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This Parisian Girl Does Not Love You

This Parisian Girl Does Not Love You

So I was sitting at a cast iron cafe table on un rue de boulevard in Paris. I had four or five of those little coffees. The kind that come in old lady tea-cups, the ones the Italians sip with their heads cocked back.

I had a small set of charcoal pencils and sat about making sketches of the French streetlights and the men with their unshaven faces. They grimaced with their coat buttons undone and their scarves trailing. It was late winter here, the people were stubbornly bating the spring.

I ordered a small plate of dessert chocolates, something I had never done before. I took up a piece and with my warm breath scoffed at it until the edges started to melt.

It was dark and bitter and I could taste some of the charcoal dust that had gotten onto my fingers.

Across the cafe sitting at the raised bar was a slender French girl. With tapered leggings and one of those wool sweaters that hung loose around her neck and arms. She was sitting on a tall stool propped up with her arm crooked around a bottle of wine. She pulled the cork and gave the wine-key back to the server.

I began to trace her outline on a fresh page. She was round lines touching sharp edges. She had all the right angles in all the right places. I smudged the black stick a bit where her hair cut the line around her shoulders. Occasionally she would turn a bit and I could make out her face. She had bangs and smiled.

The woman sat staring at her empty glass. She had yet to pour herself a drink. She cocked her elbows out and shifted a bit as if she had caught herself from falling asleep.

Very slowly, she raised her arm and pointed to the ceiling. I followed her finger as she turned her hand a bit. I traced the line out from her finger tip to where she seemed to be pointing.

There behind the bar, running along the wall was a polished mirror. I could see the French girl smiling.

She had been watching me in the mirror. She could see my pencils moving the whole time following my eyes, as I studied her.

She winked and called for the server. She said something to him in French and he brought her a second glass.

She turned around and smiled. As she crossed the cafe I closed my sketch book and put it back into my bag.

“Bonjour, American.”

“Hello, ah I mean bonjour.”

“It’s all right American, I speak the English.”

She sat down and put the glasses and bottle onto the table.

“Would you mind pouring us a drink?”

While I poured, she plucked a piece of chocolate and held it in front of her lips. She scoffed at it until the edges began to melt.

“Excuse me, but how did you know I was an American?”

“Well now, it’s quite obvious you’re not Parisian, and you’re certainly not French, so you may as well be an American.”

“Oh, ah, look I’m sorry I was staring earlier, it’s just,-”

“That you were drawing me into your little black book. Don’t worry I won’t ask to see it, I can tell you’re embarrassed. Look how you little red-blooded Americans blush.”

I drank some of the wine. It was heavy and red, I think. I don’t really know anything about wine. “My name is Luke.”

She was truly beautiful with black eye makeup and no jewelry. She made me nervous. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Luke, you can call me Nina. What are you doing in Paris, Luke? It doesn’t look like business. Are you and your pencils on vacation?”

“Sort of. Except it’s the kind of vacation where you don’t know exactly when you’re supposed to go home.”

“So mysterious. Aren’t you just a dark little doodler. Tell me Luke did you come all the way to Paris to find love or to forget it?”

“Both, neither.”

“You are a deep one. I tell you what my Luke. You have a room here in the hotel. Take me to it, and let’s fuck.”

“I thought you Parisians only made love?”

“You Americans have taught the world how to fuck and we very much prefer it.”

“You French have taught the world how to make love, and we very much admire it.

“I like you Luke, you don’t scare easy.” She poured another glass. “But let me warn you, you who find the vulgar distasteful, run the risk of becoming a classy celibate.”

We laughed, and I breathed the night air. I poured another glass of wine. “French wisdom?” I asked.

“No, I worry about you. An American eating chocolates in a Paris cafe. You can barely take care of yourself.”

“I’ve managed so far.”

“You Americans always manage. None of you are happy. Why don’t you tell me about her?”

“Who?”

“Oh Luke, don’t be coy, tell me of your lost love.”

“I don’t believe in love.”

“Says the man admiring French women at dusk.”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

“Nothing, I don’t mean anything by it, forget it. So Luke, just what is it about love that makes life so difficult for you.” She stared right at me, and I couldn’t move and I grinded my teeth a bit as I talked.

“I refuse to believe the delusions of the truly lonely.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“No, honesty is misleading. Conviction is damning. I keep coming to this point where I only feel like doing one thing, and instead of just doing it, I flew to Paris.”

“Luke what happened, what are you doing here?”

“I’m sitting in a cafe entertaining a sullen conversation with a worried admirer.”

“You’re a literal fellow aren’t you?”

“Like from a book or something?” I cringed and crossed my legs under the table. “It’s just that where I come from people tend to say what they mean, and they tend to mean what they say.”

“And where might that be?” She wiggled her nose a bit and I softened.

“Nowhere, I ain’t found the place yet.”

“What are you doing here, Luke?”

I watched the wine slosh around, and I began to speak.

I was in Detroit. I worked as photographer for a newspaper. Everything was fucked. Detroit was a hell-hole and nearly everyone was out of a job, out of luck. Half the buildings were vacant. Crime was unbelievable, sometimes the power went out.

