AXL, THE DOG

Photographer - Tobi Brun

AXL, THE DOG

In one of my previous careers, I worked at an art gallery. Back then, there was a celebrity with whom almost everyone in the neighborhood was familiar. Named after the lead singer for Guns and Roses, Axl was an English bulldog. For whatever reason, he never developed beyond the
size of a large puppy, which kept him adorable, even when fully grown. Though owned by the woman I worked for, he was also the mascot for her business, Mimi Ferzt Gallery, which represented post-Stalinist, nonconformist Russian and Baltic States art.

There is no Mimi Ferzt. In between occupants for the gallery space, an independent movie production filmed at the location and put the name Mimi Ferzt on the doors. The name is a play on words: “Me Me First.” In the film, Mimi was a gallery owner. With the name still prominently displayed, it was decided that keeping the name Mimi Ferzt added an allure and mystery to the gallery’s biography. We got a kick out of artists who told us that Mimi had said she promised to give them an exhibition. The gallery was a spacious, square room with a ceiling that reached a height equaling three stories. Other perks included stark white walls, polished wood floors, a century-old decorative tin ceiling and a large, custom built reception desk that had been left by the previous tenant, a museum that relocated to Connecticut. Having been a non-profit venue subleased to Mimi Ferzt, the monthly rent remained well below market value. It was located in the very desirable neighborhood of SoHo.

When I first met Axl, it was love at first sight...at least for me. Still a puppy, he would sit between my legs under the reception desk, and gently chew and lick my fingers. Within about 30 seconds, tiny red spots spread up my arm. I soon faced the realization that I was allergic to
Axl, as I am to most cats and some long haired dogs, such as Shelties, who have a double layer of dog fur that produces a dander similar to that of cats.

But I was not allergic to Axl’s coat... just his saliva. I was able to scratch his belly and pet him, but I had to stop him from kissing or cleaning me with his tongue. Sometimes I couldn’t resist allowing the affectionate bonding he offered. After a few moments of being licked, I would have to excuse myself to one of the gallery bathrooms and flood my arm with cool water and soap. In time, the rash would vanish.

Thanks to the size of the room, Axl and I were able to run around inside the gallery. Sometimes I would gallop or skip. I’m sure I looked ridiculous. On or off his leather leash, Axl began to prance next to me, like a miniature, short-legged thoroughbred. With all four paws off the
ground, he would arch his back, extend his front legs forward and hind legs behind him in what practically appeared to be a graceful ballet jump, which I’m sure looked even more hilarious next to my animated movements. I believed I was a genius, having taught Axl to show off
these skills. At some point I was informed that English bulldogs had been trained to “prance” for centuries. It was part of his inherited lineage. In the European tradition, bulldogs had been sent out into bull-fighting rings prior to the battle between the matador and bull. I’m guessing
it had something to do with the small dogs taunting and angering the bull.

English bulldogs, an invented breed, are thought to have originally been a mix of Asiatic mastiff and pug. Now registered as purebred, they are expensive to acquire. Whatever the origins, they are not able to copulate naturally. That means someone has to extract the semen from a
male and insert it into a female English bulldog. Don’t ask me how all of this is performed. A turkey baster comes to mind.

English bulldogs aren’t known for their intelligence. They are fairly low on the totem pole for canine smarts. But they are usually very sweet. Axl was no exception. He was affectionate and cuddly and easy to love. When taking Axl for a walk on the streets of SoHo, inevitably we would be stopped multiple times by strangers who wanted to pet him. Axl’s master was generous in allowing me to take him out. Maybe walking a dog can become a chore day after day. His owner was happy to have others take him around the neighborhood during work hours. One of the funniest experiences I remember having was being stopped by Drew Barrymore. She asked his name and leaned down to pet him. I said, “Axl, you’re such a celebrity.” Immediately, Drew stiffened, stood erect and walked away. Even though I had said Axl’s name, she heard what I said as being about her.

