William Bereza on Unsplash

The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been busy tidying up around her little apartment, not something she did very often, but needs must, although after more than two hours she was beginning to flag.

Still, it was definitely worth it, especially her lovely table where she writes; it was mostly for working on her laptop, but she often printed things out for prudence sake, one wouldn’t want to lose in that way after all, as she shuddered for a moment.

Now everything was in order, she had pruned all those unnecessary pieces of A4 paper, and the useful ones she had used her paper hole puncher to put them into several binders, as she smiled to herself being pleased with what she had done.

Her vintage Velos lightning-perforator two hole puncher which she’d used it in the office when she worked there (and then nicked it on that last day), now she tried to pinch it open carefully, but it seemed to be stuck, but then, of course, it sprung open and all those tiny round paper bits, almost like confetti, dropped all around the table and floor.

More than irritating as she glared at the once clean and sparkling area, as she trudged to the kitchen cupboard.

But then she had a thought as she looked outside, it was such a lovely spring day; she should go out and have a quick walk over to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, since that would be the perfect coffee to drink just now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

More #SixSentenceStories

Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

‘Odd,’ said Joan, ‘we haven’t seen our lovely friend, the red-headed woman, for several days, have we?’ – ‘no indeed,’ as Scatty looked up for a moment, as she laid down all her cards, and shouted, ‘Rummy!’ as she grinned happily, ‘all out, again,’ as she gathered the cards together, then began to shuffle them again.

Meanwhile, on the next table, Francis and The Old One were concentrating playing poker, while outside, Mr Cushing was busy cleaning his gorgeous limousine, he had just finished polishing the car, when he looked up to see the red-headed woman standing near him.

‘Fancy a drive, my dear?’ said Mr Cushing, ‘I think I know where you want to go,’ as he stared at her, while she gripped her bag more tightly, then nodded.

‘Can I come too?’ as The Old One appeared outside, ‘I lost again, poker is not my strong suit you see, my pride has been injured yet again, but never mind, it seems we have a job to do.’

So off they went, the three of them, it was such a lovely day, and soon they arrived at that particular farm, and even from there, they could all see the poor farmer was clearly still brooding over life’s injustices, well wouldn’t he?

The red-headed woman jumped out, trotting to the farmer, the two of them began to walk in step together; then they popped inside the farm house, then a moment later, the red-headed woman appeared again, and said, ‘all done.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

The two gargoyles, who were still on that belfry, while on they smartphones, they relayed a message from Reena, to the red-headed woman and Monsieur Bourbon; it was all about the diamonds – so many useful facts continued to flow – as the red-headed woman and Monsieur looked rather amazed, as they read what Reena said.

The two gargoyles shut their phones then put them in their satchels, they had already ditched their hats and coats, and as the red-headed woman looked up, the two gargoyles were about to fly off, as both of them gave a little wave to her.

She wondered where they were going, since it seemed that they were no longer interested about those gems; all that effort, and nothing now, as the red-headed woman grimaced.

‘Well,’ said Monsieur Bourbon, ‘the brutal truth is those synthetic diamonds are not very valuable, or at least what I thought that very clever lady, called Reena, had explained, is that right?’

‘Indeed, it seems so,’ as the red-headed woman had managed to grasp much of what Reena said, as she read again while scrolling down and back again, then she looked to Monsieur Bourbon, as she said, ‘the blunt truth is there’s no point to keep those gems,’ as she put her phone down then pushed her knuckles on her jaw.

‘So what should I do,’ she muttered to herself; then she said, ‘okay, this is the best idea, I’ll give back those stupid diamonds to the farmer, I guess.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~