Newspapers on the whole, were dying. The paper in Detroit was affiliated nationally, but we we’re all out of a job in a few months regardless.

Everyone’s in a lousy mood, ragged fucking dolls, hungry, tired, and cruel. So it’s the dead of winter and I’m supposed to meet this reporter across town. She’s doing a story on some such load of shit, and I’m supposed to snap a few shots of the landscape.

It’s snowing terrible and you can only really see around the street lights. I’m driving this little piece of shit with bald tires and no exhaust. I come up on an intersection and sitting in the middle of it is a blue station wagon, the engines running and the driver side door is wide open, the headlights were still on.

The snow was falling, and this car was stranded idling and abandoned. I grabbed my camera and got out of my car. I began to photograph it. The shutter was clicking and the car was sputtering, and the snow was silent. I don’t know, the photos probably came out like shit.

So I check out the interior. What the fuck? This is that reporter’s car. Her name was Laura Terne. Her purse was sitting in the driver’s seat.

I tried her mobile phone. It went to voicemail. I called out for her. I listened for a while and heard nothing.

I got out of the car and found a set of tracks, little boot prints. I walked around to the other side of the car.

Under the passenger side wheel well, was a wadded up mess of bicycle and cloth. I turned my head and vomited into the snow. It was a body, blood on the fender, bike frame warped and smashed. The guy was gone, he had a basket on the back and his groceries we’re spread across the ground.

I snapped a few photos. Chicken soup and a fucking corpse in the middle of the street. I followed the little boot prints. Laura had paced in front of the car. Then darted off down the street. I crossed over onto the bridge. No one else was out tonight.

The tracks led down the sidewalk, of the east bridge. The wind was terrible, I felt empty headed, and my stomach still turned.

Her trail led to the guard rail of the bridge and stopped. I looked over the railing, the snow had been disturbed. The water was black, and I could barely see all the way down to it. I could hear it. I stared into that black water and listened to it cut the banks.

I think I knew what had happened. But I didn’t understand. What was I doing here? Laura and the bicyclist, and I’m standing here freezing cold staring at the water.

She had killed him. Took the corner and collided with him. He was an out-of-work father of two. He was out getting the groceries, riding his bicycle because no one had money to fix their piece of shit cars. He was riding down the middle of the street, because no one was out in this fucking weather.

She must have gotten out of the car and found him. Maybe she watched him die. She walked around cursing to herself. Her phone records showed that she had called the police and given the address. Then she turned her phone off, and threw it into the darkness. Walked a straight line path to that bridge and just jumped right over the side.

She had had it. That was it. It was over. Cruelty god-damn unspeakable abhorrent brutal black reality crushing the insignificance of human kindness. So she fucking jumped off that bridge and fell into the bleak hope that it was finally over.

I was staring at the water, my hands were near froze when the police arrived. I was sick, hypothermia, pneumonia, I couldn’t talk. They took me in the ambulance.

I was released a few days later, never said goodbye to my family, didn’t even tell the paper I quit. I just bought a ticket, Paris. I ordered a plate of fucking chocolates and other than that I don’t know, what the fuck, else is going on.

I grew quiet and her eyes focused again.

“Luke I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, one thing I’m not, is sorry. You French people are always smoking cigarettes, have you got one?”

I opened the package, I took a cigarette, I flicked the lighter, I breathed into the smoke.

Nina was silent just staring at me. Her look was like clear glass where I could only see the edges.

“So Nina, what are you doing here?”

“I’m nobody, I’m nothing. I’m about to fail out of university this semester. I’ve been studying La Psychologies, but I’m a fucking wreck. I’ve got until the end of spring before they kick me out. But I don’t think about it.”

We both got quiet and stared at the candle. It hissed in the cold. A wind came by and shook us.

“Thank you for the cigarette and for the wine, good night Nina.” I gathered my coat and avoided her face with my eyes.

“Luke wait, just wait, just wait a god damn second, I have a little place, in this quarter, I’ve got a little coffee pot, we could go there.”

I turned towards her and scowled. “Yes, but give me another cigarette first.”

Sunday, January 24, 2010-01:23:35 AM

stories

Brits

She had eyes like a greasy spoon. Looked like a sloppy kisser.

“You fancy round women with loose knickers?”

Terrible lot in life, to be English. Second place empire with no purpose, and no traction. We, and I mean the states; ‘the yanks’ pulled the rug out from under them. We spit in their faces, turned them around, and put a boot to their asses. Don’t worry we can still be friends, we’ll phone tomorrow.

But it’s not my fault they’re so ugly. I blame the language. Start calling everything knobs and knockers and everything will start to look like bits and wollops.

Of course the real trouble is with the queen. In life a mother can be a terrible disadvantage. The old maid stiff and staring, permanent look of reproach on her face. Poor sods, the whole time having to sneak around trying to peek each others bums and twats.

The single most endearing characteristic of fathers is that one day, they die. America is the land of the founding fathers, and it is our great fortune to have watched our fathers die. Old, brittle, and toothless, we put their portraits in a back room and marveling at the strength of youth, go out to hunt cunt and kick each others teeth in.