A year down the line, I was offered a job at a competing gallery and accepted the position as Assistant Director. A few years later, I learned that the owner of Mimi Ferzt had gone to Russia to look for artwork to add to the gallery’s inventory. Apparently while there, she had also adopted a puppy and brought him back to New York. I don’t know what kind of dog it was, but something considered rare and exotic in America. He looked like a small, short haired grey wolf.

I hadn’t visited Mimi Ferzt Gallery in a long while. I stopped in to say hello to some of my former colleagues. One of these employees told me that the new dog was hostile and didn’t belong in a city apartment. He had constantly gone after Axl. Axl was now quarantined in the
basement of the gallery, cordoned off in a small space next to the staircase. He had one of those plastic cones around his head, which always looks funny to me. As if the dog was wearing a lamp shade or a large collar that belonged to Queen Victoria. But this was not amusing at all. Axl had been attacked by the Russian dog, and now had stitches in his ears and the back of his head. The cone was to protect Axl from disturbing the sutures while his wounds heeled.

I went down to the gallery basement to see Axl. He was sitting quietly in his little cubby hole, blocked from getting out by a wooden board. I leaned over and said, “Hello, Axl.”

He looked at me for a moment. Then he started growling and barking incessantly. Nonstop and angry. I believe he recognized me and was barking in fury. Why did I let this happen? Where had I been? Why didn’t I protect him? I walked upstairs, shaken and heartbroken. Then I found out that his owner wanted to give him away. Apparently, his novelty had worn off. I offered to take him. But it was not to be. He was
given to strangers. And from what I was told, Axl died within the year. I don’t hold the secondary owners responsible. But I do blame the gallerist for not letting me take him.

Bulldogs aren’t known for living long lives, but at the very least, Axl could have spent his final days safe and with someone who loved him and whom he had known since puppyhood.

Around that time, I became friendly with an artist from Rome, living and working in New York City. When applying for a financial grant to subsidize an artist’s studio, he asked me to write him a testimonial for the Approval Board. As a thank you, he gave me one of his paintings, which hangs outside of my bedroom. It’s of an English bulldog.

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 60 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com) along with several scripts. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe, garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA.

Sweetheart

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Sweetheart

“Slit lengthwise, trim off the fat and silverskin, slice into one-inch cubes,” Valeria read off a creased recipe card as she worked her knife into the heart and pushed the scraps into a pile at the corner of the cutting board.

The smell wasn’t as strong as she thought it’d be, but the air was heavy with iron.

“Season with salt and pepper. Massage until salt dissolves into the flesh.” She followed her instructions, evenly coating the meat. “Transfer into a bowl. Add olive oil, minced garlic, thyme, parsley, and onion powder.”

She admired her mise en place as she tossed in each ingredient; the uniformity and organization of small glass bowls with her herbs reminded her of when she first started learning her craft at her grandmother’s hip. Now, unlike her cooking, she found it easy to make what she needed by following her intuition. Potion, poultice, poison—Valeria’s specialty was solution. The oil carried the blood between her fingers, under her nails, and into the gaps of her engagement ring, leaving stains in the creases of her skin. Fingers sticky and curled to the ceiling, Valeria slid the recipe card away from the sink before washing her hands and flicking her wet fingers over a hot copper pan. The oiled surface
sputtered, her sign to lower the flame and tip the bowl’s contents into the pan. She scraped the vermillion marinade off the glass with a rubber spatula and drizzled it in. The warm smell of browning meat covered the metallic scent and lifted wafts of crisp herbs and smoke. She added a few tablespoons of salted butter to the pan and stirred, eyes lingering on the pool of oxidized blood spreading across the cutting board.

While the heart cooked, Valeria punched holes into the film of a container of mashed potatoes, set them into the microwave, and emptied a salad kit into a large bowl. If she’d abandoned anything over the years, it was the need for pageantry. She’d found her shortcuts where she needed them: herbal tea bags had most of what she needed for tinctures, an ice tray of menstrual blood in the freezer removed the need to cut her hand over candlelight, and—as she discovered yesterday—enough Rohypnol in his whisky kept him asleep through anything.

