Moineau Rouge I

Moineau Rouge I

What is the difference between a beginning and an ending?
There sat three people in a dimly lit cafe. Ana, oh she was beautiful. Red lips, pale skin, soft and gentle, but somehow bruised, her voice bespoke years of menthol cigarettes and broken hearts. Antony was her younger brother, a bit protective, but a good enough fellow, tall, slim, dark hair, dark eyes, dark features, you get it right? And there I sat with them. How old was I? What did I look like back then? Who was I?
Its hard to explain the distance I feel to that young man. It was so long ago, yet there we were in Jean's cafe. Jean's hellish little gift to an indifferent world. The wine was good, and the food was artistic. For that matter, the coffee wasn't so bad either. Well since I can't do this feeling attached to that other man, we will call him Mathieu, and he was young. As young as he was foolish, as young as he was idealistic, as young as he was stupid, as young as he was the man I use to be. The man I could have been. The man whose shell sits in this same cafe today. Alone besides Jean, he will live forever my friend. Only a golden bullet can kill him.
What were we doing that day? Ana was talking, beautiful red lips mouthing the words, "Jean, I know you said, no smoking, but for your favorite employee, you'll make an exception right?" Calling back from the kitchen Jean yelled, "Non!" Of course, Ana, being Ana lit one up anyway and poured herself some more wine. Antony gazed at her glass, "Don't you think you have had enough?" Mat smiled, "C'mon, don't be such a drag, we work better drunk." Calling from the back, Jean yelled, "No you don't, you only think you do."
They all laughed. I wish I knew how to laugh like that.
As the night rolled on and people came and went from that immutable cafe, that sublime object in the distance, that blurry past that this bloodied face, and these tear stained eyes. Well, sometimes if I squint hard enough, sometimes I can almost see back then, I can almost grasp happiness.
Now we were out on the street, Jean had locked up, and finished another bottle with us before falling asleep with his wife Marie. Ah, Marie, Blonde hair, blue eyes, Innocent. Everything about her said "kindness", everything about her said, "I'm from a world less fucked up than all this" and it said "I saved him". Jean would be nothing more than a sad miserable man without her. He wouldn't have the strength to go on.
He told me that he had tried to take his own life a few times in college. He felt so alone. He quoted Chateaubriand to me,  "The greatest souls must, by necessity feel the greatest sadness." Jean was a good man, and one day little Marie fixed him up nicely. They fell in love in some gods forsaken place, some damn idealistic crusade Jean had began out of a feeling of atonement, and a genuine conviction to right the wrongs of his youth.
I'm no great soul, but I have had my share of sorrows. They cascade along my memories, little explosions of red coloring a dark and empty corridor. A corridor that goes on forever. We pass doors, each one locked, each memory one I beg, no, I plead, will never have to be relived, but life isn't a forward motion. No, it is a series of backs, and forwards, we march on, and we fall back.  Today is yesterday. Is tomorrow, is back then, is never.
Jean and Marie were the closest thing to happiness I know. However god luck telling Mat this little bit of information. Especially not that night, not that brick road, those cobble stone sidewalks, that cool ocean air, and youth, hell, we all love youth.
Ana laughed, a desperate laugh, "So what is the plan for tonight?" Mat, looking over at Antony said, "We need to get this fucker laid!" Antony smiled, "Actually, my dear friends, we are meeting up with a very nice girl." Mat smiled, "And what do you think a girl like that would want with you? She'll be instantly drawn in by my charm, but you can have her when I'm done." Antony glared at Mat, "Oh, well I don't think my sister would like that very much." Mat looked back at Ana, "Well she wouldn't mind if the girl was prettier than her." A right hook from Ana, into his face, knocked Mat into a brick wall. Then she kissed him and continued walking with her brother while the dazed Mat leaned against the wall. He ran to catch up. "As I was saying we need to get Antony laid." They all smiled as they crossed the busy street.
Damn was I stupid back then, what an ego I had, but it was all talk, and when I remarked " she wouldn't mind if the girl was prettier than her", well to me, no one could be as beautiful as Ana. She was the last word on my lips every night. Her warm body was what kept me here for so many years, and now my cold bed speaks of the seven gentle tragedies that left me and Jean here. Alone, and quite drunk actually.
We picked up Molly, she was dumb and pretty, Antony really knew how to pick them. Matt led the quartet to an underground music show they had planned on seeing. The place was packed full of all the best losers and freaks, the kind of people who excel at this sort of jumping and thrashing. Ana and Mat sat at the bar, while Antony and Molly were down in the worst of it. "A gin and tonic" Ana said, and I had a ..... Matt ordered some whisky. He sipped his drink as Ana flirted with the man beside her. A little harmless revenge for Matt's comment. However, as the man put his arm on her leg, Mat got up and headed towards the pit. In the midst of it, he felt a girl tugging on his arm, Ana purchased his forgiveness with a kiss, and the two of them caught up with Antony.
After the show, the people spilled out on the streets, still laughing, and drinking. It was all quite marvelous. Those days always were. These days are hardly decent, yet here me and Jean sit, in this little cafe, waiting in constant readiness, and a constant drunkenness, waiting for the marvelous to return. Pleading with all the gods we don't believe in, and all humanity, that we have lost all faith in, pleading that someday the fates will color our lives with something wonderful again, we will take anything, but more death and pain.
But the wine is running low, and we both need sleep desperately. Good Night.

