawl-painted with living words like ‘love’ and ‘gift’. As I approach the entrance to my corridor, I turn and look back. They are watching me, expectant, hopeful. The girl reaches out a hand in a last gesture of appeal.

As if she had cast a weapon at me, pangs of agony strike my chest. Now I find I cannot turn either way, and I sit legless in my cart, hanging in stillness in this city of living human walls, hanging between longing and rage.

My eyes are closed. I do not know how long I sit in the living corridor, where now a dim color-shifting light glows out of broad panels of what once was skin, and the sounds and scents are of a dream of paradise. How fast it all evolves! A throb fills the air, like the drums of the City‘s many festivals, but deeper, surer; the skins of the walls pulsate with it, and I realize it is the beat of all the hearts, as one.

A dream of paradise. How do I remember what is paradise?

Thousands of years of hate stand in me, a convoluted city in which I am now lost and free, a stone place of my own delving. Paradise? Was there once a place by that name? Those I destroyed now weep in my mind. They will never stop.

A hand touching my shoulder makes me look up. The girl.

“Come,” she says. With a soft cloth she touches my cheeks, one, two; tears have rivered my stolen face, the face for which I have murdered casually. The tears run itching and hot down into my clothing. “They say you have much work to do.”

I nod. “I have done many things I can’t repair.”

“They know. They say you will do new things.”

Now my fear is only of myself. “What things?”

She waves around us. “More of this. They want more. What can you not do?”

I want to say, “I cannot love,” but I stop the words. Instead I say, “Will you show me what to do?”

“Yes,” she says.

“Yes,” say the living walls.

“Then, yes,” I say. Fear grips me, and a wild energy sings through my mongrel pillaged body. Young hands turn my wheeled cart, and we move off together, into this growing living underground forest of flesh, flesh now grown into something more and still so strange .

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


	RIVERING MY STOLEN FACE 6303 Arcus I turn and trundle away alone, back toward my hideaway, the walls of my mind scrawl-painted with living words like ‘love’ and ‘gift’. As I approach the entrance to my corridor, I turn and look back. They are watching me, expectant, hopeful. The girl reaches out a hand in a last gesture of appeal. As if she had cast a weapon at me, pangs of agony strike my chest. Now I find I cannot turn either way, and I sit legless in my cart, hanging in stillness in this city of living human walls, hanging between longing and rage. My eyes are closed. I do not know how long I sit in the living corridor, where now a dim color-shifting light glows out of broad panels of what once was skin, and the sounds and scents are of a dream of paradise. How fast it all evolves! A throb fills the air, like the drums of the City‘s many festivals, but deeper, surer; the skins of the walls pulsate with it, and I realize it is the beat of all the hearts, as one. A dream of paradise. How do I remember what is paradise? Thousands of years of hate stand in me, a convoluted city in which I am now lost and free, a stone place of my own delving. Paradise? Was there once a place by that name? Those I destroyed now weep in my mind. They will never stop. A hand touching my shoulder makes me look up. The girl. “Come,” she says. With a soft cloth she touches my cheeks, one, two; tears have rivered my stolen face, the face for which I have murdered casually. The tears run itching and hot down into my clothing. “They say you have much work to do.” I nod. “I have done many things I can’t repair.” “They know. They say you will do new things.” Now my fear is only of myself. “What things?” She waves around us. “More of this. They want more. What can you not do?” I want to say, “I cannot love,” but I stop the words. Instead I say, “Will you show me what to do?” “Yes,” she says. “Yes,” say the living walls. “Then, yes,” I say. Fear grips me, and a wild energy sings through my mongrel pillaged body. Young hands turn my wheeled cart, and we move off together, into this growing living underground forest of flesh, flesh now grown into something more and still so strange .