domonique.

[ RIP DOMONIQUE ]

[ “COLLEXION ZERO” ]

EXEMPLARY PROSE:

[The Colosseum. Prose. Whiskey Tit.]

It was late September in Georgia, and the acute Georgian summer heat was steadily waning into a cooler, more-bearable climate. A refreshing coolness thriving within the sunless air accompanied Waylon and his dog Roxy as the pair retired home from their early morning walk. While the pair’s morning strolls were used for exercise and clearing the mind, the event’s chief function was strategizing, doubly bouncing ideas off one another. Waylon was in the dog-boxing business, and Roxy, a recent retiree from the trade, who happened to be Waylon’s prized boxer while she was fighting, had taken on a new role of advisee, Waylon’s right-hand man, training and recruiting fighters for him.

Waylon, a mad-dog in his own right, was tall, sturdy, tough: he had unkempt blond hair, ungodly eyes (both had developed a yellowish film atop them over the years), a broken nose, encrusted lips, and a mouth full of missing teeth. Waylon was in the process of teaching Roxy how to speak English, a stratagem he believed would ensure their new partnership’s success, exceeding all expectations. It helped that Roxy was a quick learner as Waylon had a notorious temperament, possessing the potency to transpose his state of mind to that of acutely sinister. Nonetheless Roxy knew of this temper and had developed many procedures to avoid Waylon’s wrath: Roxy was a good dog and treasured Waylon just the way he was, less-than-admirable traits and all.

Waylon had withdrawn Roxy from the fight game – and for that, Roxy’s love for Waylon was immortal.

Roxy was a snow-white American Pit Bull Terrier with foggy green and yellow eyes. She was a beautiful dog, even with her many, many scars. Roxy had hind legs as strong as a fully-matured ox, and her forelegs were as balanced and nimble as a ninja hidden away in the unknown mountaintops of the Eastern world. Roxy had neck muscles atop neck muscles, an out-spread and muscle-bound back, powerful glutes, a sturdy abdomen, a wide and open chest that reinforced her broad-shouldered physique, and hefty paws that expanded and gripped the ground as she strutted around like a bull.

Waylon’s home – where Roxy had her own room – was a huge white mansion Waylon redeemed in the will of a distant relative. The handover of the property was a queer ordeal, lasting many months due to local law enforcement never unveiling who had killed Waylon’s relative along with issues concerning forgery.

Waylon’s neighborless and isolated country residence had large white pillars at the front of the house and two enormous trees in the front yard with girthy branches sturdy enough to bear the weight of many men. The stately home had a neatly-paved driveway, a porch at the front and back, five bedrooms, three bathrooms, large windows, tall doorways, and plenty of backyard space. Waylon had transformed the backyard into a mighty fighting arena, fabricating a steel realm of imposing breadth and width, a labyrinth rather, yes, a labyrinth of cramped intersecting bars offering morsels of paw room, too operating as lodging for the fighting dogs coming in and out with the seasons. Waylon called it The Colosseum. It was quite the property.

As Waylon and Roxy came through the doors of the sequestering estate Waylon went to the kitchen sink for water, and Roxy went and drank water from her bowl out on the porch. While Roxy was quenching her thirst, Waylon, from inside the house, broadcasted a near-perfect whistle to signal Roxy’s ears, then shouted: “Roxy! We’re going into the city. Meet me out at the kennels, then we’ll get in the truck and go.”

Roxy, who had never been to the city before, barked gleefully. When Roxy arrived at the kennels in the backyard, Waylon was providing medical attention to a dog severely wounded the night before. Even outdoors the air surrounding the cage, impregnated with distinct stuffiness from the dogfight held the previous evening, lathered the skin thickly with irritable discomfort.

“Roxy, check on the other dog from last night – the winner. I’ve got to take this one away,” said Waylon, dragging the wounded dog along the ground to his truck.

“Sure thing, Waylon,” Roxy barked obediently.

While Roxy evaluated the other dog, who had come out of the fight relatively unharmed, with only three deep lacerations – one above the eye and two upon the dog’s rear legs – she heard a gunshot from the direction Waylon had driven.

Once hearing the shot fire, Roxy observed birds fill the sky in sudden panic.

When Waylon returned, Roxy jumped into the truck riding shotgun, and the pair took off for the city. Roxy had her head out the window with her tongue blowing in the wind upon turning to Waylon and barking: “I love riding in the car! Thank you for taking me to the city, Waylon.”

“I’ve told you, Roxy,” Waylon replied sternly, “it is a truck – not a car. And you’ve been doing some outstanding work for me, Rox. I am simply rewarding your much-appreciated efforts.”

Once Waylon had concluded his praise for Roxy, he opened the center compartment of his truck, dug his hand into it eagerly, then pulled out a small bag of white powder. Waylon opened the bag gently with one hand while his right hand remained cemented upon the steering wheel. Waylon sucked the tip of the little finger on his free hand upon poking the same finger into the small bag. Waylon, once retrieving his now bedazzled finger from inside the bag, then prodded his powder-covered pinky finger into his left nostril before inhaling violently, his whole body jouncing upwards as he sniffed. To clean his finger, ensuring none of the powder would go to waste, Waylon then sucked the tip of his little finger clean.

