Desperately don’t want to go there. Horrid, really horrid. Actually, pure hell. No really. These things are more than scary. Nope. Not going there. Once was enough. So… So… I’ll say nothing. Definitely not.
My mind is made up. And why not? It’s my choice. Just my decision. No-one else. Got that? I’m looking at you… and you… and anyone around here. It’s not going to happen. There’s no mystery. It’s not that. Sleight of hand? It sounds like a magician, perhaps? But no. Not that. That would be daft. ..
..
No. It’s those mannequins. I’d run a mile from them!
~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
‘Well, it’s certainly a door, and it seems to be real, but I don’t remember seeing it before, it could be perplexing, but it’s bound to have some interest,’ as the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse), continue to talk to herself, as she muttered to say, ‘only one way to find out,’ as she grabbed the doorhandle.
The door opened rather easily, which was a blessing, and at least there was some light outside, since there was a window, in fact several windows; she’d pressed her finger on the light switch, but nothing, oh well, still down.
She was about to walked to one of the windows, but then she noticed a handy shelf, it had several candles and even better, a gorgeous candelabra – it was very posh – so she lightered all of those candles with a couple of matchers, ‘now this is looking interesting.’
She could use her affectation of candour, and often she would, but this was definitely not needed in this case, because there were so many wonderful objects in all those shelves around the room; all these things were amazing, and all of them were steampunk related: mostly it was art and sculpture, but all in miniature, or at least, small.
So, la Raconteuse began to look at each object, she was particularly drawn to a clockwork clock sculpture, more than beautiful.
She happened to look outside and down; she could see a taxi and a cabbie was waving to her, and rather urgently it seemed.
Shall we smile? but of course! we’re happy and almost always.
We’re like peas in a pot, and we love buttercups, so pretty!
We’re not off our heads, since that’s rather rude.
We’re still happy, because we’re pencils what a lovely life we have!
~~~
Image credit:Nik@Unsplash
This image shows a few yellow smiley face badges in green grass. Some of them are deliberately out of focus- giving an impression of a yellow aura to the smiles.
‘What fun,’ grinned one of the boys. ‘Yes indeed,’ said the other one, ‘especially since we hopped on a bus, then we got out by this river in the Norfolk Broads.’ ‘We have brought some sandwiches and we are wearing our wellies.’ ‘And we have some fishing tackle, and we might even catch a couple of fishes.’
The two boys walked purposely. ‘It’s a bit deep by those reeds, and that’s going to be rather tricky,’ as one of them remarked. But a moment later they heard an interesting sound. ‘Ooh, it’s a chug-chug-chug noise, and it’s getting closer.’ And very soon a cabin cruiser appeared.
‘Do you want to hop over here on the next bend?’ shouted an old guy on the boat. ‘I’m sure both of you will enjoy this.’
And so they did. The two boys didn’t manage to catch a fish, but it was still fun.
Okay, time to get rid of all this stuff, as she smiled to herself. All this waste of nonsense, it’s got to go, and soon, very soon. She began to move things around. Aha, there’s a big box here, and another big box there, plus many, many cartons. There are even in those darkest areas, there are some old tea chests. She’s determined not to open any of those. Really? Yep, she’s focused. Should she have a little poke inside? No. Don’t even think about that. No… and no. Hmm. Shall she do this for another day? Yep, that’s fine.
~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
‘Well, that’s a pickle,’ muttered the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) as she peer down to the stairwell from the roof, it appeared that all those light bulbs had blown, or maybe just that particular fuse had gone, which was more likely, as she continued to peer down.
Surely someone would flick that fuse up again, as la Raconteuse pulled out her smartphone, she felt either Tom or the Bartender would not pay scant attention to sort that out and soon.
Meanwhile, la Raconteuse grinned since she’d been reading using the app for Kindle on her phone, it was an excellent quirky novel, with a genre known as steampunk, she might continue to read, but it was getting rather cold by the flat roof and the moon was up now.
So she clicked her torch on the phone, then began to walk down the narrow stairs; she was hoping that she wouldn’t fall again since she had scarred one of her knees rather badly, although at least that scab had almost gone now.
She suddenly stopped by the nearest landing as her smartphone started to ping; ‘what’s this, I wonder,’ as she talked to herself out loud, ‘it’s a ping and another ping, surely this must be a scam,’ as she tried to work out what it said.
She stared around the darkness, then looked at her phone again, it said: how can it tell me to open a door, when I didn’t know there was a door here before?
Look at these, aren’t they awesome, so very cool, such lovely colours.
Repurposed, and so clever, who would’ve thought to do this, and so well.
So gay, since spring has sprung, there’re daffodils, tulips and pretty pansies.
Aren’t we lucky to be in Amsterdam!
~~~
Image credit:Chris Weiher@Unsplash
This is a shot of a wall. At the bottom, a metal tub sits, full of colorful flowers growing in it. On the wall, there are five shoes nailed and in three of them, flowers are stuck in them- all of them are yellow. There are two red shoes placed higher than the yellow ones and those are empty.
‘That’s a puzzle,’ said the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) as she continued to stare at that large book about gardening, ‘it says we need several different types of veggies but we need to be careful since some of them wouldn’t be happy together.’
‘Good grief, I didn’t know all of those things,’ as la Raconteuse continued to talk out loud, ‘toms don’t like spuds, fancy that; this great book is a mine of knowledge, isn’t it… so glad it came in that big cardboard box with all those other things.’
‘But, sorry I’m hogging this book, although you, Tom, you are reading the other new one, the one about gourmet food, and that looks also interesting,’ as la Raconteuse peered at the other one for a bit.
‘Gosh, that one looks even better, miles better in fact, and all those beautiful photos… ooh, lovely salads on this chapter, with different edible flowers; look, there are nasturtiums, pansies, pot marigolds and borage; hmm, the only one I would know is that last one – borage flowers – good for gin and tonic,’ as she giggled.
‘Listen,’ said Tom, ‘shall we go up to the flat roof to see how things are doing; I’ve already put out those bags of top soil and compost,’ – ‘oh yes, sounds good.’
So, la Raconteuse headed out to those new raised beds, and good there were, but the first thing she said was this: ‘it’s hardly a mortal enemy, it’s just a slug, but it’s huge… ugh.’
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