Saturday Sample: Amelie at the Window by Penny Rogers, old wine

 

Christophe Pichon was still there. The blurry glow emanating from the gas lights in the dairy across La Place de la République made him look so handsome. Amelie sighed. She was in love. The October afternoon had turned into a chilly evening; it was 6.30 and almost dark. By the dim light of the dairy she watched the young man shuffle from foot to foot. The story of how his left foot had been broken when he was a lad, riding the greengrocer’s horse as a dare, was still a source of amusement in the town. ‘Pauvre Christophe,’ she said softly, ‘you need boots that fit properly and don’t hurt your feet.  And when we’re married they won’t dare laugh at you.’

She knew that Christophe had been outside the dairy for almost an hour. She wondered who, or what, he was waiting for. At least she could see him and dream about standing next to him. She wriggled in her chair, willing her wasted legs to move. Soon Odille would come to put her to bed. Oh the indignities of it all! She closed her eyes and imagined Christophe carrying her downstairs and out into the world. He would take her to Lourdes, she just knew he would. When she was cured and able to walk he would marry her as soon as possible. They would always be happy together and never ignore each other as her parents did.

A shout from the other side of the square caught Amelie’s attention.  M and Mme Fischer were arguing. They usually had a row after the second or third absinthe, but today they had at least four before the tension began to build. She knew that Raymond Fischer had come to the town as a young man, running away from something, or someone, in his native Alsace. His curious accent amused Amelie; she knew that behind his back the locals called him choucroute. She also knew they never dared call him that to his face, he had a bad temper and a short fuse, although the years and alcohol had slowed him down.

 

In the room above the milliner’s shop, Amelie picked up her sewing. Needlework was her escape, her link to the world beyond her window. She embroidered appliqués for the hats her parents sold and did a little work on commission. At the moment she was embroidering a velvet cape. It was difficult to hold the slippery material secure in the hoop without damaging the fabric. Slowly a profusion of exotic birds was transforming the edge of the cape. She picked up her work, but it was too dark to see properly. The parrot’s wing would have to wait until the morning.

Amelie could hear voices coming from the shop below. The words were muffled and indistinct but she gathered that Mme Gaudin was undecided about the inclusion of an ostrich feather in her new hat. Amelie strained her ears to catch more of the conversation. Mme Gaudin had seen in an illustrated paper, that peacock feathers were in vogue this year and she wanted to be up to date with the fashion. On the other hand she did not want to appear ostentatious in the endroit reculé of Forentan.  Amelie was horrified to hear her home town referred to as a backwater, and she guessed her parents would be as well. But Mme Gaudin was a good customer, so there was nothing they could do except agree, suggest, agree and suggest.

Another shout from across the street caused Amelie to re-focus on the deteriorating situation outside the tabac. After several drinks they started arguing, inevitably about Clovis. Amelie vaguely recalled the red-haired infant son of Marie-Pierre Fischer. He had died of polio during the same outbreak that had killed many children and left her with legs that didn’t work. According to Odille, a young woman employed by her mother as a part-time nurse and carer, Clovis was born just two months after the Fischers’ wedding. Odille had said that although the child wasn’t his, Raymond Fischer had treated him as his own, doted on him and was heartbroken when he died. Odille reckoned that Marie-Pierre’s heart had broken as well, and that they had both drank so much to hide their pain.

Most evenings Amelie watched the altercations between the Fischers with a combination of horror and amusement, but tonight her attention was divided between the tabac and the dairy. Her eyes were fixed on the latter until it was too dark for her to see the angelic profile of her beloved. She vaguely wondered where Odille had got to; she wasn’t usually late. Below she heard her mother saying ‘Au revoir’ and ‘Merci beaucoup’ to Mme Gaudin. Then the sound of Maman trudging up the stairs. She saw Papa cross the street and hurry to the dairy. To her amazement he was soon in conversation with the adored Christophe.

Her concentration on the unusual sight of her father talking to the man she intended to marry was broken by shouting from the tabac. She saw Marie-Pierre pick up a chair and smack it across the head of the inebriated Raymond. Blood and invectives flowed across the square. Amelie did not know whether to watch the drama with the Fischers unfold or keep her eyes on Christophe and her father.

Her dilemma was solved when Maman came into her room. ‘Odille won’t be coming any more. I’ll have to care for you myself until we can find someone else.’ Amelie’s heart sank. Her mother was never gentle. More importantly, Odille was her source of information, a bridge to the world beyond her bedroom: news of events, gossip, even salacious titbits that had to be whispered when Maman was not around.

‘What’s the matter with Odille?’ she ventured.

Maman sniffed ‘No better than she ought to be.’  Amelie watched as her mother busied with preparations for bed. She could hear Maman muttering ‘catin’ and ‘prostituée.’

