Writing on the Roof

A short story with poetry

The night was only a little cool, and the threat of rain was of little concern to Amelie, who was safe under her umbrella. The dark clouds remained aloof in the western night sky. So, she sat upon the slanty roof with her notebook of dreams and whimsies, dressed for the evening in her loveliest red dress. She waited for her Dante, her raven-haired lover, her life’s blood, to come to her and call to her from the street below.

In the meantime, she wrote small stories and little poems… considering now the one she just wrote.

Waiting on the Roof

Night often found her among the gables, in lofty seclusion outside her window. Tonight, she enjoyed the night-quiet cool under bright stars and a brighter-horned moon.

Perched daintily on the slanty rooftop, in her prettiest red dinner dress, she befriended the nightly ravens, teaching them words in French. This evening was to be a special one, so she was ready to sit for hours waiting, thinking, watching the street, writing, and talking loudly, but sweetly, to herself.

Her dearest love was ever tardy, the night still early for his usual lateness, so she could make her haste slowly, thinking warmly of him until the rains.

“I suppose I am a bit mad,” Amelie said to herself after reading her own words.

“I am on the roof, after all. And I do talk to myself,” she added, “and to the ravens. But acting a little mad… and thinking you’re mad… may be better than being mad and not thinking it. Perhaps I should write a poem about madness and give it to my lovely, ever-patient mother.”

“You should find a nice man. Settle down. Have babies.” Her mother often said such things, as well as describing, in excessive detail, the other ways in which she should pursue happiness. These usually involved cooking and cleaning and standing with books on one’s head (rather than reading them) and squeezing one’s feet into very tiny shoes, and many other of her Mama’s “girlifying” activities.

“I’m only 18, Mama. There’s time to start a family. Finding men is not a problem… nor is having babies. Finding a man without finding myself…. that is more the problem, no?”

This is how she often replied to Mama, which led to obvious replies and questions from her, like “What is this finding yourself? You’re right here,” “Once you have babies, you’ll see,” and “Don’t you think you’re wasting your time with that…. Dante?”

So, Amelie liked the roof, the basement, and the crawl space behind her closet, even hiding behind the couch while her mother watched television. The roof of the building was always her favorite, though, a place where she could think, where nobody else ever saw her.

Who looks up? Except for her Dante.

She peered over the edge of the roof, down to the street below, four stories down. No Dante yet. She sighed. Stories, she thought. I’m sure there are many stories below me, right down to the street.

She saw Mr. Moulin walk past, far below, presumably just now leaving the building.

He walks like he is not in a hurry, yet he seems to be in a hurry and looking at his watch. Perhaps he’s looking for himself as I do, or maybe he goes for a rendezvous with a lover.

Hmmmm, he is bearded, and somewhat unpleasant, and very old … probably at least forty … but there would be a lover for him, would there not? Or … his obsessive interest in his chameleons may conceal something nefarious….

Images alighted and danced in her head, and she began writing.

Monsieur Moulin

A phantom, outcast by suspicion, he lived the artifice of a quiet life, a teacher of ancient history, a scholar little noticed by the world.

In his evenings of frustration and rage, he lived among Whispers of Chameleons, his beloved cold-blooded children. In his plotting mind, ever twisting, he saw a dark world taken by reptiles.

His children loved his fiery rhetoric and rhythmic torrents of prophecy that sent them roaming invisibly the streets. To the awe of his concealed deadly army, his perceptive eyes penetrated their disguises, for he could only see in black & white.

Soon, Amelie saw her neighbor Annette quickly stepping down the street, dressed for her regular evening ballet class. She was pretty, petite, with her hair in a careful bun, and she carried an umbrella that matched her blue dress.

“Certainly not a cover for a clandestine rendezvous with Monsieur Moulin,” she laughed.

But I see a sadness in her, every time we speak. Maybe she needs to find herself, too. Would she rather be a scientist? An astronaut? Plump and lazy sitting on the couch?

Or maybe, in desperate unhappiness, she seeks some sort of escape.

Catharsis in the Rain

The stage couldn’t contain her sorrow, so she danced sad poetry on shining streets in the rain. She spoke of unhappy reflection in her slow, elegant pirouettes & rage in her powerful Grande Jetés, but acceptance came in a gentle plié & hope in her reaching arabesques.

Old man Beaufort now walked on the sidewalk below, apparently coming home after an early evening at the bar, a little unsteady on his feet. His cap was a little askew on his head.

He’s a nice man, Amelie thought. She sometimes talked to him in the lobby, when he asked her to help with his mailbox. She always gave him a sweet peck on the cheek after helping, just to see the sparkle come to his eyes.

Does he have friends? or has he outlived everyone of importance in his life? Such thoughts gave her pause. Perhaps Mama just wants to make sure I create a life that will sustain me when I get old.

She imagined what he may have lost, whose memories he carried attached to the worn wedding ring on his finger.

What would he dream?

A Heart’s Dreaming

In the quietude of failing health, when graced by dreamful sleep, the ocean took him, again young, to the rocky shore they once knew, to a pageantry of sea and sky where he could welcome his lost love. Formed of seething, splashing surf, she crashed into his embrace, bringing salty kisses from ardent lips.

Amelie heard the gable window of her room slide open, and Dante slowly and carefully stepped out onto the treacherous slanted roof, eyeing warily the street far below. He smiled brightly at her in his black suit, with white shirt and blue tie, matching his raven hair, his blue eyes.

He was late, very late, but she didn’t mind. His work often delayed him.

“How do you not fall to your death up here? And wearing heels?” he asked as he slowly moved across the slippery roof tiles to sit next to her. He leaned close to kiss, slowly, her red lips. She didn’t really want to stop, but she gently pushed him away.

“More importantly, how did you survive Mama’s questions to come up here?” Amelie laughed at the thought, imagining many clever stories of what may have happened inside the apartment.

“She wants me to marry you,” he said. “I was going to wait until dinner… but this is a much more special place for you.” He took a small velvet box from his jacket and opened it to reveal a ring of gold and sparkling diamonds. “Will you marry me, Amelie? Will you make me happy for the rest of my life?”

Amelie kissed Dante softly, passionately.

“No to the first question, love. Not yet. And yes to the second one. But, please, love, you should continue to ask, as you have done so many times.”

Amelie paused a moment, looking sadly at Dante, who smiled. “It is very beautiful,” she said, kissing him again.

Amelie smiled, and Dante sighed as she settled into his warm arms. It began to rain, lightly, persistently, upon Amelie’s umbrella and upon their legs, but they didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Thank you for reading our story and poems.

Here are some of our other poems posted here on Medium and some background on our writing approach.