Descending Road - THE SLAMMING DOOR OF DEATH by Dana W. Paxson

THE SLAMMING DOOR OF DEATH

1560 4D

With Drasstar shading his jitar down to softness, I finally sang the last verse of Teshill Slope: “City stone drooling down / Shafts into blackshit pools, / Heaving up filthy life / Splashes of quicksilver. / Is this where I find you?” and the instruments carried us away into the shadows of this little barhole high in the airless midst of nowhere. My throat hurt. The silence pressed in for a heartbeat or two, then applause came, haltingly, then swelling, until the walls echoed and I sank down on the stool, head bowed, exhausted. Drasstar‘s arm caught me as I started to fall.

“She’s done for now,” he said fiercely. “Feed us and we’ll sing you the night.”

Kurind smiled from the center front table, flanked by two women. “It’s all ready for you over there.” He pointed to a trestle table loaded with food and drink. “On the house and these two.” He gestured at a pair of people in the shadows, one an andro woman, the other a human man. Drasstar lugged me to the table, tilted a flask of sweet brew into me, and I revived enough to gorge myself to the point where singing felt impossible.

But Rashua and Naudi had jitars out, back at the stage, and they started a little hopping trancetune, singing some rather raw lyrics to it, and dancers started to slither back and forth and up and down in between the tables, laughing with voices and hands. As they finished, up came the chant: “Thringe! Thringe!” and I got back up with Drasstar, Grioskin, and Masinarin.

“Clock!” I yelled, still with my belly stuffed. That’s when things started to get wild.

CLOCK is the andro anthem. In the City, you hear it everywhere – hummed, spoken, sung, chanted, spat, choked, cried, shrieked. Not just from andros, either – it has that universal desperation in it that every beaten soul holds secret. But andros live inside the song, and die inside the song, and it owns them.

Jeddin was shaking his head at me so violently that I thought he would shake it off his shoulders. I gave him the Whaaat?! look, banged one foot on the floor in tempo, and off we all went.

The song is counterpointed at a frantic speed, with single words thrown against a running cyclic refrain until the words complete a verse and the refrain has gone three times. If Thringe‘s song BEAM got people going, CLOCK sent them flying. I loved it, Thringe had loved to sing it, and I couldn’t understand why Jeddin looked so unhappy as we belted our way into the first verse, Naudi and Rashua doing the running refrain under each echoing word:

Blink (Clock is turning on)

Born (clock is turning on)

Eye (clock is flying fast)

Wide (numbers flicker past)

Face (blood is flowing hot)

Clamped (clock is tying knot)

Blink (voices, colors cry)

Shut (inner spaces fly)

and the running refrain (Clock is turning on…) repeats, cutting in at the third word of the second line of the verse. In one song, the life story of the andro, ending with the slamming door of death.

We had them. They knew every word. Soon the verse-words came blasting back at us and with us, and the place shuddered with the sound. Bodies writhed and reeled and spun, arms and hands flew, anjive voices rose into piercing metal spines of pure agony. In the midst of it all I felt Thringe in me and through me, and I laughed, and I sang, and she laughed and sang in my new voice, up and up through space.

We ended in one hard long note. I raised my head to a silent room to see pepper-stalks laid on the stage in tribute, and then I looked deeper in the shadows. Standing in the back spaces were several dozen corpo soldiers.

Jeddin was not to be seen, and neither was my father.

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


	THE SLAMMING DOOR OF DEATH 1560 4D With Drasstar shading his jitar down to softness, I finally sang the last verse of Teshill Slope: “City stone drooling down / Shafts into blackshit pools, / Heaving up filthy life / Splashes of quicksilver. / Is this where I find you?” and the instruments carried us away into the shadows of this little barhole high in the airless midst of nowhere. My throat hurt. The silence pressed in for a heartbeat or two, then applause came, haltingly, then swelling, until the walls echoed and I sank down on the stool, head bowed, exhausted. Drasstar‘s arm caught me as I started to fall. “She’s done for now,” he said fiercely. “Feed us and we’ll sing you the night.” Kurind smiled from the center front table, flanked by two women. “It’s all ready for you over there.” He pointed to a trestle table loaded with food and drink. “On the house and these two.” He gestured at a pair of people in the shadows, one an andro woman, the other a human man. Drasstar lugged me to the table, tilted a flask of sweet brew into me, and I revived enough to gorge myself to the point where singing felt impossible. But Rashua and Naudi had jitars out, back at the stage, and they started a little hopping trancetune, singing some rather raw lyrics to it, and dancers started to slither back and forth and up and down in between the tables, laughing with voices and hands. As they finished, up came the chant: “Thringe! Thringe!” and I got back up with Drasstar, Grioskin, and Masinarin. “Clock!” I yelled, still with my belly stuffed. That’s when things started to get wild. CLOCK is the andro anthem. In the City, you hear it everywhere – hummed, spoken, sung, chanted, spat, choked, cried, shrieked. Not just from andros, either – it has that universal desperation in it that every beaten soul holds secret. But andros live inside the song, and die inside the song, and it owns them. Jeddin was shaking his head at me so violently that I thought he would shake it off his shoulders. I gave him the Whaaat?! look, banged one foot on the floor in tempo, and off we all went. The song is counterpointed at a frantic speed, with single words thrown against a running cyclic refrain until the words complete a verse and the refrain has gone three times. If Thringe‘s song BEAM got people going, CLOCK sent them flying. I loved it, Thringe had loved to sing it, and I couldn’t understand why Jeddin looked so unhappy as we belted our way into the first verse, Naudi and Rashua doing the running refrain under each echoing word: Blink (Clock is turning on) Born (clock is turning on) Eye (clock is flying fast) Wide (numbers flicker past) Face (blood is flowing hot) Clamped (clock is tying knot) Blink (voices, colors cry) Shut (inner spaces fly) and the running refrain (Clock is turning on…) repeats, cutting in at the third word of the second line of the verse. In one song, the life story of the andro, ending with the slamming door of death. We had them. They knew every word. Soon the verse-words came blasting back at us and with us, and the place shuddered with the sound. Bodies writhed and reeled and spun, arms and hands flew, anjive voices rose into piercing metal spines of pure agony. In the midst of it all I felt Thringe in me and through me, and I laughed, and I sang, and she laughed and sang in my new voice, up and up through space. We ended in one hard long note. I raised my head to a silent room to see pepper-stalks laid on the stage in tribute, and then I looked deeper in the shadows. Standing in the back spaces were several dozen corpo soldiers. Jeddin was not to be seen, and neither was my father.