 Amelie was none the wiser but didn’t want to upset her mother even more by asking questions.

 

As the autumn dusk turned rapidly to dark, a few more gas lights were lit. Amelie stayed glued to the window until the last possible moment. She wished with all her heart that she knew what Christophe and her father were talking about.

Her concentration on the two men was distracted by the sight of a horse and cart trundling around the square. From her vantage point Amelie could recognise all the locals and their horses, carts, bicycles, even the occasional automobile. But she’d never seen this before. She felt very sorry for the horse, it looked worn-out and dejected. Then she noticed what it was pulling, a sort of trailer with what looked like a wooden shed crazily fixed to the flat bed. Her first thought was that it must be a circus! How exciting, perhaps she could go to that and see the wild animals. Then she made out the faded words on the side of the cart. It was a travelling photographer. Quelle déception.

She turned her attention back to the scene outside the dairy. Christophe was hopping from one foot to the other; her father was punching his fist into the palm of his other hand. He always did this when he was arguing. Amelie considered that this did not bode well for Christophe; her father frequently argued and never conceded anything.

      Meanwhile outside the tabac, the nightly charade of the Fischers had ended. Amelie watched the husband and wife making their way home with considerable difficulty.  Raymond could hardly walk; the arms of his wife, strengthened by a lifetime of hard work, held him just about upright. She guessed, correctly, that the proprietor Bernard Lavoisier was telling them, as he told them almost every day, that they weren’t to come back, that their custom was not worth the fuss and that they would have to pay for the chair. In truth the chair was fine. Raymond’s head less so.

Amelie looked back towards the dairy just in time to see Christophe step back from her father and shake his head. Then he seemed to hesitate, turn and move towards the older man before reluctantly holding out his hand. The two men shook hands then turned away from each other. How she wished that she could have heard what they had been talking about.

 

At 7.25 Amelie was in bed with a bowl of hot chocolate placed carefully on the table beside her. Her mother had clearly resented the wiping, the washing, the holding, the lifting and the dressing. But Amelie closed her eyes and dreamed of the future, WALKING down the aisle with the man of her dreams.

In her room above her parents’ shop, Amelie drifted off to sleep. She wondered why her evening chocolate always tasted so much better than the insipid drink she had in the morning; one day she’d pluck up the courage to ask her mother. But for now she slept, dreaming of the day she would become Madame Pichon.

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About the author

Penny Rogers is the writing name of Penny Dale; she uses
the pseudonym to prevent any confusion with the marvellous writer and illustrator of children’s books who is also called Penny Dale.
 

Before retirement Penny was an academic librarian, and in this capacity edited and contributed to books on learning environments in universities. She also wrote and presented academic and technical papers on learning spaces, as well as development and training for staff in higher education library and information services.

These days Penny writes mostly short stories and flash fiction and enjoys trying out different styles and genres. She has stories in anthologies published by Bridge House,
Henshaw Press and the Dorset Writers Network. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit and has had stories published by Spillwords, Funny Pearls and in Bare Fiction and Writers 112

In her home town Penny facilitates a writing group that meets to offer mutual support and encouragement. She is also a member of a local poetry group and was on the
management team for SOUTH poetry magazine until it ceased publication in 2025.

When not writing, Penny enjoys knitting, preserving fruits and vegetables from her garden and visiting historic buildings. She is particularly fond of old churches and is
inspired by their history, architecture and continuing contribution to their communities. She is especially good at sitting in her beautiful garden, advising the gardener and planning her next story. 

  

 

The Trumpet Call At The End Of Time by Henry Lewi, old wine

 

He sat in the park, just outside the ancient city, cradling his Infinite Trumpet and looked out over the Biblical plain, and remembered.

  He recalled, how throughout the long eons of human history he’d blown his trumpet, sometimes alone, sometimes with others, and sometimes amongst serried ranks of trumpeters.

  His Trumpet call had gathered men, it had led them into combat, and it had announced both the start of the battle and its end. It had signalled the advance, and had sounded the retreat of an army.  His trumpet call had led men in the faraway lands of the East, across the blazing hot sands of Africa, and the vast plains of Asia. It had led men in the wars of religion, the wars of succession and the wars of conquest. It had led the Roman Legions trying to civilize the people of Germania and Gaul, it had led the Crusaders in their Religious Wars; and it had led the invading hordes from the East trying to conquer the West.

  His Trumpet had announced the advance at Austerlitz and at Waterloo, and had led the charge of the Light Brigade in Crimea.  The sound of the Infinite Trumpet had held the line at Gettysburg, had signalled for the men to advance from their trenches in the Great War, and had led the massed advance across the Steppes of Russia, and finally had sounded the Last Post for the fallen.

