Tag: Paris

Books to Travel with

On By cherylmahoneyIn Ruminations18 Comments

When I travel somewhere, I try to bring books set in the place I’m going, or at least reflective of the place.  I’m heading to London and Paris in September, so I’m looking for some good British and French novels!  I have a few ideas, but I thought I’d put the question out there for ideas.

A Tale of Two Cities occurred to me as an obviously appropriate choice, except that reading Dickens requires a bit too much effort for a vacation read.

I know I want to read some Sherlock Holmes.  I have a volume of the Complete Stories, but I haven’t actually read all of them.  I won’t be bringing that particular volume (much too heavy for travel!) but I plan to pick up a book of stories from the library.

I want to read something by Agatha Christie, but I’m not sure what yet.  I’ve never read her and I’ve been meaning to for ages.  She’s one of those authors you hear about, and L. M. Montgomery enjoyed reading her, and she shows up in an episode of Doctor Who!

I plan to re-read The Little White Bird by J. M. Barrie, because it’s set in Kensington Gardens and I’m staying two blocks from the Gardens–deliberately, because I’ve read The Little White Bird before.  It’s all rather circular, really.

But that still leaves me woefully short of books for a two-week trip!  Any suggestions?

The Boy on the Corner

On By cherylmahoneyIn Fiction Friday2 Comments

Unlike last week’s Fiction Friday, this is a stand-alone piece.  Which isn’t to say that it couldn’t have some connection to something larger…anyone care to guess what brought my muse to Paris in the early 1880s?  But no context is necessary to read this story.

********************************************************************************

           When he shut his eyes, he could almost forget he was cold.  February 1882 in Paris, and in all his long experience of nine years the boy couldn’t remember a colder winter.  The wind howled down the street, past the shabby buildings and across the boy’s thin cheek.  He kept his eyes shut and concentrated on the music.

            The violin played in counterpoint to the wind, neither quite strong enough to defeat the other.  The boy ignored the constant trudge of footsteps, the mutter of voices, the whistle of the wind, and tried very, very hard to hear only the music.  He opened his eyes only at the sound of coins clinking together.  He looked down at the violin case open on the ground at his feet, and easily identified the one that had been added.  There weren’t very many coins there.  He looked up to see a tall man wrapped in a long black cloak, hat pulled low over his forehead, casting his face in shadows.

            “Merci, monsieur,” the boy murmured.  His eyes dropped and he continued playing his violin.

            The man didn’t move, and as the moments passed the boy became perplexed.  People stood and listened, once in a while, in warm weather.  In the cold and the dim of a winter twilight people wrapped their coats tight around them and hurried on, heads down, intent on whatever warm fireside was waiting before them.  If they dropped a coin at all it was without stopping, often without even looking, certainly without waiting for the boy’s whispered “merci.”

            The moments slipped past.  The violin music didn’t falter but neither did the man move and finally the boy’s eyes stole up to his face again.

Continue reading “The Boy on the Corner” →