Paris Stories

My name is James Briggs, and I have a story to tell. My life was changed forever by a set of carefully chosen words, spoken in a carefully chosen manner. Those profound words were to influence the path I chose. In life, we all make choices; some of these are wiser than others. Only with the vision of hindsight do we know which was which. My story begins after I left university. Actually, I couldn’t wait to leave universit...

The early 1800s... This time, I settled in Paris, adopting the French derivative of my name — Vincent. With its dense population, narrow streets, and dark crevices, Paris suited my needs perfectly, allowing one such as myself a myriad of places to lurk during these unsettled times. I had grown bored of occupying my time with philosophy and the arts of the Renaissance centuries before. And being what I was, proper affectio...

It had started inauspiciously, much as any other day. But that sharp, cold, Thursday morning was one that would shape history. Both political and religious history. It would be wrong to say that it 'changed' history, as history is an eternally changing story. History itself cannot be changed - only the telling of it.Not a single member of the congregation of The Church of Our Lady who arrived that November morning had any...

Finding myself waking at the break of day to a coffee scented morning here in Paris, and propping myself up on an elbow under that red comforter as I look around and breathe in that rich coffee smell. And thinking of what was seen in the dreaming as I attempt to shake off the dark colours of the previous night’s dreams, as I stare at the dust mote filled patches of the sun’s dark light as it illuminates the books lying th...

“Tony, there’s a fire!” Scout yelled as loud as he could. He could see the smoke rising from the streets of Paris, a glittering mirage of smoky auras that clouded his view. “Oui, I am coming!” Tony screamed. Scout pulled on his hat. This looked like a massive fire. Even bigger than the one he’d put out in London once. That London fire, well, nobody could smoke like the British, and neither could their houses. He could hav...

"Mademoiselle, I cannot begin to express my pleasure at meeting you," he said softly. He was not lying. For three - nay, four - years he had waited to meet the fair lady who graced the small café down the street from his house. She came in, all slender features and soft angles, and ordered the same cup of coffee and pastry every day. He could have recited her order by heart, had he wished. Somehow, he never worked up the...

Paris. Walking down the Champs Elyse Parisian women skinny, elegant, stylish. I wear a cotton shift fine for working in the vineyard not for this sophisticated dance. Boyfriend’s cousins thin and whispy, strangers sitting on furniture; antique, dingy walls and creaky lift. Why am I in this bleak apartment? Eating etiquette outmoded; table manners extreme, many forks and knives to choose from. I am a stranger to this artif...