The sound of Marc sitting at the dining room table called her attention back into the kitchen in time to stop the microwave before it beeped.

“Dinner almost ready?” he called from the other side of the wall.

“Just a minute!” Valeria responded, emptying the pan onto his plate alongside his potatoes and salad. She threw only a smattering of greens onto hers and rushed their dinner around the corner.

The table looked nearly the same as when she set it earlier—nice flatware, a glass of Maker’s Mark, a glass of Reisling—the only change was the presence of her too-soon-to-be leaning heavily onto the wooden arm of his dining chair and tapping his fork with his finger.

“Not like you to make me wait,” he chided as she placed their plates on either side of the six-seater table.

“I think I can make it up to you,” she said, turning to the record player he kept against the wall. She thumbed through his collection, then held up Frankie Valli’s “Solo” album—his favorite.

“Good choice,” he said, mid-drink.

She pulled the record from its sleeve, placed it onto the platter, and lowered the needle. The vinyl, after a moment of crackling, played “My Funny Valentine.”

By the time she took her seat, he was already chewing his first bite. She paused, napkin hovering over her lap, and watched closely for his reaction.

“Mm,” he grunted.

He sounded happy. Valeria stared at the line of buttons down his white shirt.

“Is this my mother’s pig heart recipe?”

“Mhm,” she answered, smoothing her napkin and reaching for her wine.

“The woman was dumb as hell, but she could cook.”

“That’s nice.”

“She would’ve liked you.”

She let Frankie’s voice wash over her fiance’s while she eyed his plate. He loaded a buttery dollop of potatoes onto a chunk of heart and scraped it off the fork with his teeth. It was the first of his habits he learned to ignore. She counted his bites, her only relief from his
ramblings.

“We’re gonna start selling girls now.”

It was the first business decision he had made without consulting her. “You told me.”

“I think it’s really gonna take the organization to the next level.”

“You told me.”

“It’s gonna be huge,” he said, exposing his half-chewed heart. Ever since she approached him at his favorite bar six years ago, he had big dreams of criminal enterprise. “You always have ladies here for your business. Know anybody who’d be worth anything?”

She stabbed her fork through the spine of a lettuce leaf.

“I’m joking, relax. We have some coming in a few weeks.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You told me.”

The flat of his hand struck the table. “All of a sudden you know everything?”

He may have changed his name from Marc to Marcello and called an arms-dealing ring his ‘organization’, but Valeria saw him without presumption: a small-time gangster who’d still be mid-shelf if it wasn’t for her.

“You told me all of this last night,” she circled her wine glass with her finger. “When we were celebrating.”

His dark eyes searched her face.

“That’s why I made this special dinner for you.” She sweetened her tone—it was artificial but effective.

He leaned back into his chair. “I did hit the drinks a little hard last night. I can’t remember a thing.”

“We both had too much.”

“Hm.” He lifted his glass to his lips, staring at her through his silence.

Her knee bounced under the table. “I worked so hard on your dinner, hon. Don’t let it get cold.”

He scanned her plate of salad. “Where’s yours?”

“You know I don’t like organ meat.”

“The chef should taste the food,” he stabbed a bite onto the prongs and pointed it at her. Her heels pressed into the laminate floor.

“Taste it.”

She rose to her feet. Her skirt brushed against the tablecloth as she walked to his chair and crouched at his arm. She took the bite in her mouth, staring at the scar across the bridge of his nose as the flavors settled into her tongue. It was tender to chew; easy to flatten and hide
between her cheek and top gums.

Even after swallowing, Marc didn’t hide his skepticism.

“See?” she said, opening her mouth and revealing her tongue.

His glare was cloudy, but he nodded in satisfaction. She tried not to look at his plate.

“Come here,” he said, wrapping his hand behind her head and pulling her lips to his. Her stomach lurched.

“Marcello!” she laughed and pushed on his chest. His wound still hadn’t surfaced. “After dinner!”