Roxy knew the white powder as medicine, human medicine. Waylon had given her the remedy on several occasions, but only ever before one of her fights. In all fairness Roxy thought the powder extraordinary, even missing it some days. Roxy missed the acute sensation in her nose rushing to the roof of her skull, the total awakening of her senses, and the sheer strength and tenacity it granted her. It made her feel invincible. Under the influence of the human remedy Roxy felt as if she could have her way with a large, adult, male boar. Within Roxy’s self-awareness she found that the medicine assisted her when having to execute a dog she had wounded in the cage, even if she didn’t want to or if the dog was somewhat of a friend. But no matter how much she fancied the medicine, she didn’t miss fighting, so whenever she saw Waylon ingesting the powder, Roxy would put it out of mind.

For the remainder of the lengthy drive into the city Waylon and Roxy revisited their linguistic lesson from the day prior, with Waylon testing Roxy on her application of the words their, there, and they’re.

When walking the bustling southern city, Atlanta, Roxy puffed and panted in excitement. Roxy’s sinewy tail wagged up-and-down and round-and-round and, due to her irrepressible merriment, the fast-twitch muscle fibers in her four legs constricted so forcefully she bounced from the pavement with a gymnastic-like spring in each step.

Roxy swiftly became enthralled by the city.

While trailing Waylon, who was pacing the town with purpose, Roxy employed a watchfulness as thorough as a long-time bachelor drunken within a sea of beautiful women – eyeing absolutely everything from head to toe.

Roxy, at the age of 56, for the first time in her life, experienced a city. She observed the visual breath of sunlight cast dancing reflections upon the glass of perfect windows bordering tall buildings. Roxy sniffed and sniffed all the odd shapes, sounds, and smells swelling within dark alleyways as if they were an art display for the poor. Roxy barked admiringly at businessmen in chic suits – and even though it was only raining mildly – holding umbrellas sturdily upon their shoulders as they patrolled firmly through their city.

Once Waylon arrived at a strange door in a stranger alleyway, he entered, telling Roxy to wait outside. Roxy barked in agreement.

When watching Waylon’s ingress Roxy sighted wads of cash, a mountain of white powder, and caught a glimpse of two men that, funnily enough, shared a similar appearance to Waylon but were much better dressed, lingering within the shadows of the squalid room.

While waiting in the alleyway Roxy sighted a dog walking the rectangular, roofless tunnel aimlessly. The dog, who had a long, thick, demented scar that looked to have gotten extra infected when healing disfiguring its face, approached Roxy with a cautious swagger, proceeding to give her an investigative sniff and lick. Roxy, who hadn’t barked in Dog to anyone other than the dogs coming in and out of The Colosseum, barked a query in English, hoping the interview could be conducted in the language of the Queen: she received a confused stare in response. She then barked, this time barking in Dog: “Do you live around here?”

“I live everywhere and nowhere,” the dog barked in response. “You’re not from the city, are you?”

“No,” Roxy barked, “I am from the country, a retired boxer. Now I work at The Colosseum.”

“The Colosseum! What kind of work do you do?”

“Talent scouting mostly, and some training here and there.”

“Seems to me you’re simply a slave, dear girl.”

“A slave?” Roxy growled, lowering her mass closer to the pavement. “I have a job of my own, and my own accommodation! What do you have? Huh! Tell me!”

“I do not possess neither board nor employment – but at least I’m not a dog-killing slave like you.”

The dog quit the company of Roxy once verbalizing this concluding remark, leaving Roxy in a state of pensive melancholy. She stood frozen, studying the dog’s departure upon barking to the now distant animal almost inaudibly: “You’re wrong. Waylon cares about me – I’m no slave.”

Then Waylon came out of the door hurriedly, uttering: “Come on, Rox, let’s go home.”

The long ride back to the country was wordless, with both Waylon and Roxy occupied mentally, attending to the inward dissection of what they had experienced in the alleyway Waylon had escorted them. Roxy had learned to trust her gut (she’d been taught said phrase last week by Waylon, and since then Roxy had attached the axiom to her code of living), and while driving home she had a strange thought come over her – and she guessed the thought had been engendered by her interaction with the stranger in the alleyway. She didn’t want to sedate the notion, letting it slip away into oblivion: instead – Roxy barked: “Waylon, I’m never going to have to fight again, am I?”

After a couple of seconds that felt like hours to Roxy, Waylon replied: “Don’t be silly, Rox! You’ll never fight again unless it was an emergency. I promise!”

“What does the word e-mur-jen-c mean?” barked Roxy studiously.

In the time it took Roxy to bark her question, Waylon had turned down the driveway to their country home, jumped out of the truck, and darted into the house rapidly, leaving no time to give an answer.

About half an hour later Roxy smelled another truck approaching the house from a mile away. Roxy went out onto the front porch and studied the truck pulling into the driveway upon watching the same characters from behind the door in the alleyway earlier that day step out of the vehicle – the two men had a dog with them. The animal with the men was another Pit Bull Terrier who sported midnight-black fur akin to a panther’s. The Pit had eyes as black as death herself, one cartilage-less ear left floppy, the other bitten off utterly, and muscles protruded from every region of its impressive mass.

“Roxy, go make sure that 34 is ready to fight,” Waylon said upon greeting his guests.

Roxy obeyed, turning for the backyard. At The Colosseum, every dog – besides Roxy, of course – was given a number upon arrival that became the dog’s name. Some of the dogs who arrived at The Colosseum in their early years forgot their Christian names entirely; these dogs lived out their existence thinking their names were a number.