V-Twice Bitten

V-Twice Bitten
The alarms were sounded. Bashir and Amin woke Camille from his sleep. "Camille, Camille, it is the French!" Flashing back to his days in the army Camille jumped out of bed, "aux armes!" Then as his eyes focused he looked upon his Egyptian friends and blinked. He began, "What is going on my friends?" sighing, "was all of that a dream?" looking around the bey's mansion, "no, we are still in Constantine."
Amin smiled, "It seems your countrymen have invaded the regency." Bashir pulled out a few maps and laid them on the table, "They have already taken Algiers, and Constantine has been holding out the best it can, but uncle believes there will be no help sent from the Sublime Porte." Then Amin spoke again, "If we can get to Morocco we could bored a ship for the Caribbean on one of the Spanish Isles, there we may be able to hide you.
Camille looked perplexed, "but what about my condition?"
At this moment Achmed walked in, "You are quite lucky my boy. One of the Sultan's of old had caught the disease in Transylvania, from the aforementioned man, Tepes." The sultan was a deeply religious man, and the sickness filled him with shame. He developed a large bump on his head from praying so hard every day." Camille blinked, "And how does that help me? Should I pray?" Bashir laughed, "No, we have brought you a veil that will shield you from the sun. It will cover all of your skin. However...."
"What?" Camille shouted as the French cannons fired in the background. Amin looked at him, "Its a woman's veil. We are disguising you as a woman for the travel." Camille stared blankly. Achmed snapped his fingers. A beautiful Persian girl came and sat down beside, "There is the veil, and your breakfast my dear boy." The confusion on the young girl's face was palpable as the men walked out of the room.
After being washed, Camille entered, well fed and dressed as a Persian concubine.
Achmed smiled, "You will travel light. And fast my dear boys, this is a god damn war, and if anyone finds you they will take you for deserters. In Oran I have a friend who can secure your escort to Morocco.  Amin has been given all of the information." Bashir smiled, "Now Camille, we must run before your countrymen greet us in their native tongue, the cannon."
Camille stepped forward, "Just a moment." looking over at Achmed, "You know you can't win, I was at the Battle of the Pyramids, the French are a modern army!" The bey was placing some ornamental armor on, his servant latched the chest plate. Achmed smiled, "I've lived longer than mosts, and had every joy of this world ol boy. And many of the other world!" He broke into laughter. Camille smiled at the old man, "I understand, but I have one more question before I depart."
The sounds of the cannon grew louder, and Achmed smiled. "I've got a battle to fight old boy. Before sailing for the new world there is a Berber Witch in Morocco that you will speak to. For I will answer no more questions, and you my boy, must flee!" And once more at the old man's command Camille obeyed.