“Promise?” he asked.

She took her seat and placed her napkin back on her lap. “Cross my heart.”

He began shoveling food into his mouth. Here was the voracious, greedy eater she had counted on.

“I know you’re not much of a cook, babe, but you did great with this.” It was as close to forming a compliment as he could get outside of “nice ass.”

“It’s very tender, not chewy at all. Kinda sweet. You picked a good pig.”

“The biggest one I could find.”

The wound from last night was opening with every bite, something he didn’t seem to notice. Blood seeped through his white shirt the way red wine spreads on a tablecloth. It was slow and pretty—probably the prettiest he ever looked. A brass crescendo emanated from the speakers followed by a quiet, pulsating beat.

“Ahhhh, here we go!” A smile crossed his face as he threw back the last of his whisky.

“Here’s my song!”

His movements were delayed and languid, his breath more labored. Valeria wondered if this was her work or the alcohol’s.

“You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you,” he sang with an annoying amount of charm. “You'd be like Heaven to touch, I wanna hold you so much.”

Despite the food in his teeth and paling face, moments like this reminded her of a time when she tolerated him. Maybe even liked him—it still counts, even if it’s short-lived.

“At long last love has arrived, and I thank God I'm alive.” He raised his remaining bite of heart to her. “You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off you.”

She sucked the last of the juices out of the piece she cheeked, taking her time to swallow its rich, peppery flavor. He was right, his mom was a great cook. Her pulse swelled with the sounds of horns and trombones as he inhaled deeply, ready to belt out the chorus. Memories of him singing this part in the shower, in the car with the windows down, and the night they met at the bar flashed through her mind.

“I love you, bab—”

A fit of coughing—a deep, guttural one that sent sprays of blood over the table, across their plates, and onto her face and chest—cut him off. He gasped, trying to choke out the words and save his performance, stopping once he noticed the splatter. As his expression transitioned from confusion to panic, she watched the crimson droplets mix into her wine.

He motioned for her help with hands that became more frantic when she remained seated. His eyes, once clear, coursed with red. A sanguine string of saliva dripped from the corner of his lips.

“Val,” he wheezed. “Help me.”

Valeria tilted her head. Marc pressed his hand to his chest, letting out a shallow groan when he felt the raw, gaping cavity. Ripping the button-up shirt open, he revealed her handiwork from last night. She had sliced him lengthwise, and the edges of flesh curled open, giving way to
broken, unfurling ribs. Shock had set in. It was the first time he couldn’t find his words. She wanted to ask him how it felt when the blade cut him open, when her hand slid under and into his beating flesh, when the drip of black wax sealed and hid the laceration. She wanted
to know if he felt lighter, walking around without a heart all day. She wanted to fill the room with all the bitter, little truths she’d kept under her tongue, rancid and rotting.

Something that sounded like a cross between a sob and a wheeze spilled from his mouth. She let the song play through. His lips emitted faint, raspy words.

“What’s that, hon?”

“You—fucking—“ he choked on the air, heavy once again with iron, “—witch.”

She smiled and stood to walk to his side of the table before grabbing the sides of his jaw to pry it open.

“You... fucking...” She mocked him slowly.

He fought her weakly.

Her tongue swiped the bit of heart from inside her cheek and moved it into her mouth, spitting it down into his, “...Cannibal.”

His eyes were wide, wet, and bursting. One of her hands cupped his mouth shut while the other closed his nostrils, forcing him to swallow.

“Oh, pretty baby, don't bring me down, I pray. Oh, pretty baby, now that I found you, stay,” she sang over his muffled screams, tightening her grip.

“And let me love you, baby, let me love you...”

Jordan Nishkian is an Armenian-Portuguese writer based in California. Her prose and poetry explore themes of duality and have been featured in national and international publications. She has been awarded the Rollick Magazine Fiction Prize and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best American Short Stories. Jordan is the Editor-in-Chief of Mythos literary magazine and the author of Kindred, a novella.