In the states we have with great success separated the idea of mothers from the idea of women. Which seems rather difficult considering our intended use for them. This allows our boys to grow into men without terrible confusion. They call them ‘poofs’ here. Poor suckers so afraid of fucking their mothers they queer around quashing rods and huffing cake.

I’m not complaining, I make no demands on the state of things. I’m just a shit talking American, poorly educated and with the habit of remembering things how I want instead of how they were. Just stupid enough to get through life without much debate, and just smart enough not to try too hard. What I lack in conscience, strength of character, and a pleasant disposition I more than make up for with my stubbornness and dishonesty.

So what poor unfortunate fuck must I be. Pissed drunk staring at a warm pint of Guinness, standing in a north England pub with my hand on my wallet, a shine on my smile, and red cheek blush at some round faced woman with loose knickers.

“Hell no, but I’ve got a room upstairs and you should
see the view.”

————————————————————————————-
A sample writing from the Guide to Foreign Travel- a reference published by the American Board of Tourism.

8/9/09

stories, Uncategorized

Rest

She was cold. I hated to see her shiver. It was the world, it was her, it was me. We are freezing. On park benches across America, we were freezing. I pulled up the collar of my coat and squeezed tighter against her. We were sitting watching the lake freeze; it was the middle of the night. We were in love.

We didn’t speak. We were scared of the sounds our voices made when we were trying to talk. The air was so cold, ice on the sides of my shoes, clothes were stiff, bones were heavy, the world was still, and the wind was dead. It was one of those pure freezes. No wind-chill, just cold. The sun was probably dead, the oceans probably frozen. The air had all but disappeared, nothing dared move. But I can still recall the feeling of the hot tears in the corners of my eyes as they slowly froze and grew larger. Stretched across my skin, scraping the flesh tight.

We were in love. We wouldn’t move. It was too cold to hold hands. Too much ice in the air to talk. Silent and dangerous, like the ice crawling over the lake. We we’re scared. It’s not terror if you’re not awake, and I was dead. It’s convincing thoughts like these that give me trouble. Sure I was a corpse, sure I was forgotten, sure I had been killed, sure I was stabbed and beaten and tied and bound and tossed away. I could remember a hundred different crime scenes, a thousand different culprits.

But as it turned out, I was very much alive and only so far gone. I knew that we should move, that we should get up. That our blood should flow, that our hearts should beat drums and we should beat tracks, that we should grow roses in our cheeks and laugh and hold the heat in our breath, blow hot kisses. I knew what we should of done. how we should have felt. But we just sat there, and it got colder and the world would shatter.

But everything was fine; we kept sitting there not speaking. Our shoulders touched, our hip bones touched, our knees touched, our feet touched, our hands were in our pockets and our hearts were locked up. We were in love. I tell you we were in love. My face was tight and bitter, the flesh was unwilling to suffer for the mind, suffer for the heart. The flesh knew the answer. The best in the beast of me knew what was wrong here. But the worst of the rest of me just wouldn’t move.

My knuckles were thick and brittle. I could see them turn to dust and powder up under the skin. There wasn’t even snow on the ground. It was so cold. A photograph wouldn’t have shown the temperature. They rarely show anything. The only sign was the grass. It cracked and broke at strange angles rigid and sharp. The water had frozen and burst through it. If it ever thawed it would lay flat and flimsy, it would not stand up straight again.

She was strong and silent like old mountains. Like great trees. I could never guess what she was thinking. For all I knew she was trying to escape. This suffering, this pain. I was too much of not enough. She could have been running the same words through her mind over and over, building it until she exploded. Hate. She must hate me. I am the damned. And she doesn’t care. She doesn’t have to believe in anyone but herself. She’s so strong that the child I am is ashamed.

You could feel your lungs. They wanted to surrender. Rather just quit than keep breathing this stuff in. It hurt. It was not pain, it was wounding. You felt the lacerations. You felt the wounds of it, not the warning of pain. Whatever danger your body had tried to warn you of was already tearing up and down your chest. Ribcage would wheeze, like the bones couldn’t take it. You could feel your heart slow down, like it was being squeezed. I could see the ice-white tendrils of frost crawl around it crossing paths and pulling at the red flesh.

I couldn’t hear her breathing. She was alive, I just couldn’t hear her breathing. We gave off no signs that we were alive. I think we were blinking. I can’t recall. I prayed for a sign. I knew that if I just saw the way, if I just saw the path I would take it. I’d be fine. We both would. Just a sign. Signal me. Tell me what to do. I’ll do it. I’ve surrendered it all to hope and faith in the unknown. I am a slave, command me.

The ice out over the lake shattered, a great torrent of water spilled out over the surface. It cracked and shifted and broke. The noise was beautiful. The death of inanimate objects, it’s pleasing to us. We like death; it’s a secret we try our whole lives to keep from ourselves. But we really do like it. Mystery, curiosity. We know the answer and we play the riddle anyways. Cold death, slow and painful, they used to call it a shame, we call out everyday. What is life, but our long and slow, painful and precious dance of death.