When Roxy came upon 34 34 looked to be in pretty good shape, but Roxy thought it best to get an extra training session in before the fight – nothing too strenuous but more of a sharpening session as a primer, instead.

Roxy returned to the front porch where Waylon was entertaining his guests, examining the ink-black Pit once more – 34 was in for a fight, she concluded. Roxy then barked Waylon over for a word.

“What is it, Rox?” said Waylon on his way.

“34 needs an extra training session if you want 34 to have a chance of beating that monster,” Roxy barked. “You’ll need to find a way to postpone the fight until morning.”

Waylon trusted Roxy’s judgment, occasionally even over his own. He agreed, then returned to his company with a newly-discovered, heightened, convivial mood. Waylon could be very, very persuasive.

While Waylon handled one side of the business, Roxy returned to the backyard to handle the other. Roxy uncaged 34, then took 34 through some paw-work before working on some basic Brazilian Jaw-Jitsu. When grappling lightly, 34, to Roxy’s disbelief, rolled over its ankle, at once birthing a limp – a burden that confirmed 34 would die if 34 stepped into the cage with the visiting fighter. Another dog, 27, so as for no one else to hear, barked a whisper to Roxy: “34’s injury was on purpose. 34’s terrified after seeing that black creature out the front. We all are.”

“How have you seen the Pit from out here?” Roxy barked.

She then turned to see the Pit at the side of the house, sitting on its hind legs with its chest out, eye-balling every single dog at The Colosseum – chiefly Roxy. When Roxy shifted her gaze back to 34 34 cowered, whimpering in fear. The vibration of 34’s whimper tunneled through Roxy’s ears to her soul, bringing forth the stranger’s words barked back in the alleyway to the forefront of her mind, where they danced and danced, twisted and twirled.

Later that evening Roxy informed Waylon of the injury 34 sustained in training. Roxy also told Waylon of the dogs being intimidated by the Pit before asking in a curious bark: “Who is the next number on your list to fight?”

Waylon swam within the boundaries of his intellect upon airing: “What do you think – 9? Or the newbie, 46?”

“I think the Pit looks powerful, but I don’t know how fast it is,” Roxy barked inquisitively. “9 will have the upper hand when it comes to speed – and with 46’s non-existent experience, she is certainly not ready for the Pit.”

“9 it is then.”

With business sorted for the evening, the three men and the two dogs seated themselves at the dining table. Waylon had set up two rooms for the men, and the Pit would have its own area on the front porch to sleep for the night. Roxy didn’t at all enjoy sharing the table with the out-of-town Pit – however, with the odd circumstances of the visiting men agreeing to postpone the fight, forcing them to stay the night, she decided it better not to make any fuss. She even enjoyed conversing in English with people from the city. The city had become a faraway paradise that Roxy dreamed about returning to ever since leaving. Roxy was captivated by how the city folk dressed, spoke, and carried themselves, already attempting to dress her English words with a bit of a city accent. Roxy was now a lover of the exotic.

“Who do you think you are!? Speaking the same language as the humans?” barked the Pit over the table unexpectedly, unimpressed by Roxy’s linguistic capabilities. “Don’t forget that you’re still just a dumb dog to your master there.”

“I know what I am,” Roxy barked in her mother tongue, “and I know what I am not.”

“And what’s that?”

“A dumb dog that is only good for fighting, killing, and in due time, dying.”

The out-of-town Pit leaped from its chair over the table onto Roxy in a cat-like burst, barking viciously: “You will die before me, swine!”

The two men from the city paddled their Pit on the nape of its neck with swift and mighty strikes to break up the scuffle (both dogs were grappled and eventually subdued in separate rooms of the house). Though within the sudden melee, one of the men had brought a paddle down on Roxy: due to this he and Waylon nearly came to blows before the other city man got in-between them. Once the tempers of the three men in the room had declined and neutralized one of the two city slickers, broadcasting his dominance, said:

“Well, Waylon, you’ve got a nice dog there, that’s for sure. Why don’t you let it get into the ring tomorrow? If it wins, I’ll give you my entire next shipment. If you ration that out for yourself nicely, you could hold yourself over for what – a year? And if my dog wins, you give me your three best fighters. Seem fair?”

“And regarding the shipment – are transportation costs included in the deal also?” Waylon asked rapaciously.

“All included,” the man from the city replied, smiling. “You won’t even have to lift a finger. A truck will bring the shipment to your front door like a postman brings you mail.”

Roxy had returned to the edge of the dining hall, hearing the negotiation from its commencement to its conclusion. Roxy then watched on in disgust as Waylon confirmed the deal with a firm handshake. The Pit, who had also listened in on the discussion, reading the telling expressions written all over the faces of the humans – who didn’t speak English whatsoever, not one word – comprehended what had just transpired.

The Pit, now eye-to-eye with Roxy across the hallway, let out a laughing bark, engendering soundwaves that collapsed Roxy’s world. Roxy went up to her room without consulting anyone, closing the door behind her. She then curled up into sadness, hoping this was all one bad dream.

In this moment of sheer betrayal Roxy felt isolated from the world, a world she barely knew. As Roxy fell into a nightmare-filled slumber, she clasped onto hope, pleading to whoever created this world that all the work she had done for Waylon, all the fights, the bites, the scars, the dogs she had killed whose faces ran free within her mind, was enough to change Waylon’s decision by morning.