‘Who Is That Bird at the End of That Rope?’, ‘Crisis in the Lighthouse’, & ‘Jack-O'-Lantern’.

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Who Is That Bird at the End of That Rope?

I feel as if I am always in camouflage;
Last of my species? Damned to this, fakery collage.

Another time, or place...a cruel fantasy.
Unique—a blessing tainted with insanity.

Retrained? On the verge of extinction? Already
Gone like the fabled dodo—or mass dignity?

I tend to glide above, while most seem to slither.
Ostriches is as close as I have gotten hither.

Seem to be birds of the feather—of flight at first glance;
Do elect not to fly, given the delusive chance.

Some seem to be rats of sorts; I rear to fly—soon
The ones who tramp, drag me to the gallows at noon.

Crisis in the Lighthouse

Reach my hand outside the lighthouse window. The haze,
Thick. An albatross lands on my finger—so vague.

All I seem to receive is omens as of late;
I feel like a mackerel; no relent—teased with bait.

Always riddled viz. "You will wake and be deemed blind."
I'm left to wonder; blind of the eyes—or of the mind?

Lighthouse keeper; beloved, nurturer of the flame;
Has no light to guide him; his black horizon to tame.

The blind leading the blind; or the delusional,
Who forgo the cane. His peerless sight—fictional.

Are the other keepers up the shore just as lost;
Finding sole solace in the verse of Robert Frost?

"I have been one acquainted with the night." What it
Is to be a keeper? Light the way—mind, dimly lit.

Save poor souls, from a fate you crave in seclusion.

Tame the wild ocean—or at least give the illusion.

My weapon against the sea—a lowly, lone match;

I should be on the other end of the "help!" dispatch.

Jack- O’-Lantern

I see my sanity roll off my fingertips;
Do they know how slippery it is? It seems that
They never risk it. A Mental apocalypse—

The mind endures; flames ravage its crevices; My
Cerebral disaster. Soon enough those who prey—
Pillage will arrive; gutting the pumpkin—bone dry.

They leave my face perverted; eyes jagged; mouth hacked.
Set fire to my core; Soul arsonists—no remorse.
Outlet for emotional pyromaniacs.

Used for one chilly night; then violently tossed

Down, the juxtaposing, peaceful dell; I roll—squash!
Left to rot, in a state of decay. Will I frost—

Or will I have decomposed by winter? From now
Till next autumn, my kind will be seen as passé.
No longer useful for laughs—scares. Death under boughs.

They wash their hands of my seeded blood; wipe the knife.
"This stuff never comes off." Longer to dwell—regret.
Throw the remains in the oven; burn off the life.

William Olson is a young aspiring artist in multiple fields; such as writing, music, film, and poetry. He also most likely enjoys John Keats too much for his own good, in this poetic landscape. He currently resides in Birmingham, Alabama.

“Lucky Cargo”, “Exit Point”, & “My Girl, Athena.”

Photographer - Tobi Brun

lucky cargo

Bury me at sea in the mouth of a lion.
There I will squander the cargo for anchor.
Make me a list of their sisters and mothers,
and watch me return to the warm South to thank her.

Bless me with sand at the feet of Elijah.
Here I will make good the boundless prairie.
Build me a tall ship to sail California,
or carve me your phone number under the blue tree.

Break into a car where the flowers are burning.
There I will paint you a cold Dionysus.
Write me a Pope at your earliest convenience,
but make no apologies over the wireless.

Bring me the white whale who started creation.
Here I will peel you a red pomegranate.
Spell me your favourite hour in the waters,
as proof that it’s not such a dubious planet.

Book me a table for Boot Hill at sundown.
There I will make lunar landings a habit.
Pour me the Rolling Stones into fine china,
if ever you find a bar lucky to have it.

exit point

A brown spider crawled out of my dream,
full of hard threaded heart-strings.
Sleepy with Satie’s Gymnopedies.

Could have
sailed again.
that world
I travelled
from.

