Descending Road - STONE GIRL by Dana W. Paxson

STONE GIRL

1560 4D

Drasstar lay next to me. Blue wings past my opening eyes, across the room’s bare stone ceiling: a dark, shiny little chatbird. It came and perched on my chin, cocking its head to catch my whisper of the Durgin Crevasse phrase. “Take this to Quessnar Viustin,” I murmured. Father would find the payment.

Caroling a few sweet notes, it vanished in a flick of iridescent indigo, out a door, down a conduit, into electrons — where did chatbirds go on their ways? At last. Delivered. I closed my eyes again, and Thringe‘s weight lifted from my chest.

I wanted to see her, to hold her, to reassure her and be reassured. A bass note and some mumbled words from Drasstar. I turned on my side and looked at his mouth, lips moving now without sound.

“What happens now?” I said softly. He didn’t move, and his mouth went still. “What happens now?”

“We’ve got another show to do.” His words came flat, neutral. He opened his eyes. They were red-shot. “Another show.”

“Another blow,” I answered, Thringe‘s words, my words, coming from some hidden place in me, “Cuts me way down/ Smashed crown brain runs/ Down in gray paste/ Singing brave words/ Dissolving me/ Another show/ Too slow.”

He reached out a big hand, thick nails carefully pared. “Let me play that for you, Stone Girl.” His voice was thick. He touched my nose, sat up, seized the jitar, banged four chords, and stopped. The tears came to me then, and then to him.

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


	STONE GIRL 1560 4D Drasstar lay next to me. Blue wings past my opening eyes, across the room’s bare stone ceiling: a dark, shiny little chatbird. It came and perched on my chin, cocking its head to catch my whisper of the Durgin Crevasse phrase. “Take this to Quessnar Viustin,” I murmured. Father would find the payment. Caroling a few sweet notes, it vanished in a flick of iridescent indigo, out a door, down a conduit, into electrons — where did chatbirds go on their ways? At last. Delivered. I closed my eyes again, and Thringe‘s weight lifted from my chest. I wanted to see her, to hold her, to reassure her and be reassured. A bass note and some mumbled words from Drasstar. I turned on my side and looked at his mouth, lips moving now without sound. “What happens now?” I said softly. He didn’t move, and his mouth went still. “What happens now?” “We’ve got another show to do.” His words came flat, neutral. He opened his eyes. They were red-shot. “Another show.” “Another blow,” I answered, Thringe‘s words, my words, coming from some hidden place in me, “Cuts me way down/ Smashed crown brain runs/ Down in gray paste/ Singing brave words/ Dissolving me/ Another show/ Too slow.” He reached out a big hand, thick nails carefully pared. “Let me play that for you, Stone Girl.” His voice was thick. He touched my nose, sat up, seized the jitar, banged four chords, and stopped. The tears came to me then, and then to him.