“Oh, let’s walk past, and quite quickly.” “Why? What’s the matter?” The two of them had been trailing around some small shops.
“Well, there’s nothing interesting anyway. Come on.” “But there is. In fact, rather nice things, I think.” She looks away, while he looks more closely.
Then he says: “don’t you like those colourful bottles? I used to have quite a few of those when I was a kid.” “Oh, that’s fine,” she says. Then she peers at them. “Yes, pretty. Very pretty. You want them?” “Nope, not now.” “On would then.”
“So what was your problem?” “Those dolls…eek!”
~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Fiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had woken up very early, for a moment she thought there was a huge fire in the distance, but no, it was a fabulous sunrise, more than gorgeous, it was going to be an excellent day – not dreary at all.
She got up and padded to her little kitchen, ah yes, coffee to brew, as she talked to herself as usual, and then she stared at the calendar on the door; gosh, she muttered, it was already September, as she quickly grabbed her diary to make a note for today.
With her mug in her hand, she went to her writing table, and opened her laptop, but what should she write?
Now she felt that her other red-headed woman could have another spin in Paris, with all her friends, especially those two gargoyles.
She pondered a bit, but she was getting hungry now, best to go to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, she already knew what she would order – it will be two dippy eggs and toast, since she was pretty certain that Tom would be working that shift.
What a wonderful villa, as she smiled to herself. Is it all for me, for a week and a half? But no, just a couple of rooms at the top. Still, that’s fine, as she climbed up the outside steps, while lugging her big bag and her rucksack.
She opened the door, and dumped her stuff on the bed, then flung one of the windows out and looked. Wow and wow… what a vista! This was absolutely perfect. She grinned a lot, but just to herself.
she is a writer and sometimes she’s a poet so what will she do?
~~~
Image credit: Ryan Spencer @ Pexels
This image shows a small villa in a Mediterranean island. There is a light blue gate and we can see stairs going up on the side of the house. Flowering vines can be seen on one side of the gate.
“Why have we got such a bad press? I mean, we are not deliberately cross.” “No indeed. We live in our group, like aunties and uncles, and we are busy and productive.” “We always do many things each day, although fun is not our normal state.” “No, sadly not.” “However, we can be helpful, and actually pleasant as well. Believe me.”
“So, what can we do, we are wondering?” “A challenge?” “Well, we can say that.”
“So let’s make a statement.” “We’re pretty nice, and most of the time.” “You know, we could have a party?” “What a splendid idea!”
~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) was grinning to herself – my word, this place is buzzing, really buzzing, as she entered the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, – there are so many people I know, this is going to be fabulous.
But earlier she’d had such a dithering afternoon, almost a calamity in fact; it started with what she would wear at the Café-and-Bistro later.
She’d opened her wardrobe, and messy it was, as she threw out various things, but what to choose, not that there was much choice, and of course, she didn’t often vary her colours of clothes, her motto being: just black and black, but this was a proper event, so nothing ventured nothing gained, she will wear a flowy and pretty dress, long too.
So that was sorted, as she went to her laptop, opening it up to look at her poetry section, rather vast now, she would have to memorize a couple of those, and that could be a problem.
She wrote three of her most recent poems which she hadn’t yet released, and copied them on some small cards, then she looked to decide which would be best, then the second one for reserve, and finally the last one if required, although she felt it was rather unlikely, still all she needed to do was… practice, practice, practice, and out loud.
La Raconteuse was meeting and greeting, smiling and waving, but the sad news was this, as she held this up – I’ve lost my voice completely, more than hoarse!
It’s so, so dry. Look at the grass, it’s brown. It’s dying or dead. Ridiculous! Actually it’s not just ridiculous, it’s rather worrying. I have never known a summer as scorching as this. Although 1976 was pretty similar. Gosh, that was a long time ago.
The worrying thing now though is this. It’s El Niño effect. And that is going to be brutal. It’s already beginning. There is drought, wildfires and heat waves too. Then on the other side there will be torrential rain with floods.
Now we need to think. Crops, livestock and infrastructure will reduce food production and disrupt markets. As supply falls, prices rise and food becomes less affordable. When combined with existing pressures such as conflict these climate shocks can quickly increase hunger.
so brace, brace and brace many things will be required let us keep alert
“Shall we try that place,” said she. “We could,” said he. So the two of them moved up those rather grand steps. But then they stopped before opening the front door.
“It looks very nice,” she smiled. “It seems pretty posh,” he grinned. They looked at each other for a moment. Then between them they went through the door.
“Gorgeous,” said she. “Perfect,” said he. They both winked together… twice.
“I’ll go this way…” “And I’ll go that way…” They were busy for a little while.
“Okay, that’s enough.” “Indubitably.” So off they went, and quickly. And almost nobody noticed.
~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) dashed down from her apartment (all six floors), then trotted across a couple of roads to get to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro; she was about to enter the establishment, and she was sure she could smell the particular aroma of a cigar… she smiled… a lot.
La Raconteuse scanned around the place; it was quite early, so few people were around, but Mimi and Denise, aka the Bartender, were talking about making lunch.
“A lovely selection of tomatoes, courgettes, carrots and lots of spuds,” grinned Mimi, “and all organic food of course,” – “perfect,’ smiled the Bartender, “you’ll use the carrots to make carrot cake?” – “oh, naturally,” as Mimi went back to the kitchen to organize everything.
La Raconteuse sat on a stool opposite the Bartender and said, “what’s happening just now,” as the Bartender slid a flyer, “look at this.”
“See, it’s going to be a function, right here,” said the Bartender, “where there will be music and lights, and then everything will go dark and then the spot light will come up… it will be a slam poets party… see, look it says here.”
“And I will be the overseer,” said the tall, thin man, as he suddenly appeared from the hallway, “you’ll enjoy this a great deal, won’t you,” as he grinned, “we’re starting a list, all those poetry people, either actually here, or on line… it’ll be next week, oh, and don’t worry, our excellent friend, the Gatekeeper, will be looking after the door.”
luna's on line 