Please lord, just push my body. Please. I have seen the sign and now all I need is to be forced. I have not the strength to do it myself. Just pick me up and carry us away. Set us in our beds, kiss our lips and tell us to hush. It will be all right tomorrow lord, just tell us and make it so. Just grab my legs and send them forward. Pull my hands out of my pocket and put them to her face. Move my mouth, tell her that the rest be damned that love still stands. Kiss her for me lord. Keep her happy. Love her lord. If you could just love her for me I could make it. Push the hair out of her face and put the corners of our eyes together, let us cry and our tears find the same path down our touching cheeks. Let us quiet up at the same moment and embrace against our sobs. Let us find the strength of one another and let it fill us with tomorrow. Lord just give me the future. I have already surrendered. I am a slave to the day, I am bound this night. Willingly I have surrendered my will. I’ve lost myself lord, find me. Please lord, just do this for me.

She turned, her eyes were diamonds, she turned my head towards hers, her lips were new and brilliant, her hands were warm and white, they were real, we were alive. She moved in close to me and said, we will die here, ignorant and frozen, the rest be damned, Our love must stand. She kissed me, and we moved. My hands were free, I found her heart, we were alive and breathing. Our breaths were warm and shared. We weren’t blinking, I can recall the reflection of her eyes in mine in hers, we were free. We were in love. I don’t need to tell you, we were in love.

The faithful are hopeless slaves, atheists are the hand of god. 

8/22/07

stories, Uncategorized

Reach

It’s so dangerous lying awake at night. All sorts of nasty sick little thoughts find their way; make their way in from the darkness. And it’s always too hot or too cold in this city, nothings ever “just right”. But you only ever feel just ‘all right’ when some slob on the street asks you. It’s funny the way you can toss everyone else into the mix and make perfect into pity.

And the windows open and you don’t feel safe; And the windows shut and you feel trapped. Can’t breathe, and there’s never any in-between. Not with all these animals around, not with all these monsters sleeping soundly. It’s either predator or prey, villain or victim, it’s either happy or awake, either dumb or morose. You can’t find a piece of middle ground; you can’t help yourself with all these goddamn color blind killers around. Black or White, or both. The fucking light beams are hypocrites.

The beds not long enough and my feet hang off, and the nights too long and I’m only hanging on. And I think about the lonely naked ghosts and I’m tied up in their bed sheets, and I forget about the lonely naked racists and I’m tied up in their sweaty blindness.

Maybe it’s easier when everyone else is asleep. When they’re knocked out for half a second. You should see the teeth on these people; this city has got some giant fucking chompers. Cigarettes and angry knuckles have only made a dent. These people are meat eaters, these monsters are people eaters. But I’m told that scavengers have the sharpest jaws. Bone breaking marrow sucking parasites, can smell fresh blood from miles off. They’re not killers but they certainly don’t mind finding the corpses.

But these men and women do all their killing with a smile and kind word. Cardboard cut outs with machine guns. Gunpowder and the smell of leftovers. Takes ‘em twenty years, but they’ll slit your throat. Twenty years, but they got the time. They make time. And they make you make time. Make you wait. They watch you wait. And that’s the worst of it.

And I sink into the mattress and the mattress sinks into the floor and the buildings sinking into the earth and I’ve got this sinking feeling that life is just a sinking feeling.

But she’s there, asleep right next to me.
She a little warm weather, she’s a bit of brown leather. She can stir up my birdcage, send the shit flying. And its worse when the birdcage hits the fan, poor sticky feathers. Good thing bloods romantic, hot and thick, dying just makes it so hot, slow and painful, but dead has always been a downer.

But she’s asleep, and I can’t help but love her. She’s the only good thing for miles, and I’ve never been more than 60 blocks from home.

She’s got sharp little elbows that poke into her sides. Gorgeous little skull with a dream storm raging. I can’t help myself. She’s goldenrod. She’s life in a basket. She’s fresh oranges at sea. Sleeps in a old t-shirt, with that fuzzy kindness stitched right into the cotton. Sleeps on her stomach with her hands wrapped around her hips, she’s huddled, collapsed and christ it’s beautiful. She’s brilliant like long iron nails in hot wood. Her hair curls at the edges right around her shoulders. I bite my lip. She sleeps with her feet touching. Legs and knees locked.

And what’s left to me. She’s got it all taken care of. She licks beauty onto the back of envelopes and she turns men into dust, boots with no shadows. She’s a sinister sister with a picture frame lens and shuttering flicker. She’ll lead the dogs to war and tie leashes to olive branch peace trees and she’ll stand on two legs at the end of a long line of hunch backed knee scrapers.

Drinks the spring time vibrance and spits into the hot heat of summertime violence. She gardens like a greedy god breaking winters spell with ripe tomatoes. I can only follow her around and brush the dead leaves on to the sidewalks.

And my hands are blunt and bricked. Heavy and numb like their too big for my brain. My spines got a deep curve because I don’t stand up for myself. And it’s the dead of night.