Bottled

Bottled
He looked down at the copper liqueur in his cup, the ice had already melted, and its watered down  color made the prospects of finishing it a little rough. Well, "waste not, want not,"  He slurped the whisky down and laughed. The bar tender walked over, and in a bright mindless manner, asked, "Would you like another?" Jean smiled and politely declined, he handed her a fifty and walked towards the door.
He pulled out his beaten up pack of cigarettes. Then fumbling around for a lighter he heard a girl giggle, a sweet innocent little laugh at his awkwardness. Looking up Jean forced a smile. The bar tender was out having a cigarette. Laughing she motioned him over. Jean allowed her to light his. Then she spoke, "Are you walking home darling?" Jean nodded.
Her reds lips pursed with a smile, "I'm off in ten, would you care for a ride? Its rather cold don't you think?" Jean was taken aback by her simple kindness, and took a deep look at her beautiful face. She had blonde hair tied up for work, blue eyes, pale skin, almost porcelain, and such gentle features, as if she had never had a care in her life.
He could barely speak, "I don't want to be a burden."
"No, no," she said, "It is no trouble." The softness and gentleness of her voice had already won him over. As the ten minutes rolled by Jean looked down at the ground, it was beginning to snow. The beautiful girl walked out. Smiling she called out to him, "So, you're name's Jean right? You sure don't talk much, but you always leave a good tip. I'm Claire." Claire, Jean thought, the name and her features rolled through his mind. Finally he smiled and said, "Well mademoiselle, perhaps we should get going."
At this Jean stared intently as three perfect snowflakes landed on her breasts. Claire blushed when she saw him looking so intently at her chest. In an attempt to recover Jean spoke, "I'm sorry.... I was watching the snowflakes..."
Claire giggled again, "It's alright, the snowflakes are nice aren't they?"
Confused Jean replied, "your snowflakes are nice"
Claire hugged him then she smiled, "The blue car is mine darling."
Her stereo was playing some Canadian indie music, Jean stared intently at the time, 2:00am.... God it was late, he thought. Claire kept glancing over at him. "Jean" she said, "Jean... where are we going?" He looked perplexed, and sat a moment, wondering why she needed directions. Then remembering what was going on Jean laughed, his first real laugh in a long time....
"From 28 we take a left, and my apartment is on Cold St." Jean was pleased with his composure. Claire smiled at him. Her soft lips pressed against his cheek, he could smell the gin on her breath. A little drunken angel. Jean smiled again, "I have some very nice red wine I think you would like..."
Claire laughed, "And what makes you think that, darling?"
Frozen again he stared forward at the snow, now falling faster, Claire was looking at him. Suddenly he felt the words escape, "Because you are beautiful."
She smiled and looked forward, the snow was really pushing its way down. The heavens opened up as if every wonderful pillowy cloud had been instantaneously lacerated, and now all the random stuffing was crashing to the ground.....
Crashing? The cold roads were icing over.
Claire smiled. And Jean looked at those innocent blue eyes.
At that moment the car slid, but Claire managed to correct it. She spoke, "I'm from Iowa actually, and darn, we can get a lot of snow there."
Jean smiled again, the most he had in a long time, but although, Claire was as good a driver, as she was beautiful, as she was innocent, as she was.... well was... get it?
Another car lost control, and like a slow motion ballade crashed into the side of her little blue car. Jean looked at the serene beauty as their car sailed across the pavement swiftly and into a tree.
A gentle darkness began to envelope everything, it began out of the corners of his eye, but as the slow motion horror continued it slowly engulfed everything. The only color in this world of darkness was the little spurts of red that splashed across.
As the blackness slowly receded Jean looked forward. He wasn't in the car, but on a snow peppered landscape.  The snow was soaked with a  beautiful red ink. Jean felt his legs were weak so he stumbled toward the car. With all his energy he pried open the door. Looking towards Claire, Jean called out, "Beautiful angel, are you alright?" Claire, with her face bloodied, just looked back at Jean and cried, all she could say was, "I'm sorry Jean, I'm sorry."
Jean's face contorted with confusion, and then he looked down at his blood soaked clothes.  Then looking at Claire, he smiled once more, "You couldn't make me not alone, could you? No. But, your beauty, your kindness, have given me the most beautiful present possible. Would you do me just one favor?"  With her makeup running Claire cried out, "Anything"
Jean smiled,  "Not nearly that much, but please hold me, let me die in your arms stranger, as I wish you could have lived in mine?"
As she held him Jean bled out in her arms. When the ambulance came, they put a black tag on his toe.