The following morning, Roxy awoke blanketed by acute misery, verifying last night had not been a bad dream but reality. Her reality. It was true – Waylon had never cared for her. She had been fooled.

When Roxy arrived at the kitchen Waylon had prepared a nice and healthy fight-day breakfast. The food was on the kitchen table awaiting her – four eggs, two pieces of toast, two slices of crispy bacon, and a long line of white powder that spread across the dining table thickly. Roxy no longer cared for this world, but she wouldn’t leave it without a fight. Roxy ignored the human food, not even issuing a single curious sniff or lick upon the plate, then snorted the oblong-shaped trail of scaled-down white crystals from the table. Roxy felt the medicine furiously tickle the walls of her brain as her nose started leaking gently – she had to snuffle a few times to halt the seepage.

Roxy didn’t bark a word to Waylon as she made her way to The Colosseum, where the Pit reposed, waiting. Waylon closed the cage door behind her.

Now the two dogs were alone, just the pair of them in a large steel cage in the Georgian countryside only one dog would depart.

“Are you ready to die?” barked the Pit.

“Yes,” Roxy barked. “But you will not be the one to kill me.”

The coal-black fur of the Pit had become an ebony tone as the blood pouring out of its open and fatal wounds tarnished its formerly handsome, coarse, pure ink coat. A ring of flies had already congregated above the limp carcass.

Roxy egressed the cage bloodied, wounded, limping: she had lost an ear, and her right eye, left dangling, had been clawed from its socket. The Pit had snapped one of her hind legs with its jaws, and a meaty part of Roxy’s cheek was left torn, causing a piece of flesh to drool down past her mouth, almost coming into contact with the lower portion of her wide neck. Waylon picked Roxy up gently, put her in the truck, then drove off. The Colosseum was mute.

Waylon retrieved Roxy’s fragile frame from the vehicle once they’d arrived at their destination, roughly three hundred feet past the great Colosseum in a lonely death-ridden corner of Georgia. Roxy thought it strange that these lands, with so much life, could be so grim.

Roxy knew the place, what was to happen to her: and even as Roxy approached the doors to the afterlife, with enough strength remaining in her jaws to kill Waylon where he stood as her final act, she did not. Roxy, the previous evening, had already prepared herself for the next world, praying to be reborn in a big city with towering buildings that reflected the sunlight. She couldn’t wait to converse in English with the businessmen in their suits, and she was especially looking forward to borrowing an umbrella from time to time.

With her surviving eye Roxy observed the steel of Waylon’s revolver be scooped from his trouser pocket. She let out one last howl in hopes someone would hear, wanting someone out there, away from the broken-hearted place she called home to know she existed.

A bee buzzed with chaotic energy. A shot fired; birds flew.

THE END

***

[Dance the Night Away: Prose. Impspired.]

Chapter 1

It was a crystal-clear September afternoon in Amsterdam. Days reminiscent of summer still spawned within Western Europe, and our priest, once finishing his duties at the church, arrived at Vondelpark for his daily stroll of fresh air. Our priest, Henri, a Parisian, who had been a scholar at heart, taking up his studies in Rome upon becoming a divine fisher of men, spoke French, English, Dutch, Spanish, and Italian. Henri, a pious man, read from the Bible each day, like most priests: Henri also tended to spiritual issues and concerns of morality with members of the church, as most priests: nevertheless, our priest, like all priests, had something to hide.

Henri came to the visually-arresting city of Amsterdam: not because of art, culture, history, or even the grace of God: Henri arrived in Amsterdam as a consequence of love.

Many years prior, in the southwestern city thriving within the wine country of France, Bordeaux, where Henri first served the Lord as a priest, he had met a gorgeous homme named Antoine, a painter. Antoine was a handsome fellow from Marseille with the kindest of hearts. Henri adored Antoine, often referring to him as la meilleure chose depuis le pain tranché.

Henri and Antoine’s relationship lived in secrecy for many years. Though the couple grew exhausted having to shield their affections with stealth, only ever whispering je t’aime to one another so softly it was a struggle to hear the words spoken.

The two lovers planned to run away to Milan. Henri had even vocalized the notion of him giving up his priesthood and taking up a graduate position at a university. Antoine declared rigidly, I must note, his only needs in this life were painting and Henri.

The couple toiled ardently, spending little on pleasantries while accumulating money to escape the chains of the silenced love they had endured for so long. After many months they amassed the sum needed for their voyage to Italy, le pays de la passion effrénée. But there was no rush. It was summer.

The days were long and warm, the sun shone tirelessly upon the Garonne most days, and Antoine was nearing the completion of a brilliant portrait of a French village he and Henri had visited the previous summer. The two thought it best to depart Bordeaux as the warm weather did, and seeing that the two had time on their side, Henri ventured the notion of another holiday in the country. Antoine had an uncle who owned a restaurant in a small village outside Montpellier, and had a room where they could stay a few days – Henri and Antoine penciled it into their calendar.

Henri borrowed an automobile from a fellow priest who had served the church with Henri for several years and had grown fond of him. Then Henri and Antoine took to the road, heading for a vacant room in the South.

