What a life he has, no worries, no consequences. He lives in an apartment, not large, but large enough, and right by the canal.
It seems idyllic, and kind of it is. However, he’s a poet, and today, he can’t find anything to say!
~~~
Image credit:Llia Bronskiy@Unsplash
This image showsa man lying beside a canal in Zurich, Switzerland. His head is cushioned by his bag/ backpack and his arm is covering his eyes. Behind him, a boat can be seen traveling in the canal.
What? It’s coming down? No, surely not. But it is.
Look, over there. See, that thing is not part of that cloud. What? It’s not just that cloud, it’s too dense. Dense? That sounds like you. What? Sorry, just making a joke… ish. More than feeble, but never mind about that. That cloud, is not a cloud; that is something much more interesting. So what?
Well, it’s moving more quickly… and lower now. Oh, but now we can’t see it, since the mountain is in the way. Damn! So what are you thinking? Aliens, and a ship. What? Defo, aliens.
~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Sci-fi Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had looked up and stared, as the tall, thin man removed part of the pelmet and something behind there it as well, as he said to her, ‘please, don’t say anything at all… just wait… and look, it will take only a little while.’
La Raconteuse just managed to not talk for a bit, while some dust floated down as a small part of the strange Room 215 revealed something more than weird, she blinked several times, and then she asked, but very quietly, ‘what on earth is this?’
She had anticipated many things she thought, but not this; ‘my goodness,’ she muttered to herself, ‘I didn’t expect this.’
She had so many emotions, and most odd it seemed for her, she felt she was on a rollercoaster for a while – it was not anger… no that was wrong, but there was an element of fight or flight, but why… this very short man surely shouldn’t worry her, but clearly it did.
La Raconteuse glanced from the small mechanical machine to the tall, thin man; she moved from the table by the fireplace as she walked rather quickly to stand very close to him, while looking up, she said: ‘what are we going to do with this, this… this… person.’
However, something else caught her attention, and it seemed that someone was almost to the door outside, she started to smile since it would surely be another Proprietor or, at least, a good friend.
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.
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