Master of Small Favors

                The fungus on the walls dampened the sound of echoing screams. Whips snapped and flesh tore, chains cranked and bones crunched. The sounds mixed discordantly, culminating in a grotesque symphony that only the Devil could enjoy. Well, the Devil … or the Man in the Onyx Mask.

                He sat in the balcony on his throne and inhaled deeply through the holes in his black façade; blood and must. He relished the scent as he took a second, deeper breath throwing his head back in ecstasy.  The Man in the Onyx Mask exhaled slowly and lowered his eyes upon scene before him. He watched, enraptured, as the unrelenting torture built to a crescendo releasing a palpable sense of terror into the atmosphere. He fed on it for what seemed like hours.

    Satisfied at last, he stood and raised a single gloved hand.

                As the people below him noticed, one by one, the sounds diminished. The screams subsided into sobs, and everything ceased. All who were able looked upon his stone face and waited in silence.

                “Now,” he said staring down at them from above, “feel free to have your way with them.”

                Instantly the torturers began to tear and remove their clothing. They used sticks and parts of machines, anything they could find to make bandages and splints. The victims were tended to through tears of apology, and were offered water though most weren’t able to stomach it.

                The Man in the Onyx Mask turned to leave the dungeon and spoke over his shoulder, “Your debts are forgiven. Take your children and leave.”

La Mechanique

La Mechanique
No, I don't have an I.D. could you wave that rule just this once. I will surely make it worth your while. Yes, that will be alright, Thank you so much, which room is it? 407, oh I see thank you very much.
I must put a chair in front of the door, I'm never safe he is always chasing me, he is so relentless. He has chased me from Kansas to Maryland. Always close behind me. Oh, cruel fate, why me? Why am I the one he is after? Aren't there others?
I haven't had a sound sleep in so long. Everywhere I go it is a new fake name. I keep to the shadows to avoid him. If he sees me I'm done for, but is this chase ever going to end?
No, I can't think of that, it will only end one way, me in the grave and I just won't have that. No, I have lived too short of a life. I want to live so much more. There are such great wines I haven't tasted, but I don't dare drink anymore. And women who I haven't bedded. Ah, so many soft and succulent lips. So many gentle breasts bumping slowly up and down as I give the good ride.
Alas, I can't even enjoy such a simple pleasure anymore. He could get me with my pants down if you know what I mean. He is everywhere. He is unceasing. Am I going mad? Is this just a terrible nightmare that I can't wake up from?
Its an existential trap. I'm forced into despair at the very real prospect of my own demise. Yes, I will be killed by him it is inevitable but how do I face my death? My mortality? I can't! I have to run. Run forever. Run until my heart gives out or my flesh is hacked from my body, if you know what I mean.
Yes I am a sinner, yes I have so much guilt, but aren't there so many more guilty than me? Pimps who beat women. I could never see why a man would hit a woman, they are so comforting. Oh, it has been too long. How long? Perhaps weeks, or maybe months. When you are running desperately for your life it is hard to keep track of time.
It is hard to keep track of anything. Where to begin. Forgive me father for I have sinned. And now on my death bed I fear hell above all things. I know my damnation is soon, and maybe even a death bed confession will take a few years off my sentence.
I have lied, cheated, stolen, blasphemed, and , made a whore of myself. I have failed to honor my parents. I left at seventeen. I ran off to California with a girl. Oh she was so supple. They all are. Each one a work of art.
Don't get me wrong I am sorry for most of my sins. All of them if you will save me. Even more of them if you can even by me another day.
The sun rises, another desperate bus ride out of town. To Boston. Here I might be safe. In the dead of winter will he still chase me? Oh my, I promised not to say dead or death anymore. They remind me of him.  Would that I could bribe him. Or stop him somehow but I fear this is inescapable.
I think someone said man is responsible for everything he does, but not for his birth. I was born by chance. I didn't want to be a debauch. I could have even devoted my life to good deeds or charity. Oh, I remember Charity  didn't she dance at that club? Or was it Crystal?  It doesn't matter. Perhaps, here I will be free.
Another cheap motel. In Jamaica plains or Chelsea maybe. I have more of a chance of remaining anonymous or using a fake name. Can he track my receipts? No, those whores in Baltimore meant nothing to me. Please don't add it to my sins.
I didn't chose to be born I cried at the sheer terror of being alive. Now I cry for being damned. There are so many people in New York, maybe I can escape here.
No there he is, in the street, silently stalking me. Well this motel will keep me safe. I will hide from the window. Bar the door with a chair. And maybe pray. But who do I pray to Christ? Allah? Yahweh? Who can stop the inevitable? Are these religions not fatalist? Don't their very words damn me?
So what? I'm damned. Hell awaits me. Fine I will face my death like the sniveling coward I am. Hiding and running. Weak and base. Oh, what a fool. I am. I hear a knock on the door. It is gentle at first, but it won't stop. It is maddening. I cry out go away! But the knock continues. I begin to beg for my life, but only silence and the knocking remain.
Perhaps, we are all born to die. And this is my time. All the running, the despair. I've lost all hope now. I see the world for what it is. An indifferent hell. Fine bring on the inferno. Come in. I'm ready to face you. Vain, cowardly, but I won't die a cowards death. No, my noble Celtic blood won't allow it. I take the chair from the door and he walks in. Wrapped in black faceless. I sit on my bed as he walks across the room. He pulls the blinds shut. Then takes his hood down to display the face of death and despair.
I collapse as my breathing slows. I can't breathe everything is going numb. Fine death you finally got me. Hell awaits. I'm sor........