The small village reposed upon prime real estate, sequestering behind a meadow of lush greenery. Once off the main thoroughfare, the road to the settlement was stone-paved, and the narrow street weaved its way through verdant pastures. Each of the petites maisons within the hamlet looked like duplicates, set apart by the divergent colors thriving within their garden beds and in the paint washed upon their doors.

Once Henri and Antoine arrived at the uncle’s restaurant a young lady informed them Antoine’s uncle had left for Marseille in the morning to attend to a situation familiale. The young woman then gave Antoine the room key and a letter written by his uncle. Henri and Antoine placed their meal orders with the same young lady upon collecting their belongings and visiting their lodgings.

The room was petite with a small door painted a brave maroon, a comfortable bed, wooden floorboards, two large windows, a small center table with two chairs, and a wood-stove in the corner of the room with a bundle of chopped logs already set aside.

“Have you heard anything about this family situation?” asked Henri.

“Non,” Antoine replied, “I have not heard anything. But does any of that matter? Look where we are Henri… In this room we are free.”

Henri dispelled himself from the desires of his intuition as he and Antoine egressed their room for dinner at the restaurant. The couple each ordered the evening’s special, baeckeoffe.

Over dinner Henri and Antoine drank wine, played footsies affectionately under the table, and discussed the happiness awaiting them in Milan as if in their hearts, they were already there.

The evening was pristine – the warmth of the departed sun lingered, reddening the sky, and a steady breeze rolled through the meadow, whistling through the tall grass, kissing the resting petals upon the swaying flowers. And once they had finished their meals, Henri and Antoine paid the bill then went for a ramble in the countryside.

The only road in-and-out of the village, enriched by its surrounding bloom of nature, was straddled by its flowering environment all the way from the main road until the path reached the feet of the hamlet. Day and night birds sang, squirrels galloped, and hares danced. Henri and Antoine dawdled along the village passage hand-in-hand, and unbothered, as if they were the only remaining souls.

When the couple retired to their room for the evening, Henri started working on a fire while Antoine disrobed. Once the log-filled wood stove was roaring, Henri, too, disrobed upon joining Antoine in bed.

The unrepressed moans and grunts were music to all four ears in the room as the dragon breath spawning from the wood-stove tickled their backs until drenching them with sweat as passion oozed from their pores. The room filled with such an intense warmth Henri had to crack the door. Once both Frenchmen had summited, they then submerged into a caressing sleep as the chests of the tangled bodies rose and fell exhaustedly. They slumbered as one body, not two, as remains of both men lived on within the other.

The days spent at the village went by superbly, furnished with joy, laughter, love and lust.

The couple wandered the countryside together each day, morning and night. The pair feasted like kings at the restaurant, stuffing their bellies full each meal. The lovers made warm fires, read books, and spoke more of Milan, what their lives would be like, the history of the city, the culture. Henri and Antoine were content in the small room of that small village, hiding away within the luxuriant countryside: a room where Henri and Antoine had uncloaked themselves of shame, lies, and deceit. In that room they were themselves: lovers, friends, men – and within those four walls Henri and Antoine were the happiest they had ever been together.

In the night Henri awakened to the sight of Antoine reading the letter from his uncle seated by the warmth of the wood stove. Henri went over to Antoine, kissed him tenderly on the forehead, then said: “Tout va bien ma chérie?”

“No! Everything is not alright, Henri!” Antoine erected swiftly in a stir. “My family – they’ve found out about me. About us…”

Taken aback – tears already brewing in his eyes, Henri cradled his lover as Antoine had, once bouncing to his feet, fallen back to the floor in despair. Antoine then seated himself upon reading his uncle’s letter.

“Antoine, it pains me to write these words… But I am traveling to Marseille to meet with your mother and father to discuss what will be next for you, dear boy. What you are doing is wrong. Moreover, it is utterly fallacious, and even more so, it is evil. Your parents have instructed me to inform you that if you wish to remain a part of this family, you must discontinue your relationship with the priest. You must then return home to Marseille immediately. There is no other option in the matter… Signed, Julien Jean-Luc Racine.”

“That letter means nothing!” Henri cried. “We have the money we need to depart for Milan. We could leave right now if we wished, right this moment!”

“No, Henri. The letter means everything.”

Henri endeavored earnestly to convince Antoine that Milan would solve all their problems, that his family would still love him, and that they only needed time – they only needed each other.

Though at this point even Henri didn’t agree with the words rolling off his tongue. Both his parents hadn’t spoken one word to him after they caught him and his childhood friend, Lucien, exploring each other’s bare bodies. Henri was only fourteen at the time.

With one eye Henri focused on the road as he drove the beauteous countryside that no longer seemed so stunning: with the other Henri observed his lover seated abreast, close enough to touch, steadily drift off until he was planets away. Antoine was already under the roof of his parent’s home, pleading with them how it had all been a mistake – an experiment was the word Antoine would probably use, Henri thought.

Henri drove slowly (as slow as he possibly could) because he knew already, these moments in the vehicle would be the last he would spend in the company of his lover, who Henri loved more than life itself, even more so than he loved God. Henri imagined, wished, hoped that Antoine would turn and tell him he still loved him, tell him that everything would be okay. But Henri was a clever man, and he understood clearly: once the drive back to Bordeaux was concluded, he would never again kiss the flesh or hear the words of his lover, Antoine, the painter.

