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Weekly Contest #362
The cold has got into the barracks and will not be put out.There are seven of them now. There should be eight. No one says it. They have learned not to reach for the eighth bowl, though Michel reaches for it still some nights and draws his hand back as if the tin had bitten him. Siméon keeps the paper in the back of the little Voltaire, folded so often the creases have gone soft as cloth. A poem on one side, the bad kind, the kind they used to throw boots at. A recipe on the other, in a careful hand that learned its French late and was proud...
Weekly Contest #361
The fire had burned low in the hearth at Rosières, and the winter dark of 1830 pressed against the small windowpanes. The old man reached to the mantel, took down a tarnished brass button, and turned it once in his rough fingers, his thumb finding the worn numeral of the regiment. Then he began. Sit closer to the fire, Charles André. Your hands are cold, and there is wood enough tonight, so it will hold us a while. You asked me about the summer I came home from the war. You thought I would talk about the vineyard. Every other summer of my l...
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