11:18

Its 11:18, my mind is so far away. A harmless question, "you are not afraid of heights are you?" I stared off for a moment, "no, of course not." But now I was hung on the implied question, what do I fear? What does a man who spends so many hours thinking about death, who spends more time in the caress of lady suicide than in the warm bosom of life.
What do I fear? Weakness. Cowardice. Failure. I fear that I will not be strong enough for the ever dwindling list of people I care about. I feel even the best of them, that their patience with this pathetic little boy will finally break. That their tolerance for all my little acid comments and all my moments where I can't be the better man.
I fear that I will be afraid. That when the cards are dealt that I won't be the man I thought I was. That I will run from the fire not into it. I fear that my strength will never be enough for these long days. I fear failure, most of all failing myself. Which every day I become convinced that I have already done this. That the man who I wanted to be is fading into a memory washed down with cheap wine, and long moments of despair.
Yet I don't feel afraid. I keep my eyes forward. Yes I do fear my own weakness, my own cowardice, and my potential for failure. But I am not a coward. I have not failed. And I am yet still strong. Take a deep breath Jean, try not to over think things. You are younger than you realize.
Come now there is still so much to do......

Guilt, Regrets, and Silence

Guilt, Regrets, and Silence

"Jean,.... Jean,.... Jean" Mathieu called as Jean stared off. "You are always somewhere else." Mat laughed, "And damn old friend, you look like hell."
Jean smiled at his old friend, "I haven't had a good night's sleep since..." as he faked a smile to hide a frown, "Well you know."
Mathieu stared into his eyes, "Well is there nothing to be done for it? Have you seen a doctor about it, maybe get put on some sleeping pills?"
"No" retorted Jean, "I think I will go this one on my own." At this Jean politely stood up, left a few dollars for his cup of coffee and bade his friend a warm farewell.  Although warm it lacked authenticity. And for all his good etiquette Mat knew his friend was not well. But these things could hardly be helped.
When Jean arrived at his apartment he tossed his keys on the counter and walked into the bathroom. On the counter was an overturned photograph in a pretty purple frame. A young woman with black hair and a beautiful smile was hugging a man who looked like Jean did, in happier days.
In the bathroom there were still two towels. A his and hers set from the wedding. It had been a lovely event. Beautiful Anya had looked so amazing in that white dress. Had looked so wonderful always. To the point where Jean could hear himself saying "Anya my love... Anya... please hurry up... you've been in there for hours... I'm sure you'll look fine, but we will miss the play" Or whatever..... He sat down in the shower and began to cry. The cold water couldn't hold back the tears tonight. The tears he shed for dear Anya.
Jean stood up and looked in the mirror. In the reflection he swore he could see Anya standing behind him. But not as she was, not young and beautiful, but tortured and broken. He could see the unclosed wounds where her face broke on the steering wheel.  He could see a few ribs hanging out, and cringed. The sight of it made him vomit, and brought him to his senses as he threw up in the toilet.
Jean cried out once more "Anya" but as he looked around there was no one there. He walked into a kitchen filled with little knickknacks and clutter that his dearly departed had once adorned their quiet little home with. A home Jean had been unable to alter since the accident.  He stared at a ceramic kitten, all white and pure, like his Anya had been. Then in a fit of rage he smashed the figurine on the counter and began balling.