Chapter 2

Henri’s accommodation (if one may call it that) was tasteless. Henri had made a room of the church basement.

Bare walls stood erect and emotionless, utter darkness curled up in the corners of the room waiting for the extinguishment of the lone candle, and the air – dense and heavy – idled within the room almost visibly. Nonetheless Henri had grown to relish the sequestering space, the darkness, the smells, the silence – only departing his room for walks, visiting his dearest restaurant français, Le Tapis Rouge, or spending time in the company of his companions.

Henri had plans to rendez-vous with one of these compagnes later that evening, so he turned to look over his grid schedule.

Henri had discovered tunnels underneath the church that streamed into many districts of the City of Canals. Henri was uncertain whether the other priests had knowledge of these tunnels, and did not speak of them, or if his discovery was solely known to him. The scholar that he was, Henri had studied the courses of each tunnel within the web, learning the under-passing routes as a dedicated partner learns the needs and wants of a lover. The tunnels, which Henri now called his tunnels, ran heavily, more so than any other region of Amsterdam, into the underground labyrinth of the Red Light District.

The grid schedule, L’horaire – as he liked to call it – was a complex system, synchronizing the calendars of the only two consorts with whom he socialized and his tunnel network. L’horaire instructed Henri on exactly which passageway to embark upon depending on who he intended to see, and what time of day or night he was to see them.

On this fine evening Henri would meet with his acquaintance, Monika. Monika, a striking amazon of great beauty from Germany, had an addictively broad mind and adored the sophisticated conversation Henri brought with him on each of his visits.

Once washed and combed Henri took to his tunnels en route for the chamber Monika would occupy that evening. When he arrived at Monika’s fleeting dwellings he knocked their secret knock underneath her floor. Monika did not respond – which meant she was busy with a client. Henri waited patiently as this was a common occurrence, thinking about how cozy his tunnels were, how much power they gave him. Le Connaisseur, he called himself.

With time Monika knocked their enciphered knock from atop her floor, then Henri ingressed the sole-windowed room from the depths of the underground. Monika had shut her red curtain, and even with the moans and groans of passion next door, and the many voices of inflamed men outside, waiting within the warmth of the clustered alleyway, striving wholeheartedly to bring down the price, the two were alone, and Monika made coffee.

The pair spent their time together discussing the philosophies of Nietzsche, German history, and condoning German language lessons, among other things, then Monika had to reconvene her evening’s service, taking Henri back to his tunnels.

Monika had lived in her hometown of Hamburg upon her arrival in Amsterdam. She departed from Germany once falling out of a marriage with a Belgium man who didn’t satisfy her emotionally or physically. Monika sought the freedom of Amsterdam and, after an odd string of events coupled with her fondness of rapports sexuels, Monika found herself sliding from window to window within the District of Red Lights, shining ever so brightly upon the shapeshifting alleyways. Monika toiled diligently in her new occupation – working the day-shift in the windows of listless alleyways abreast the boundary of the District – humping boys, men, women, children, and soon enough, through her careful and unwavering persistence, Monika established a consistent and affluent clientele, only taking on a walk-in from time to time for her own quote unquote pleasure.

Eventually Monika also verified her work ethic amid the community, guaranteeing herself a window post in the most lustful of alleyways at the most prime of times. She often had swarms of hungry and excited men come through her red curtain during an isolated evening as stiff as the windowed door they closed behind them. Through her employment Monika had formed relationships with many languages, met Russian investors who now handled her money, and made the acquaintance of several top-tier government officials. Monika felt unshackled in Amsterdam, and the Red Light District had become her home away from home.

Upon Henri’s return to his lodgings, drowsiness had not yet greeted him, so he decided to revisit his grid schedule, examining the calendar of his one other companion in the city. Once connecting the dots, L’horaire pointed him in the right direction, and in a sole heartbeat, Henri was pacing firmly back into the darkness of his tunnels.

Once Antoine had severed all ties to Henri – which only took him the time it took the pair of them to drive to Bordeaux from the country – Henri’s life spiraled through several spiritual phases while still in France.

Henri devoted himself wholesomely, every once of his soul, every breath of his lungs, to the divine. Henri toiled – he read, he wrote, he preached. Henri did not rest, for the devil does not rest, he told the church, why should I? Henri preached at smaller neighboring churches, conferenced with priests in other regions of Holland, and attended children’s hospitals two to three times a week. Every waking moment was a moment not to waste! Henri spent every instant of his being lionizing the word of God to the world that so needed him. Henri gave himself utterly to the Almighty.

In time fatigue maimed Henri. His spirit, his body, his heart, his whole became tired. Within his exhaustion Henri started examining the works of his life. He began questioning his pleading with strangers and dying children to pray to a God that made Henri ogle at the curve of a man’s buttocks instead of the gentle arch of a woman’s foot. A God that made Henri adore the pressure of a man’s strong hands gripping the nape of his neck over the firm softness of a woman’s breast. A God that made Henri’s parents hate their child for the abomination he was, for the sin that resided in him, for the evil that contaminated their little Henri.

Henri’s inner-exploration eventually led him to the second spiritual episode of his life alone and heartbroken in Bordeaux – a period of Henri’s life that obtained not one drop of divine spirituality whatsoever. Henri became a priest who no longer believed in religion, no longer believed in prayer, no longer believed in hope, no longer believed in God! Henri, evidently hiding these novel beliefs from his church, experimented with his readings, contested his own ideologies, isolated himself from the church doctrines, existing this way for some time.