How
time slipped
every
screen
and,

taught dead
fish
to
jump
an empty

reel as my dream
reclined
in the arms
of some

lonely, adult
actress.

Or St. Cecelia in ecstasy, (is that the place?)
I never looked to find. All over
the city, blue flies ferry fever.

Takes time to cross, two years of traffic lights,
dealt underneath the bridge.

At the exit point
of memory, there is always,
this expectancy.

Like driftwood, Holy days
when I still wait for you.

My girl, Athena.

The Gods have abandoned you.
She’s not there, (but vengeance is)
some spray-paint joker cracks.

You are no Goddess
on a good day.
Not my girl, you say.

How your eyes
stay quiet like a house,
that will grow

into a garden.

Let us speak to each other,
a simple list of words
in no particular order.

Though my language be small as a wager.

Our first day in the park as the jet planes
roared above your dark, gold hair.

and you spoke
to me, slowly.

distant with conviction.

Jonathan Jones lives and works in Rome where he teaches English and American literature at John Cabot University.

Burnt Offering

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Burnt Offering

The old marketplace, the center of the gathering, could be dated back to the glorious Romans so many years ago. Cauchon squirmed uncomfortably as he stood in his white robes outside of the church in Rouen. Standing there, he thought of how those ancient warriors, that red legion, would honor their pagan, heretic gods with burnt offerings. He wondered doubtfully,
with the silent weight of guilt like a tomb balanced on the tip of his pointed mitre hat, if he was not doing the same.

They brought her out, head shaven and in men’s clothing. This heretic fool. He had tried to save her from this, tried to bring her back from demonic damnation at that trial. But she was
insistent, persistent in delusion. She heard voices, she had said, as though the tongue of Satan flapped from between her lips. She stated it was the saints in her ears; Catherine and Margaret.
She claimed that God almighty, in France’s great time of need, would speak to this peasant farm girl.

What true God spoke to women? None. This was not Genesis nor the book of Luke, where God and his angels would send the golden voices of divinity to speak truths to humankind’s ears. This was France, four hundred years had passed since the First Holy Crusade. If anyone, God spoke to the Pope, but to filthy girls like her? No. It is just not so.

One or two of the armed English soldiers stifled a laugh as the pale young woman squeaked slightly in pain as they shoved her forward into the old market square. Only nineteen they believe, a beautiful girl, even with her hair gone and that gap between her teeth, she had done so much―too much―too quickly. From peasant to leader of all the armies of France, shining in armor underneath bloody banners at Orleans and Patay―Cauchon thought she was a half-witted girl who was lucky in leading some good fighting men forward. No hand of God, no voice of the Almighty blessing her ear. Yet, as she staggered forward bound in the malice of others, Cauchon thought that her bald head and her ragged men’s clothes shimmered with the same metallic glint of steel armor she had worn only a month ago.

Cauchon looked down at his white tunic and patted at the wrinkles on his chest. Yes, yes, his conscience was clear. No woman would hear the voice of God―she had to be lying, she was
a fool, and no God would support the French over the English and Cauchon’s own Burgundians. He had captured, tried this girl, and thus, God had to be on his side. Who was ending their story
bound and put to death? Not him―it was her― if that didn’t prove guilt enough, then what did? He thought of another being he had studied who had been bound before, but shook the example from his memory― he sniffed loudly, this was nothing like that. He looked down and spat. Some of the crowd looked up to him. He thought he could smell the burning scent of Roman offerings―the scent of frying pork skin riffled through his nostrils. He spat again. No. The drunk English men tied her to a tall stone column built long before anyone could remember. The soldiers started singing in English as they gathered wood in front of the murmuring crowd:

“Our King went forth to Normandy With grace and might of chivalry; There God worked marvelously for him, Wherefore England may call and cry out: Thanks be to God!”

The girl’s eyes pierced through the thundering silence which roared even under the drunkard song of the English. A mountainous stoicism bound to the unnerved frame of this pale, bald, gap-toothed girl. Cauchon could see her teeth from his position above the crowd. Was that a smile? Or was she wincing? He saw the whole universe in the gap of her teeth and he looked down again to spit.