As his teary eyes looked up he made eye contact with the same horrific caricature as before, his dear Anya, his dear Anya the way she looked the night he lost her. Jean stared at her mangled body standing in front of him judging him. Jean stuttered but finally found a few words.  "Anya, I'm so sorry." The corpse remained silent. Just judging him from those hollow eyes. "Anya" Jean continued pleadingly, "Anya, I should have been driving that night!" The tears running down his face he put out his arms to embrace the corpse of his dearest love but the image faded and Jean abruptly fell to the floor.
"Anya" he cried out again as he laid on the floor, curled up a grown man who felt as broken inside as the corpse of his dead wife.
On the night of the accident it had been raining. Jean had terrible eyesight at night in particular and made all the worse by the rain. He politely asked Anya to drive. Being the adorable couple they were, beautiful Anya gladly took the keys. They kissed right before she turned the keys and then began to drive.  She put a hand on Jean's hip as they drove. He smiled at the beautiful woman, but his mind was elsewhere. They were newlyweds, and had so much to get done the next week if they wanted to be able to go on honeymoon to Barbados.
Anya had always wanted to see the Caribbean, but had grown up so poor. Jean wasn't wealthy, but he always had enough to make his Anya happy. He tucked away money in secret over the three years of their engagement. Surprising her on their wedding day with tickets to Bridgetown.
As Anya squeezed Jean's hip again gently she turned slightly to look into Jean's eyes, but just as that happened a car from the intersection slipped, its brakes failed in the rain and clipped Jean and Anya. The side of her face smashed on the steering wheel. and her ribs broke against it. Jean hit his head badly on the dashboard. As things began to blur he felt her hand still tight on his hip and gazed at what was left of her face. Tears ran down his cheek and his memory faded.
Jean's survival had been miraculous, or so the doctors said. All he could think of was the picture of beautiful Anya dead in the driver's seat.
As Jean got up from the floor he wandered into their bedroom. There sitting on his bed was the same ghastly image. He could not get it out of his head. She seemed so real. He screamed out, "What Anya ! What can I do?" She motioned for him to pick up his journal.
Jean obeyed, grief stricken with tears running down his cheeks. Anya pointed to the pen. Then Jean felt his hand writing without his control. The hand writing was familiar, but clearly not his. He looked again, not yet reading the message. Finally he found some wedding thank you cards he never sent. It was Anya's writing. Jean read the message.
I can't be dead without you.
Jean looked at her. The mangled corpse pointed to the bathroom and vanished. Jean walked into the bathroom and stared into the mirror. Anya's corpse stood behind him in his reflection. She placed her hands on his and moved them to open the drawer. There Jean pulled out a razor blade. He stared at her reflection with tears in his eyes.  Then he moved the blades down his wrists as the ghost moved them in his reflection. As the blood ran from his wrists the Anya's reflection grew fairer, the wounds healed and she looked ever more beautiful. As he fell to the ground he stared into the mirror.
Eventually his eyes began to blur. There written in blood beside him were the words:
Together, Once More, Now and For Eternity