Hemingway’s Royal typewriter in Key West, Florida

previously

The red-head woman (the fictional one) had pulled away from a spider web as she stood up inside the Hemingway House.

The Gatekeeper had been standing a little way away as he continued to smoke a rather nice Cuban cigar; he had been wondering whether he could get into deep water with this one as he hardly knew her – of course he knew the Raconteuse very well and they got on brilliantly, but that other one is very different, still why not – it could be fun.

The red-head woman had already opened the back door and leaned out to see him – ‘come on, let’s go up to the library’ – they looked inside, and there was Ernest Hemingway who was sitting at the typewriter, they looked at each other and back again; then the great man stood up and looked out, as he lit a cigarette and then walked straight through them –a ghost??

The Gatekeeper’s smartphone started ringing; it was the tall, thin man and he shouted at both of them: ‘get out quickly – it doesn’t matter why, just go’ – and then they heard several sirens coming closer as the house was lit up.

The two of them ran down and out, as the red-head woman said – ‘just go, I can deal with this’ – as the Gatekeeper decided to agree.

She began to shout: ‘I’m fine, just cross, actually livid… more than that I’m outraged – oh, doesn’t matter, look, Scatty‘s just appeared – I’ll hop behind her broomstick, and we will fly away (tallyho).

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Hemingway’s Royal typewriter in Key West, Florida

previously

Now this is the red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, who had been reading on the long train more than two weeks ago; but now she had written a lovely review about Elizabeth Gauffreau called: Simple Pleasures: Haiku from the Place Just Right, it had super photos with each poem – it was wonderful.

She had been looking over the Hemingway House, just round the corner where she was staying at the rather nice villa where there was a maid and a cleaner (how posh); she had lingered around the library, particularly the old typewriter and the chaise-longue – she would have loved to sit by the great man… but at least she had met several six-toed cats; meanwhile she carried a book: Hemingway’s Boat by Paul Hendrickson (she had almost finished it).

For lunch she had had a gorgeous waiter, who had been helpful as she ordered some delightful crayfish (almost as good as Mimi’s) and also a large slice of Key lime pie (she should mention that to the Bartender next time too).

Then she wandered down to the beach to sit and read her Kindle; she’d read it before, it’s called One Day I Was by Joe Leonardi.

The Raconteuse had fallen asleep but the red-head woman was ready to work.

It was night and Hemingway House was locked, but the Gatekeeper helped her to climb up and over the railings; she quickly broke a small panel of glass on one of the bottom windows and then she was through.

next episode

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Christopher Osten on Unsplash

previously

The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, had enjoyed Miami, although she had know that she should not venture into certain districts, since both the tall, thin man and the Bartender had warned her not to go there; but in any case, she was already going to Key West now.

However, she was still annoyed since she had been using her smartphone as she’d been reading and answering on Jetpack – they’re too many spam stuck under the radar, she muttered – see look, here’s D. and Reena, both in the SSS each week, and also two of my good friends, Aladin and Gary from WP (grrr).

Next she’d opened Facebook where she always looked at some lovely cats – there’s Misty with Dave Astor and Luna with Chris Hall (both of them are also WP people); she’d wondered whether the two cats might like each other (probably not), it was more likely at least one of them (meaning Luna) would open their claws… not good (moving quickly on).

But now it was time for the red-headed writer to grab her big bag and get off the bus; she was suddenly feeling famished but there was a nice café, and a few minutes later she was eating a hunk of bread and dunking it into her chunky soup.

She looked up… and then around… all these guys have beards, and all of them looked like Ernest Hemingway – really!

All she needed now was the Gatekeeper – was that him? she could smell the cigar just then.

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 Janne Simoes on Unsplash

previously

The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, was on a lovely train; she had her big bag, which was bulging, and she had lots of things to do.

She had been reading and writing, and then looking and looking again, as she watched the miles clock up; she had gone from NYC to NJ, Pennsylvania and then to Virginia; she stood up – it must be time for dinner, as she went into the dining car.

It was late as the red-headed writer opened her secret lining in her bag, this was what she’d taken in the Six-Sentence-Cafe-and-Bistro under the bar; the tall, thin man had given a nod as she quickly pocket it: it had been there for ages – and now she had been looking at this again – would it be time to use it?

It had been a long trip, even though it was so pleasant, but she felt a bit wrecked as she sat up; she went into the tiny bathroom to comb her hair, then made it spiky again, next she squirted some toothpaste onto her toothbrush and begin to clean her teeth, brushing with her incisors, canines and molars, as the train went clickety-click, clickety-click.

There were only a few miles left now and she packed her things back, carefully.

She was now feeling good as she got off the train; it was so busy with people rushing around, but after all, it was Miami; she could almost see Crockett and Tubbs holding up their guns.

next episode

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