  He had survived these many millennia – no one ever wanted to hurt, maim or kill the man with the Infinite Trumpet. Whenever and wherever the battles were fought, whichever armies were involved, they always, always left the Trumpeter unharmed; they always left him to play his piece for the fallen.

  In more recent years, he had played his instrument in the Speakeasies of Chicago and New York, and in the smoky jazz clubs of the Deep South.  He had played with the greats as well as the indifferent, he’d played alongside those in tune, and alongside those that had missed the beat, or had missed a note, but it didn’t matter. He’d played and he’d watched; played as the public sat and listened; played as they drank and danced to his various tunes, and always and everywhere he was known as the ‘Man with the Infinite Trumpet’. 

  Throughout all of time he had missed his brother who had disappeared many, many centuries ago; and every few years he had climbed to the tallest hill he could find, and had used his trumpet to call for his brother, but to no avail. He had wondered where he was, as like him he had been formed at the Beginning Of Time, and he would continue until the End Of Time, why he didn’t know, it just WAS.

  Since the last great conflict, as well as the numerous more recent wars, there had been little need for the ‘Man with the Infinite Trumpet’.  Modern technology had replaced him on the battlefield, but he constantly watched and patiently waited.

  War was now being fought from afar, with missiles, radio and electronics, and in this ‘Empty Battlefield’ there was little call for the ‘Man with the Infinite Trumpet’ to either sound the advance, or announce the retreat; but always he was called upon to play for the fallen; but this was now, only during those few peaceful times.  In the current present, he had no role to play amongst the modern fighting man, but amongst the survivors he played to remember those who were no more.

  He still watched, he still waited and he would still call his brother from those high hills.

  Now the forces were again gathering.  They were gathering at the crossroads of the World and at the crossroads of Time.  They were gathering on the Biblical Plains, the Wastelands and the Deserts, and the intensity of the conflicts were growing.  Alliances were being made, North and South, East and West, Religion by Religion, Country by Country; the forces of the Light and the Dark were now gathering.

   Here as ordained, on these very Biblical Plains the time of Armageddon was now fast approaching.

 He stood on the mound of Megiddo, raised his trumpet to his lips and blew his Infinite Trumpet as he had done many, many times before before to summon his brother.    

  Finally after all these long years, there at last, in the distance he could see him, now fast approaching. His wings outstretched holding a flaming sword in his right hand, his brother Michael flew towards him. 

  The Archangel Gabriel again sounded his trumpet and finally, finally after all these long, long years unfolded his own wings to greet him. Now at last together, they could now face the forces of Lucifer gathering for the Final Battle at the End Of Time.

About the author

Henry is a retired surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group. He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site 

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Saturday Sample, Ways of Seeing, Rick Vick, old wine,

 

Introduction

I first met Rick Vick around the millennium in the local college of further education, at my first ever attendance at a poetry evening class. He sat top table, gaunt faced, nicotine toothed, spike-stubbled, undulating grey hair down to his bony shoulders, spectacles on the end of his hairy nose, crooked as his infectious smile.

By his side lay a leather satchel, which I later learnt contained a copy of the Greek myths, Shakespeare’s sonnets and a selection of the cheapest books of poetry he could find that particular week from the high street charity shop. And notebooks, lots of notebooks. He welcomed the shy table of the middle-class, middle aged, with his cut-glass accent - enunciated vowels, clipped consonants and the seldom heard use of  the personal pronoun ‘One’ rather than I or You. Once a week, from our clunky, wooden beginnings, Rick coaxed out lines from our generally dysfunctional existences that had us weeping in front of strangers and hugging them at home time.

His mantra was, ‘Let the pen do the writing.’

Rick was from select British bloodstock - private boarding school from a young age, his father a high-court judge and his grandfather, a Lord Mayor of London. He started his writing career as a journalist on London’s Fleet Street but quickly discovered the hack’s life wasn’t for him and, with a dinner jacket in a suitcase, travelled to New York, where he met a girl and her cat and drove to the hippy communes of California.

From that moment on, Rick never had a penny to spare, but he travelled the world and wrote and lived with authors, poets and artists. He spent fourteen years on the Greek island of Hydra during the 1960s where he led the Bohemian lifestyle with the likes of Leonard Cohen, Cohen’s lover Marianne Jensen, and where Lawrence Durrell, Henry Miller, Cyril Connolly and Patrick Leigh Fermor were literary visitors.