Staring out the window I hear the newspapers get delivered. And I wonder how the waking world stays informed by the midnight writers. Bug eating bats that tell the birds how to sing. But they’re only blind, and it certainly sounds like they can carry a tune but it’s not one I’ve ever heard. But they work all night printing the words of tomorrow to tell the stories of yesterday. So we can wake up and read what we missed. I don’t know if there’s an honest chance in this world for a man with his name in the paper, he’s only going to get shit on. There’s always a smile on the front page and a dog training to sleep indoors.

And with nights like these I wonder if it’s the world that’s so big or just my own wide eyes. And she’s asleep next to me, and I’ve gotten to feeling terribly alone again. So I wrap back up around her. And with my eyes closed its easier to forget that there’s more to this world than just what’s within arms reach.

8/20/2007

stories

Dreameat

February 24th, 2007 -a Saturday evening.

It did feel good to be out of the house again.
And I would like to say that, I did think that I looked rather striking and perhaps even suavely debonair in my finely pressed suit and jacket. I would like to say that I had thought such things but thinking about oneself is so unbecoming. Thinking at all, it seems, is a rather untimely and unkempt manner.

The walkway leading to the old manor was riddled with poorly cobbled stones and was hardly appropriate for receiving guests. But my shoes were of a good foreign leather. All who are privy to the fashionable knowledges know that to wear domestic is to wear disgrace. I do feel awfully sorry however, for all of the gentlemen living in Paris who are forced to wear their own clothes simply because they are the best.

The walk was brisk and I did not notice it. One must be most careful not to notice the things that one is unaware of. A solitary gas lamp hung on a brass cantilever above the entrance-way, and as I approached, it politely stopped swaying in the wind. I considered the manners of the antique light, remarking that surely a phosphorescent would have continued on swinging in such a highly shameful fashion.

I had made my way inside and had found myself almost to the foyer before I had realized what I had done. I must have been so caught up in my reflections that I had entered in without knocking. I decided that one must be careful to whom one gives considerations.

Pausing a moment, I thought I was hearing a rather strange and obnoxious sound. But thinking the better of it; I dismissed it as quite normal and inoffensive.

I retraced my steps noting, I am quite certain; the exact marble tiles to which I stepped upon when entering. I have always held as one of my most adamant principles that one should always leave this world in the manner in which they came in.

Now back upon the front steps and under the steady lantern I rang the bell three distinct times and knocked twice. You see I have never trusted a thing when it had an obvious alternative.

I posed, waiting for the door. I stuck one foot a bit out from the other and turned my head away and to the moon, which seemed either surprisingly large or of a much closer proximity than I ever had remembered it. I do rather like things that seem to be something that they are not. It is horrible manners to go about parading as oneself.

I was careful not to ponder this further in case I should happen to lose myself once again. Although to be quite honest it is not the losing of oneself that is so terribly inconvenient, it tends to be the finding of oneself that is so needlessly difficult.

I rang and knocked again. Patience is a most noble trend and my host must be quite honorable for he was being very patient in his desire to open his door and admit me.

I held my breath and listened, one can never hear a thing when one is busy with the trouble of breathing. I always try not to breathe, I try to occupy my lungs with as much smoking and talking as possible so as to not even allow them the time to breath. But as I was listening I heard an interrupting voice call out,

The door is most unlocked, please find yourself inside.

I almost turned around and left that instant, how foolish it is to allow a guest to admit themselves. Why, I should think that anybody could be inside at this point. But since I had already found myself inside once I decided that it would not be too difficult to find myself there again.

I deposited my coat in the antechamber taking note of the towering bureaus and armoires, the ceiling must have stood some thirty feet above my head to accommodate them. A chandelier hung in every hallway and two or three of them in every room. What an excess of suspended lighting. One is truly prosperous when they flaunt their defiance of gravity with every fixture.

I listened to the soft music, a rather reasonable song suited to become the background of some unreasonable conversation. Enough of an impression to distract one from the lulls of communication but not entertaining enough to attract active listeners.

I was standing in front of a great staircase that arched up and descended again on the other side, as if it were a convenient footbridge over a gentle waterway.

I mounted the steps with an air of confidence around me, but as I reached the highest step I began to feel quite lightheaded. A series of intense visions proceeded to follow.

I imagined myself charming every guest and rousing them to actions that I myself would not have done alone. I pictured a great group of gentlemen in a chorus line; some in front on one knee and the rest standing behind with our arms on each others shoulders while we serenaded the ladies with a choral improvisation sung from my cues.

I imagined popping cork after cork from champagne bottles sending streams of white foam shooting out in long wet arches.
I could not hold in my laughter as I pictured myself bowing to kiss the ringed hands of some entourage of royalty and I watched for their eyes to grow wide and their mouths pursed into tiny looks of terror as they noticed the gems and precious stones missing from their ringed fingers.

I stood and smiled revealing two rows of rubies, emeralds, obsidians, and opals. We all began to laugh. The old king grabbed the sides of his round belly, rubbing his large mittened hands over his crimson velvet robe.

And we all continued to laugh. The ladies of the court screaming and gasping as if there was not enough air to fill their lungs. The duke began clutching at and pulling at the ends of his waxed mustache. His face a deep purple.

