just a tiny bird but so beautiful, so cute bright yellow feathers are more than brilliant, just fab and she knows that doesn’t she.
“A bird does not sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”
hey there little one what can you see right up there? maybe there’s a mate is it? really? that is great but you’re off, ah well, see you!
— Maya Angelou
~~~
Image credit:Mark Olsen@Unsplash
This image showsa Yellow Warbler singing from a sunlit branch during spring migration at Magee Marsh Wildlife Area on the southern shore of Lake Erie, Ohio.
‘What’s this?’ ‘Bizarre.’ The two boys had just stopped by one of the shops.
‘I don’t remember seeing this.’ ‘Me neither.’ ‘But what is in this window anyway?’
Then one of them looked up to see the sign. ‘It says that this is a barber’s shop, but it seems, well, odd.’
The shop door opened with a happy ding-dong bell, as a large jolly man waved some scissors at them. ‘Want to do you’re short back and sides then, young boys?’
The two of them grin, then one of them said. ‘It was only last week, so no thank you.’ Then the other one said. ‘Please can we see what’s in the window?’ ‘Do come in. You’ll like this!’
‘See, they should sing but not until the fourth one is back. Just a little crack to make him better. Then it’ll be a barbershop quartet, and that will be lovely.’
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had heard the noise outside the room, and a moment laterthe tall, thin man had opened the door, she grinned happily – such a good friend, although he seemed rather keen to make the move to another part of that room.
The tall, thin man suggested that she should sit down near that rather splendid yet small black marble fireplace, she concurred since she felt no qualms, in fact she was rather glad to sit there and start an interesting conversation.
La Raconteuse related so many wonderful things in those shelves as she wittered and wittered on, she took a breath, and then she said: ‘we do like to talk don’t we… we’re both able to make many quick quips and clever remarks, and even witticisms and retorts, yes?’
But the tall, thin man had been thinking other things by now, as he thought about options, and particularly on those excellent shelves – all those clockwork machines and stuff… more than useful, he thought.
Now, the red-headed writer suddenly stopped talking… at least for a moment: ‘oh gosh, sorry, I’ve been rabbiting on, as usual, you said something about options, you mean we would put some of those things down by the bar and the walls, would that be fine?’
The two of them glanced around the room, ‘sounds like a plan,’ she said, ‘I bet loads of people would want to see them, in fact, they might even be a queue around the block!’
Snow in June? Surely not, as she peered from her window. No, it can’t be snow, it doesn’t look right. As she moved closer, almost sticking her nose on the windowpane.
Clouds on the ground? Most odd, since the sky all around is bright blue. She would even call that sky cerulean, such a pretty name. So those clouds can’t be clouds, but what in the world are they?
So she opened her door. Bizarrely the ground was made of candy and bubble-gum. And she was now holding some flowers.
She must be dreaming… surely. Ah well, back to bed!
~~~
Image credit:Mehrab Sium@Unsplash
This image showsan open door from which a hand extends holding a bouquet of pinkish white flowers. This image is superimposed on an image of a cloudy sky, giving the impression that the wall with the door is resting on the clouds.
The two of them would continue to stay there all the time. They’re very close to the lovely lake, such a good idea. Pretty, too.
Maybe they are thinking. About what? Well, anything. Or maybe nothing. So, which? I’d say… and again It’s what? Reminiscing. You think so? I do.
Pretty, aren’t they. Of course. Those excellent chairs. Oh yes, bright pink. Pink? I thought it was more mauve? Really? I’d say so. Okay, not a problem.
Anything else we should say? Anything meaningful? No. Let’s just scatter them down there. Now, enough, let’s go.
~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Hysterical Fiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) continued to peer down at the street, she was ninety per cent sure that it was the Gatekeeper who had just walked from the taxi; she grinned since she was pretty certain that he would be more than interested about all these tiny steampunk treasures in this room.
Meanwhile, la Raconteuse moved to the next group of objects by the window, as she got closer to this extraordinary tableau, it was amazing – such detail, as she stared around all the little people; but these were not people, no, these were animals and birds.
It was a delightful scene: there was a square in the middle with some shops, a town hall and a church, and just on the edge of the table there was a small button to press, and so she did.
Everything them began to move – as she smiled with glee; she could see a little group of mice who were by the church, the bride was there, but where was the groom… but then that naughty mouse dropped his top hat, and legged it; jilted she was, that tiny mouse, as she flung the bouquet away, then a little bird, a jenny wren, began to sing.
This was more than wonderful, as she pressed the clockwork machine again – such a lovely thing, as she thought to herself.
But she suddenly jerked her head as she could hear a noise beyond the room; she quickly stood up and moved to the door.
luna's on line 