The final spiritual chapter Henri experienced quickened his departure from his home country. In this chapter Henri searched for the answers to his divine questions within love itself. Henri wanted love, needed love – so Henri searched for it. Henri foraged for love in the beds of many men. Henri slept with young men who were still boys, old men whose youth had grown legs and ran away, and Henri even trialed sexual relations with women. Though Henri never found what he was looking for within the bodies he disposed of: and there were many bodies, coming in all shapes and sizes, colors and tones. Henri began to treat men and women as he had treated books in his past life as a scholar – devouring each one, then onto the next.

As Henri arrived upon the ever-changing room of his one other confidente, he proceeded to knock their knock upon being welcomed by his friend who had just finished with a client, a South African woman who went by Amber, but her given name was Brooke.

“Henri,” Amber uttered affably, “you know my calendar better than me.”

“Bonsoir Maman,” Henri replied, surfacing from the shadows. “I suppose you’re right.”

Henri split time between Amber and Monika appropriately, and better yet: Amber, who was svelte in appearance, contrasted with Monika splendidly. If Henri were a painter, the two women were his chosen hues of paint. While in Monika’s company Henri spoke more often, and when spending time with Amber, he chose to listen. Amber was an adept storyteller who had much to tell. To Henri South Africa was a faraway land he knew nothing of, and because of this, Amber became his fountain of knowledge. Amber told him outlandish stories of her nights spent at underground music festivals: she spoke of the grotesque racial dynamic of the country – too painting pictures with her words of the nation’s boundless and romantic coastlines. And when Henri wasn’t listening he would give Amber French lessons, aiding Amber in realizing her dream of not only living but thriving in Paris.

“J’ai eu une journée très chargée aujourd’hui,” said Amber. “Comment s’est passée ta journée?”

“I see you have been practicing,” Henri replied. “My day was most likely not as busy as yours, no, but I did have a lovely walk in Vondelpark. I must say, you are growing in your linguistic capabilities rapidly.”

“Seulement parce que j’ai un bon professeur,” Amber replied, pronouncing each word excellently.

“A teacher you will soon not need.”

Amber had one of her regulars arriving at her window soon, and with that, Henri and Amber said their adieus upon Henri’s return back into his beloved tunnels.

Parallel with Monika’s professional outlook, Amber detested her vocation. She had found herself within the world of red curtains and windows by mere chance. Amber had come to Europe as a way out. In South Africa she had found herself in a vast quicksand of trouble. Her parents had cut off all communication with her.

Her golden ticket was offered to her by a wealthy Dutchman, who promised her a new life. Instead once she’d arrived and settled herself into the opulent mansion the well-to-do Dutchman called home, she was, in short, repulsed by his fantasies, horrified by the things he asked her to do to his body. In a week Amber was gazing relentlessly into every pair of eyes she could catch of the many men flashing past the windows in the alleyways of Amsterdam.

Like Monika, over time, even with her utmost dissatisfaction, Amber perfected her craft, cementing herself window times in the stiffest of alleyways, where she, like Monika, successfully built a solid clientele for herself promptly. Her customers comprised moneyed aristocrats and impassioned youth blooming with testosterone from well-off families who found Amber far more compelling than girls their own age. The deep-pocketed boys who visited Amber became obsessed with her after one bedding. They took a special liking to the way Amber’s hands tip-toed upon their crotch, how she knew what they wanted before they even did, and the way Amber spoke: she would pronounce the tails of her words exotically. Les garçons never stood a chance.

Chapter 3

Upon awakening the following morning Henri washed up then read from a book before reuniting with the romance of his tunnels.

Henri traversed the pitch-black pastures until coming to the exit for his bien-aimé, Le Tapis Rouge. Crawling from a narrow opening below the bridge nearest the restaurant français carefully, not to be seen, Henri surfaced.

The streets, thronged with men and women seeking the sun, who sat so pretty and unbothered within her clear blue sky, boasted cyclists galore. Henri’s favorite restaurant had tables abreast the road, and as he sat down to read the forenoon paper and drink his café and eat his meal, never-ending surges of bicyclists came sweeping past his toes.

While reading the paper Henri overheard the conversation of a German lumberjack visiting Amsterdam before embarking upon a new adventure in Paris and an American man seated across from his mother.

Henri had great big ears and took pleasure in opening them widely, listening to the talk of the town. Henri then studied a small boy approach a dead pigeon with its guts splattered upon the road: the boy scooped up the dead bird then threw it into the nearby canal, wiping his hands on his shorts as he walked away.

Once Henri finished his reading of the morning paper, the drinking of his cappuccino, and the eating of his croissant, Henri returned to his tunnels once more, flowing within the total-darkness he knew so well. Once back at his lodgings Henri read from the pages of a book he had read many times, whistled a tune he had whistled before, then made the same meal he cooked every night before his tunnels called him back again. This evening he would meet Monika, and the following evening he had a penciled-in appointment with Amber, and the morning after that, he would visit Le Tapis Rouge.

