The cafe where we use to sit,
On special days candles were lit,
On normal days conversations,
Lasted upon hours of contemplation.

Where we ordered a different coffee
Every day in the week, with sweet toffee
Caramels, pastries, chocolate and cakes,
Each with a distinguished tastes and makes.

Where we looked upon passers by,
Where strong friendships made strong ties,
Where we caught each other’s glance
And smile without a hesitance.

Where we laughed, talked, debated,
Argued and then made up,
With a sweet cup of coffee,
And an indulging desert.

Where we always met,
With the perfect table set,
Where we were together,
And made the promise to
Forever stay with each other.

Where now only I sit alone wishing,
23rd of April happened, just wishing
The bad driver never ran you out of my life,
A widowed wife.

In the cafe where we use to sit,
I order for you and hope
Somebody out there, might enjoy
The time we spent,
In the cafe where we use to sit.

Jamie pulled the bow taunt, and held it there. Then he released. The sky was ebony with black arrows. Thousands of arrows multiplied the single sound of the wind whispering through the delicate goose feathers. It sounded like a thousand spirits a-whispering on that cold dark morning.
Then the first arrow struck.
A mournful cry echoed around the valley. Screams froze Jamie’s blood. He had killed his first person.
Again and again, Jamie shot arrows for the English. He tried to hit as many French as he could. But he was running out of arrows, he’d have to go down to the battle ground soon. “Please Lord,” he prayed, “let me live.” He repeated that prayer the whole way down to the battleground.

He made down to where most of his arrows had fallen. Still unconsciously repeating his prayer, he picked up an arrow… And as he reached down, he met his old French enemy.

“Please protect me lord.” Jamie muttered.

But it seemed that the Lord was rather hard of hearing at that moment. Jamie reached for his dagger, but his enemy slashed across his leg. Blood poured out of it. Jamie couldn’t stand. He collapsed.

He couldn’t sustain his own weight, so Jamie was forced to kneel. He glared down at his missing finger; the reason Michael Johnson was his worst enemy.
“Fancy seeing you ‘ear” drawled Johnson, his thick French accent clouding his perfect English.
Jamie said nothing, paralysed with fear.
“Goodbye,” Johnson smiled, and swung his sword down, towards Jamie’s heart. Down, Jamie looked round, down, saw a shield, down, grabbed it, down, defended himself. Rolled out the way, and ran. To safety. He was now safe.