A decade after the evening classes, I met Rick leading The Ale House Poets group in Stroud, Gloucestershire where he’d settled with his family. He charged £5 a person for three hours of creative writing exercises, readings and conversation. The group members were seldom able to lay their hands on a £5 note, so he’d settle for a half pint of beer or a cigarette. Without any doubt, Rick kindled in me, and many others, a passion for words and writing that has continued to this day. But more than writing, Rick had a deep love of all art forms, of being true to one’s inner calling, and of humanity in all its guises.

In Stroud, Rick was a busy and interested activist rather than a local politician. He had a genuine love for the town and its cultural life. For many years he helped organise the Stroud Arts Festival including poetry, dance, theatre, music and painting. He had a love of people that manifested itself on every level, from the encouragement of a shy, new poet at one of his workshops to his record-breaking seven appearances as a writer at the prestigious Stroud Short Stories.

Rick saw no difference between, and spoke no differently to, the homeless person sleeping rough in the doorway or the well-to-do visitor to the art gallery or poetry reading holding a complimentary glass of wine. During his life in Stroud, he was involved in social work, leading creative writing classes for ex-offenders and those with addiction issues.

The last time I saw Rick he was terminally ill in bed. He told me of the books he was reading and of how much he’d enjoyed reading a modest piece of my work he’d seen recently in an online journal. I told him that my writing life was entirely thanks to his teaching.

‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘I was simply the facilitator. Let the pen do the writing.’

 

Steven John

The Phare Magazine - Joint Founder and Managing Editor

Seeing

He watches her, at first vaguely – an old woman paddling.  So he sees her through his seven year old eyes – although she is no more than forty, a few years older than his mother.  She is standing in the tattered lace of the wave’s furthest reach up the beach.  She is alone.  Not just by herself, he thinks, having some notion of what alone means, being an only child.  Something about her stillness keeps his eyes fixed on her.  She is not like the mothers and a few fathers further up the beach, beyond the breakwater, ankle deep in the cold North sea, keeping eyes on their children, further out, splashing and screaming with abandon. 

As he watches he senses a tremor in her body as she lifts her head and stares out to sea.  He follows her gaze to the distant smudge of the horizon.  There is not much to see; no boats just the undulations of the waves. She is wearing a dark red dress which, unlike the other women in the shallows, she has not gathered in her hand to lift.

She steps forward and keeps on moving, slowly, into the incoming waves.  He glances towards his mother, who is unpacking triangles of sandwiches and three bananas from two plastic boxes, laying them on a small square of white cloth.   He is about to call her attention to the woman but seeing the tight line of her mouth decides against disturbing her. His father had said he would not come on the picnic outing as he had a fiver on the 4.15 at Doncaster.  She had not been pleased.

She is up to her thighs when he looks back.  Something in him knows what she is doing but he has not the language to put his intuition into words.  Deeper and deeper she goes, the sea up almost to her waist.  The dress has risen up around her.  Like a dingy come to rescue her, he thinks.

She lifts her hand to her head and frees a clasp or pin that holds the long dark hair that falls to her shoulders.

On and on she pushes.  He feels her effort.  She stops. The ocean heaves all around her body up to her chest.  He looks up the beach.  No one has seen her.  He wants to shout out, to point but does not.

Quite suddenly she raises her arms fingers outstretched and dips under the water and is gone.  Just like that.  He hugs his knees hard in his arms, staring. Staring so hard – willing her to reappear.  She does not.

No one else has noticed.  He looks around.  All is just as it was the last time he had looked and he wonders if he had seen, truly seen, what he had seen.

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Sunday Serial: 240 x 70 24 Old Bones 12 January, old wine

Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 240 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day.

 

It came to us all. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust etc.  Amazing though. You could see where the eyes would have been. This one still had all his teeth. He assumed it was a man's skull, though he couldn't say why. There was a hole where the nose would have been.

He remembered seeing other remains without life.  All of those old graves in old churchyards the Republic of Ireland. You could look right into them and see the skeletons.  They hadn't used coffins. Then there were those curious underground tunnels in Vienna where the air had preserved flesh as well. Dried out bodies but still bodies. Odd that in some places they'd put all of the skulls together, all of the thigh bones and all of the pelvic bones etc. Why had they done that?

He shuddered as he remembered seeing his mother in her coffin.  His father had insisted. "We've got to make sure they've get the right body in there?" Did they have to? Did it really matter? 

He touched the skull again. It felt solid but he thought it might be brittle. It was really odd how normally everything else rotted but the bones remained.

"Nice to meet you," he mumbled as he put it back down. 

He was inside his head. Who was he, really? Whoever he was inside this body and it suddenly felt decidedly odd to him having a physical body. He shivered. Better get out of here.

The sun was bright outside and he had to screw his eyes up against it. He couldn't shake the feeling, though, that he was really from somewhere else, that he didn't really belong here.        

About the author  

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.    

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://twitter.com/GillJames

 Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)