We cannot stop our laughter. It seems as if some strange devil has grabbed us, it is like swimming against and with a changing tide. Suddenly we all begin to cry.
We weep. Falling to our knees sobbing, our chests now drop in great heaving sighs. We stare into each others faces and find only desperation and despair. Looks of awful wretched pain and tormenting anguish. There is no hope for even one of us, it seems. We are all to die this very moment.

The tears are large and heavy and slip down into my mouth, I begin to choke, or drown. My face contorts and spasms. Soaking wet and writhing in the pool of our tears I begin to cough. Rubies, emeralds, obsidians, and opals are cast out and land upon my king and queen, upon my duke and duchess. The stones splash against them in great bursts of liquid color. They close their eyes and tiny droplets cling to their eyelashes. The colors soak them through. Like the crayoned pages of a child who has but one color per figure.

They rise one by one, joining hands. They smile and stare at me. I can only kneel and lower my head. I am ashamed. The queen places her hand upon my cheek and catches my tears in her palm. I gaze down and see a handful of tiny shimmering diamonds. Millions of them set in place like a beach of sand grains.

She sings out and the diamond dust trembles and an emerald tortoise has unburied himself. Licking his turtle beak he smiles at me before thrusting his head back into his shell. I hear him resonate; his little shell vibrates beautifully as if one could get ones ear close enough to the paper wall of a hornets hive. The queen sings out once again and two brilliant white doves descend from above and perch themselves upon my shoulders.

They flap their tiny heartbeat wings ever so softly. I have found that they have raised me to my feet. The queen empties her hand into my jacket pocket. In the reflection of our eyes the doves disappear.

I stopped and found myself upon the bottom step of the staircase. The image was so vivid and I had let it run away with me so terribly. I checked my jacket pocket and found nothing there. That is the trouble with ones wildest imaginations they hardly ever leave you with anything except for the desire that you wish they had.

Turning round I gazed at the arching white staircase I from which I had just descended. I was certain that this time I should not very much like to leave the way I entered. For what good are ones most adamant principles if one cannot excuse oneself from them.

And besides my voyage had left me quite shaken, one should never be held to his promises unless he is utterly settled, and even then only if his promises are convenient. I found my eyes were quite tired and I decided that I should like a drink right away.

I continued on through the strange mansion until I finally reached the entranceway to the grand dining room. Outside stood a very peculiar looking man. Now I say peculiar but what I really mean is that he was perfectly dull. Of course one should rarely say what he means; otherwise he is quite boring and a secret to no one.

He stood in front of a magnificent doorway, dark bronze with golden hinges and knobs. It had several panels of decadent engravings. But the man stood, round faced and bent over. The top of his head was bald and I think, waxed, for it reflected a great deal of the golden light off of the door.

The little man spoke up.

Ah Monsieur. They hold dinner waiting for you, please enter.

Ah yes, why thank you. Say would you not happen to have a drink upon you. I am afraid I have found myself exceptionally tired and I simply must wake up a bit.

Certainly Sir, though I must warn you, this drink is not exactly what you are looking for, but as I am told exactly what is looking for you.

The small man produced a small silver vial and removing the top placed it in my hand. I proceeded to drink. I found it stale like young brandy. But I emptied the tiny flask regardless and handed it back to the doorman with a dry smile. He held the door for me. I entered.

My goodness! Before me setting around a large oak table were twelve empty thrones. The table was bare save for one place setting at the head. I sat down and pouted vehemently.

Surely this must be some horrible mistake. At my place I found a large glass goblet with small rubies fastened around it and a large bottle of wine wrapped round with a wet twine cord many times over. I poured myself a glass and sipped despondently.

A violet table cloth hung to the floor on all sides. High backed thrones made of dark wood with velvet cushions were gathered around the table. Large tapestries with yellow tassels adorned the walls. The twelve candles of the large chandelier poised above the table, all flickered in unison. How very polite of them.

I removed a cigarette from my case and held it between my eye and the flame of a candle. Squinting I lost all manner of depth perception and consequently my cigarette was lit. The trick to any real consequence is perception, you see.

I had just decided to leave when I noticed directly to my right in one of the thrones sat a small brown faun.

The young deer was dark spotted and with a white crest upon his chest. Such a beautiful face and large eyes. His long legs with their coal black hoofs sprawled under him in quite an unusual fashion. Though it must be quite difficult, not to mention uncomfortable, for a faun to sit at all.

Good day young Faun. Welcome to dinner.

And with the softest little voice the young faun poured his immense white eyes into mine.

Good day M’Lord. I am the Wandering Faun and I am very pleased to dine with you this eve.

Ah well, I am quite pleased in your arrival my friend.

Well we have come at your request M’Lord. And one does not refuse the request of friends.

Surely not, but just now you said “we”. There are more arriving?

There are more arrived sir.

And with that I heard a faint voice yell out gruffly.

Is monsieur blind?! The Fool. Of course we are more than one!

Behind the left ear of the Wandering Faun there sat perched a fat black tick. He looked dastardly and I could hardly imagine such a foul and vile creature upon my new friend, drinking his fill of the faun’s sweet blood. The parasite! The Fiend!