He shook his head. A heretic deserves hell. God would say so, God had said so. From Revelations: “the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those
who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars—they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur.” Had this girl not been cowardly and sexually immoral by dressing in men’s
clothing? Had she not been idolatrous, by pretending to hear voices? Of course. This was holy practice, Godly practice. The will of the Lord, the want of the Shepherd. Cauchon knew his responsibility, and he too had a flock to keep, to herd from danger and hell. The girl smelled coarsely of hell of wrongdoing, of vulgarity. He could smell it from all the way over here, her wrinkled face almost like a moon in the water of time. That scent―that burning pork again―again he thought of those red Romans and their burnt offerings.

His white robes ruffled in the light breeze as he heard a pile of wood clunk against the base of the column the girl was tied to. She remained motionless as the pile of wood grew around her feet―she was a fool who deserved this. He looked down to spit again but he saw at the knee of his glowing white gown, a smudge of mud. It must have splashed up from the mud of May in
Rouen’s streets. It was a brown and black pupil that sneered upwards, a smudge of filth. There was that pugilent smell again―and then the thought that came with it: what had she said,
through that gap between her teeth at her trial? What were those words she had said with the spite and skill of clerical expertise?:

His tail had tightened between his legs as she had gone on and on of the voices of Saints Catherine and Margaret and the love of God above. The jury of
clergymen had shaken their heads in unison, a forest of disapproving skulls. Cauchon was onto her; he knew in her heart was the heart of the false shepherd, the idol of darkness sewn tightly into the fabric of her soul. His patience had run out and so he had asked her, this peasant girl who knew not her letters nor anything of royal courts nor law, he had asked: “Do you know, in fact, that you
are in God’s grace?”

And the clergy at the trial squirmed in excitement, a law they had learned in their universities, in the instruction of logic on the will of God. Surely the girl who had sworn to have heard the female saints above in her ear knew she was in the grace of God. The question was a tricky one, a trap to show her as the dark idol he had known her to be. If she said yes, he’d call her a heretic―only God Himself can know if one is in God’s grace. If she said no, she’d be admitting that she was a false prophet, a liar mincing the words of saints for witchly powers. But the silence of the room felt hollow, like a rotten trunk in a forest. The many heads in their white gowns of purity pierced the girl in her mannish clothes as she stood pale as snow in the center of the room. Her hands were bound, her eyes trembling, her body as calm and quiet as mountains of southern France. Cauchon, himself, felt the roaring impatience of the ocean breaking upon Normandy’s shore, chewing at timelessness and silence with bereft, incessant motion.

“Answer the question;” he said with shark teeth, “Do you know, in fact, that you are in God’s grace?”

The girl exhaled as though the very tome of patience was being written in the breath winding out over her tongue, “If I am not, may God put me there; and if I am, may God so keep me.” She said this slowly, her enunciation like the great royalty of old, the clarity of doctrine thundering through her quiet, yet powerful words. The forest of clergy rocked in the wind of her deposition, and Cauchon splashed in the suddenly calm waters of her profundity, his shark teeth dulled in her iron stoicism.

He had had her jailed anyway. Looked the other way as Englishmen had their way with her. Punished her when she had stripped herself from her dress and put men’s clothes back on. She was guilty, in every action, she was a heretic at best, at worse, a witch. The scripture was very clear. Fire. Fire. Fire at the stake. He realized now, the memory flowing through him, that that had been the moment when he first smelled it: the burnt offering smell, that stench of roasting pig fat broiling on a spicket. That flashing visage of red Romans uttering some mantra to a pantheon of dead heathen gods. That was the first time, and he smelled it again now as the torch of the sacrifice―no, breathe,

Cauchon―the torch of the sacrament of God was being lowered down around her feet. He had apparently missed the announcement of her wrongdoings, her public sentencing, and he refocused now as the orange torch spread the flames which began to lick around her ankles. Her mouth finally found its anxiety, its concern, its devine doubt as the kissings of flame found her bare skin and the small hairs populating her legs began to scorch black. Small shrieks were splattered out from that gap between her front teeth, and though Cauchon was certain he saw a flash of summer sunshine emanate from between them, her words became partnered with steaming tears as she squirmed and wriggled against the column holding her firmly to her sacreligious punishment.

