Riddance. Shelley Jackson
wings almost imperceptibly—dip and slide into a descending curve.
Here comes one now, its eyes like the glass heads of hatpins, a crescent of dust on each globe. Remarkable detail, but I would disabuse you of the notion that there is anything intrinsically more marvelous in that bird than in the way your shoulders draw together as you shift in your seat, feeling the coarse linsey-woolsey of your school pinafore fret your shoulder blades, or your hard ankles crossed beneath your seat, flexing rhythmically, so that the soles of your shoes knock against the wooden crossbars. I have not even forgotten to account for your oversized and rather scratchy underpants, loose about the waist, slightly damp in the crotch, or for the pocket in your dress, the inky handkerchief in the pocket, and the dime in the lining.
Hark to the bird! A sound like tearing paper as it stoops. I fling myself at a sheltering brake. [Rustling.] A mistake: My fichu is caught fast—my skirt; the snickering thistles pull me down. Thorns rip through my petticoats. Talons rip through my hair.
Then the bird beats back up and is gone. After smaller prey, perhaps—save her—I surge up—but no, if I am right, Finster is the falconer here, not the prey, Finster herself in the intemperance of a child’s will conceived and sent these birds. Attagirl!
Unless I am. The falconer, I mean, though if I am that, then I am prey and falcon too, throwing my own self off the glove, scaring me up, striking me down.
“A puppet show!” the thistles jeer. “A humbug!” Flecks of page-white writhe across the landscape. It is disintegrating again. And I went to so much trouble over it!
[Static, hissing; two or three sentences indistinct.]
—rely on, at least. Which is fortunate, because I depends [sic] on you. And yet I am almost sure I made you up. Why? You are too real. Too detailed. The crease at your wrist, for instance, usually to be seen in one of what I suppose to be your age—no more than sixteen—only in conjunction with considerable baby fat, though not in your case, it is just that your skin is unusually dry. You have matching creases at your ankles and your knuckles are calloused and fine lines are already forming at the corners of your mouth. You yawn, and a shining thread of saliva joins your uvula to your tongue. A dot or two of white suggest the incursion of streptococcus into your left tonsil, which, slightly swollen, resembles in shape and surface texture an overripe fig. With the tip of your tongue you test your lower lip, in which a crack has opened, salmon red.
I suppose I love you a little. It is easy to love what one has invented.
The girl Finster is not lovable.
Save her!
The Stenographer’s Story, contd.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.