How dare you, you Flea! You Vermin! Oh Wandering Faun but give me the word and I shall remove him and burn him to death with the tip of my cigarette!

Oh no M’Lord. I could not have it; he is my friend and has requested passage to our destination. And one does not refuse the request of ones friends.

That’s right you ass in a suit. I am the Menacing Tick and I am the friend of this faun. We will not have anymore of your insults! Will we Faun my friend?

The tick whispered something into the young deer’s ears and the faun shook his little head nervously. The tick rubbed his greasy hands together and twirled the ends of his waxed mustache.

I was enraged at such an injustice, but the creatures logic was infallible. One must never argue with infallible logic. Unless of course one is in the mood to argue, then one can argue about anything and it matters not.

Yet still I longed to purge the creature with the smoldering end of my cigarette.

So wandering faun, where is it that you are wandering, and to which destination are you delivering The Menacing Tick?

Oh M’Lord. I think one often finds oneself traveling and rarely if ever knows the destination. I am the Wandering Faun and so I wander. Tick is my friend and so we wander together.

Ah, I can see you are a noble creature and that you will find your way without the best of directions. I bid you luck on your journey and offer that there is no better guide on ones journey then a good meal in a full belly.

Oh surely M’Lord. Let dinner be started.

As I gazed around the table I saw around me not a single empty throne. All manner of guests where there. Creatures of the forest, of the earth, of the air, and even a song had sat down upon the far end of the table. She smiled at me with such a shameful flirtation that I blushed. She was seated quite comfortably for a good song always sits well with me.

Next to the faun overflowing in his seat was a small mountain. His spring melt water stream was trickling down and to the floor and the large black spider next to him was holding several glasses underneath collecting the water for drinking. In each of her eight hands she held a glass; some already full, save one hand which held a smoking cigarette in its long pearl holder.

She passed the glasses round to everyone who had them set down aside their plates.

All manner of silverware and china was now set upon the table. To my left sat Juggling. An ever mobile spirit who was tumbling and tossing the wisps of himself about. I recognized him clearly and introduced myself immediately.

Ah, Juggling! How good it is to see you again. Why last I think it was I came across you with some traveling men from the orient!

Juggling hardly seemed surprised to see me, and tossed his words about quite carelessly.

Oh Allo! GOOOoooOOOoooooOOOdddd day to you M’Lord. Yes I quite remember that day. One of the men got into quite a disagreement with me. A scuffle broke out between us and for some time we were throwing, knives, swords, torches, and even a poisoned dagger at one another! But surely my lord you should have found me yourself. I am really not hard to invite, and it really only takes a few things to get me going!

Oh of course Juggling, how silly of me!

Next to Juggling was a large brown bear who was stooped over his plate asleep. His large paws folded under his head and he was resting his black snout upon his saucer.

He wore a simple green beret with a brilliant red feather in it. He would have looked rather dashing if he wasn’t so very unconscious. As it there was still something rather charming about him.

Next to the charmin’ bear very stiffly perched was a great thick Maple Tree.

His bark was old and hard and jutted from his trunk in all directions and locations. His canopy was full and green and two of his branches hung down and rested upon the arms of the chair. He looked over at me nervously waiting for a chance to introduce himself.

About his side were several young saplings fanned about him in a semicircle.

Ah good day Commandant Maple. How sweet of you to come. And I see you’ve brought your children? How wonderfully refreshing.

Ahem. Yes, beg my pardon sir. I did not know if it would please you to have me bring them. But I am afraid my children hardly ever leave my side.

Oh certainly Commandant. Of course I welcome the presence of your children with open arms as I do you. What joy it brings me to see them here with you.

Ahem. Thank you, sir. I certainly do love to have them about me, I’ve grown much attached to some of them and of course there are certain benefits to keeping the company of the young about you!

I ventured a good natured laugh with my guest, and as he snickered his branches shook and a few leaves fell about his rooted feet. A globule of thick brown syrup erupted from his side. The spider was quick to snatch up a small teapot and collect it.

The spider then poured a cup of the thick maple tea for each guest and we sipped gingerly. It was strong and good and my heart did beat delightfully as I drank.

I overheard the Menacing Tick.

Faun, think what joy it would be if we poured some of Mountains cold spring water into Verse Bears saucer! Why it’d run right up his snout and he would make such a humorous clamor when he awoke!

But-t-t Tick, will not he be mad?

No Faun, you fool he will surely congratulate you in your jest.

I watched as Faun weighed Ticks malevolence. I would not bear to see Tick spoil young Faun like this. As Faun sat up and began to nudge his glass I was compelled to spring.

I grabbed my own glass and quickly splashed it into the saucer. The water still bore small flakes of ice which clung to bears nostril. He sneezed and snorted and jumped up with quite a holler. He seemed quite angry and his snout flared out wide and with his teeth barred clenched a snarl tunnled out.

Why good morning M’Lord. Tis such a silly jest you have made. And I quite believe had it been anyone save our host, this joke would not have gone over quite so well.