She moved like the worm she was as she shouted out the name of the lord, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” as the flames turned her bald white skin pink and as pink began to ebb into black. The smell was putrid, it was overwhelming. Cauchon looked away from the sacrif―sacrament and back into the black iris-stain on his robes. He felt his smile fade, like it was yanked downward and away from him. He closed his eyes but the Romans shouted their mantra at him beneath his eyelids.The thunder of drumming banged along as he heard her high whimpers and the hushed gasps of a hungry crowd.

The fire was short yet cruel and the screechings of the witch passed like the May breeze. The crowd shuddered at the squealing of this girl, once the proud knight of the people, the banner of the crown of France. The vigorous body slumped into crooked black cruelty, a charred remain bent in holy prayer folds, like a large pair of prayerful hands clasped black from the ash of holy incense.

The smoke was worse than the flame. Cauchon thought so as he stared at the smoldering pile spit its black color into the blue void of the sky. He thought he saw faces in the smoke.

Female saints? A gap-toothed woman? Eternity was above, yet also, eternity drooled below in the pits of hell. That black smoke, as he walked over to the pyre through the crowd leaving the site, past the drunken English soldiers, seemed to smolder so quickly into the heavens. He looked at the charred body, the white skull beginning to glimpse through the falling ash of burnt flesh. The Romans in his brain were shouting now, their mantra of polytheism berating like a drum on the inside of his skull. He saw the white set of teeth peer through the ashen black, smoke whispering in whisps from a jaw still unclenched from the world’s cruelty.

He fell, knees first, into the ash. His white robes soaking in the soot. He stared at that small gap between the ruin of her skull. He smelled the burnt flesh of pig skin. He heard the hammering of drums, he felt a strong current anchoring him downward beneath the stonework. His ashen knees began to bleed and blister upon the hot cobblestone.

Two clergymen saw Cauchon’s fall and they ambled over to him. Try as they might, they struggled to lift him from his knelt position, a position almost as in prayer, so close to the still hot ash and coals of the public execution. He started shouting, hardly words at first, and then his words fell to a constant incoherent mumbling as yet more clergymen pulled Cauchon from his troubled kneel. They brought him to the infirmary. His mumbling never ceased.

He was blanketed and someone lit a fire in his hot room to sweat out the demons from his body. It was probable that devils had made him sick in the first place, they suggested, being in such close approximation to the witch’s death.

Cauchon’s eyes stared at the little fire in his little room, his eyes unsleeping, unwavering from the coals replenished and replenished by concerned clergymen of Burgundy. But as they cleaned his sheets and changed him, as they fetched him french water and bled him from disease, they heard him ask a quiet question to himself, over and over as the fire continued to flicker. It was a question none of them answered nor interrupted, nor wrote down. One they ignored, for though they would not say, they felt it too:

“Am I in God’s Grace?”

He would shiver with each inquisition as the words rolled from his tongue. All the while, his eyes watched the fire and his nostrils smelled the burnt flesh of burnt offerings to pagan gods as he laid in his shadowed monk cell sweating through his sheets.

Peter Randazzo has a bachelor’s degree in Social Studies Education from SUNY New Paltz and a Master’s Degree in Curriculum Instruction with a focus in Literacy from SUNY Empire. He teaches history in upstate New York, is a poet with Dead Man’s Press, runs the Clever Name Collective writer’s group in Albany, and runs the No Poet blog on WordPress. He has published in the anthologies of Eber & Wein, Hidden in Childhood, Penumbra, and has self-published "Dandelions & The Right Notes" on Amazon.