Our Priest, Henri, Le Connaisseur, would maintain this deadened manner of living until one morning his heart stopped, and he died. There was no grande résurrection of his soul, there was no rebirth of his spirit, there was no reinvigoration of his will. Henri never redeemed his love for life, for living. Henri never revived the man in the small room with the wood stove in the peaceful hamlet within the countryside – the man who died with the loss of Antoine’s love. After that day, when his lover, his world, his dreams crumbled into nothingness, forever trapped within a never-breaking coma, Henri never regained the courage to give his heart to anyone. His cœur remained locked away, never again discovering the light of day, the song of birds, the gentle passing of a steady breeze. Not one task, belief, thought, or anything, ever again, felt the passion of Henri’s soul. The will to live had departed from our priest, Henri, long before his death. Henri’s spirit had been hung up and crucified on a cross along the road to Bordeaux many years ago. All that remained of him hid away in the basement of the church, rotting, nibbled at by rats for days until the smell interrupted a Sunday Mass, calling for an investigation.

The priest who found Henri’s half-eaten carcass in the church basement had been fond of Henri, even though he had no understanding of him.

Within Henri’s Bible, bookmarking his page, reposed a note, reading:

For the only time I am divine is when reading the words of Christ.

Henri’s funeral was held the following week with the priest who had found his body, Monika, and Amber in attendance. Some tears were shed out of pity, others out of sadness as Henri’s body was lowered into his grave amid soil not of his home country. If Henri had it his way he would’ve been buried in his home, within the out-stretched, loving arms of the darkness idle within his darling tunnels.

To this day the tunnels stream far and wide underneath the City of Canals, and rumor has it you can still hear Henri down there, whistling the same tune he always had.

But I only I, know the truth.

THE END

***

[The Hole in the Wall. Prose. Bending Genres.]

“When your world abruptly falls apart, inaction is a powerful counteract,” said the voice, once leaving the man to his empty room.

The man walked the empty room, pacing its area as though studying it. The man did so until he became fatigued, ultimately falling asleep. When he awakened, he began his pacing once more. The man did so until a serving of food rose from beneath the floorboards. The man ate ravenously. He then recommenced his activity of traversing the interior of the empty room, once more doing so until sleep called for him.

This routine repeated itself for several days. The man learned he would be fed three times a day, at the same time each rising and falling of the sun. Though he could not see the sun, his body clock had adapted itself to when he was to be fed. It took the man about a week to notice something in the empty room that really wasn’t hidden whatsoever (to be fair: one would have thought it unmissable). The man noticed a hole in the wall. The man went over to the hole to take a look. He saw another man who looked just like him, almost identical. The man had short, tidy hair, glasses, soft brown eyes, chunky whitish teeth, thin lips, and a narrow nasal.

“You are in an empty room,” said the man beyond the hole. “What will you do?”

The man chose not to reply, deciding the character who looked familiar was not to be trusted. Then the food came, and that was that.

The same question was posited to the man in the empty room by the same man – that is to say, the man beyond the hole in the wall – once a day at the same time each day, right before the third and final meal was delivered. The man in the empty room knew that once he heard that question, he would soon eat. He began to look forward to that same question each day.

“You are in an empty room. What will you do?”

After just over a month, the man in the empty room decided to answer him.

“I am in an empty room. What will I do?” the words he chose.

The man behind the hole didn’t answer. The food came, and that was that. This went on for several months.

“You are in an empty room. What will you do?”

“I am in an empty room. What will I do?”

The man (for close to half a year I must note) went on with this routine precisely. He ate, slept, ate, slept, and said the words: ‘I am in an empty room. What will I do?’ every single day, not breaking from the course of events once. Then three meals became two.

The first day his third meal didn’t arrive from beneath the floorboards after hearing the same question: ‘You are in an empty room. What will you do?’ he believed it was some type of mistake. A week later, he became frustrated. When he was asked the question: ‘You are in an empty room. What will you do?’ after a week of having only two meals, he decided upon a different response.

“I am in an empty room. What can I do?”

This new routine of two meals a day and the vocalizations of both: ‘You are in an empty room. What will you do?’ and ‘I am in an empty room. What can I do?’ went on for another six months. The man’s body had adapted promptly to the decline in food, and the man’s sleeping pattern was stable. Then two meals became one.

“You are in an empty room. What will you do?”

“I am in an empty room. Is there anything I can do?” his choice of words once he’d confirmed that the cut in his daily servings of food was once more not a mistake.

One meal a day was far less than three. The man had not exercised once since the first meal came to him from beneath the floorboards. His health began to deteriorate.

“You are in an empty room. What will you do?” asked the same man with the same voice.

“I am in an empty room. Is there anything I can do?”

To our surprise, the man in the empty room’s body, though degenerating, still functioned (that is, ate and slept) for a further six months. Then one meal became none.

“You are in an empty room. What will you do?”

The man in the empty room, certainly not the same man as he was eighteen or so months ago, dragged himself over to the hole in the wall.

“What can a man do in an empty room?”

This routine didn’t last very long due to the man in the empty room’s health. His body shut down entirely.

The man behind the hole in the wall entered the unlocked room where the corpse lay with a removal team.

“Another one,” began the man who had been long behind the hole in the wall. The same man who had spoken to the deceased when exiting the room those many months ago. “I had thought this subject would be the one. Hm… Bring in the next!”

The removal team took out the body, making way for the installation team.

“When your world abruptly falls apart, inaction is a powerful counteract,” said the voice, once leaving the man to his empty room.

***

MONTREAL, BERLIN 2022