His tongue wrapped around a fang, then another. He wrinkled his brow and his tilted his cap.

I apologize if I was clumsy, good natured and gentle Verse Bear. And I too quite believe if my bumbling hand had found anyone else they would not have been so understanding as you gentle Verse Bear. Please let me make it up to you.

It is not necessary M\Lord. But if you feel you must, I believe I have not sampled the honey from your hive in quite a while. Certainly your hornets must have grown lazy and prideful in the protection you have provided for them.

Of course you are right sweet Verse Bear, I shall send for them at once.

And almost instantly a large hive, with honeycombs the size of bread loaves was placed in front of the large bear.

He began delicately at first, sniffing about the end with his still wet snout. But in a matter of moments he had most of his face and one paw inside it and the honey was matted against his fur. He finished all of the hornets work and the boisterous creature still messy with honey proceeded to fall back asleep.

The young faun looked up at me; the Menacing Tick had his back turned in his stubborn disappointment.

The room untied itself with the sound of the bears snoring. Song began a decrescendo and we all sank deep into our seats.

At the end of the table one chair remained empty. In it sat the unexpected guest. No one knew quite when he would show up, but the chair was left for him and there he sat. He said almost nothing and no one paid him any bother. He left his food untouched and could not even manage to listen to sweet Song.

The first course had been brought, a cream soup made with some exotic, yet flavorless substance.

Perhaps the dish had lost its flavor in its travel from abroad. I sipped it in good faith. I have found that in good faith many things unstomachable can be swallowed.

The next course was a sort of steamed dumpling. A thin egg shaped pastry crust sat on a silver tray.
I pierced it with my fork and a torrent of steam burst forth. The pastry collapsed pathetically and I was dissatisfied with the whole arrangement.

We pashed each dish from right to left. Starting at the end down by Song and coming up to me. Every time I passed a dish to Juggling he just tossed it up into the air and let it tumble there. I am quite afraid no one on the left side of the table got to eat at all.

It did not matter much, for Verse Bear was still asleep and Commandant Maple was satisfied with emptying his water dish upon himself. And although I cannot be certain I thought I caught him playing footsie with Mountain. The unexpected guest seemed not to mind not eating and he sat in his empty chair with little change in disposition.

I saw the doorman from whom I took my earlier drink from, enter.

He carried a large silver platter with a handled cover. He set it in front of me. He tilted the cover towards me so that I could not see its contents and cut a small piece of whatever dish was inside. He then produced a long two pronged fork and with a mad glee in his eyes exclaimed.

Ah, Monsieur! Please be the first to sample the delicacy of the evening. For this dish is quite rare to find at any dinner party the world over.

He was acting quite odd, and though I called him dull once, I now was weary of how vulgar it was to be plain in such a setting.

I retrieved the fork from him and inspected the meat. It was a faint pink color, a slice of some over aged flesh. It was anything but tender and looked very dry.

I offered it to Faun.

Young faun; Oh my beloved guest. I offer to you the first taste of this rare delicacy.

I saw the Menacing Tick whispering to the young deer, he almost began to shout.

Take it! Eat it you fool. Take it!

Faun stuttered, his eyes were pearls.

N-n-n-na-Regretfully no, M’Lord. I cannot. It is yours and yours alone to eat.

I was not disappointed in the young faun, for he was truly a gentle creature. Tick turned his back to me once again.

I placed the morsel into my mouth and set the fork down.
The doorman’s eyes grey wide and eager. His waxed head gleamed blindingly, and little speckles of sweat could be seen to sizzle on his scalp.

The meat was terrible. The taste seemed to linger bitterly in my mouth. It was anything but tender and had a pungent odor which grew only stronger.

I attempted to swallow it several times and could not. It would cling in my throat. I choked and chewed.

And in good faith finally swallowed it.

Well M’Lord! Are you at all curious what you have eaten tonight?

The doorman was cackling.

Do you hunger for more? M’Lord? Or is your appetite staved for now? M’Lord?

My doorman. You may uncover the dish, if that is what you wish.

M’Lord Look upon your feast!

And with that the vile doorman removed the silver cover. In a dirty cast iron dish there boiling over, sat my own putrid heart!

M’Lord, this night you have been feasting upon yourself. You tasteless beast of a man. You are not appetizing even unto yourself! You are a mongrel in this world! A stain upon its form. You are unforgivable. You pathetic creature. Why in fact, I had to give you drink this evening before you could even enter. Do you know what your drink was M’Lord? Do you dare?

It was my own soul. Something I had lost myself years ago, and did not bother to look for. I know now that it was my soul I drank, and I knew it was my heart I had ate.

The doorman was stunned. His shirt buttons popped and the black hair of his arms hung out of his cuffs.
He was angry as ever. A furious man with no reason to tame himself.

Oh M’Lord, you knew, did you? Such a clever man you are, how clever. One who is both guest and host to himself. A man who drifts to a destination without reason. A man who cannot hold the emerald turtle for more than a dream-second! So go on! Tell me my liege, enlighten me, how did it taste?! How fared your awful heart!? How was it M’Lord? How did it taste!?

It needed salt.