She had been staring for some time. She’d been cradling a large brandy glass, and it still wasn’t empty, it was warm and mellow, like she could’ve had a small cigar in the past. But that was long ago, it was so different then.
She watched the young things, who were dancing in the moonlight. She began reminiscing – so many ideas and plans, but nothing was real.
She put down her glass, as she took something out. She fiddled with it, and put it back again. Nothing worked.
She stood up, and walked away. But no one saw her.
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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been pondering since she still couldn’t fathom who had written that strange note; it was indelibly etched in her brain, and she had shoved it in her big bag while she’d thought about something else for a bit.
She was very much happier since the whole crowd – meaning the Proprietors – were all back, plus a couple of others who had joined as well; they were all pretty busy, even though some of them had been doing certain nefarious things, well, she at least thought so.
La Raconteuse stretched for a moment then moved over to the bar; she craned over to watch Mimi and Tom who were parading their new aprons – they had found them on their pegs on the back of the door in the kitchen.
Denise, the Bartender, explained: ‘I’d wondered what would look good on those aprons since there are so many symbols around everywhere; I’d thought maybe a dove, or maybe a heart, but then, of course,’ as she grinned, ‘here it’s on the floor.’
‘Ah yes, we all know that place don’t we,’ as la Raconteuse smiled, ‘what a perfect idea.’
She turned around and looked up where the Gatekeeper was back in his usual spot – he’d returned to the front entrance, as he was lighting his cigar; the red-head writer dropped down from the bar, as she ran up to talk to him, she hugged him and said: ‘we will never forget what you wrote there.’
I’m looking down, in this interesting place, I haven’t been there before.
It’s very beautiful, and such a lovely day, I’ve always liked France.
I’ve been over the sea, but the warm land is even better.
I’m a seagull is there any food here?
~~~
Image credit: Eugenia Pankiv @Unsplash
This image showsthe rooftop of a building, with turrets and a sloping roof! There are different birds sitting on the roof, including a seagull. There are bird droppings all over the turret, chimney, and the roof.
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had just sat down in her usual booth, all seemed fine, as she started to open her laptop, as she glanced over to the bar where her usual suspects (meaning the Proprietors) – although of course they were not usual suspects at all.
However, she had realised that there were a couple of people around now who she felt were big time hoodlums – like Lou and Rosetta, still they were pretty cool and clearly well-bred and ‘interesting’, and for that she was fine about it.
Then she saw a written note inside her laptop, and that was weird: who had written that? – she didn’t recognise the writing, and why did it say – ‘this is very misleading, isn’t it’; she stared around for a bit, but the only thing she was sure, was that someone had been sitting here just before.
There was no signature, and just six words, how can that help, she wondered; but never worry about that for the moment: time to write!
She had been doing some poetry earlier; it was a good exercise to take more than one meaning; she’d used ‘witch’ and ‘which’, but what next – ‘rose’ or a pretty ‘rose’; but meanwhile, she was also writing a tiny story, one which only used 100 words.
But now she was thinking about food – some nice bread and a lovely moist and rare steak; and suddenly she giggled out loud, that was a perfect word for this… ‘stake’ (poor vampire).
Pitter patter raindrops, as I’m looking outside, while that pretty bench continued to drip, drip.
I’m tempted to go out, since it was not cold, in fact, it was rather warm, so why not do so?
I grabbed my umbrella, and then ran outside, I danced across that pretty bench and what fun I had.
~~~
Image credit: Richard Stachmann @Unsplash
This image showsthe view of a white wooden bench through a fog stained window. There are trees and green grass behind the bench. There is evidence of rain!
I’ve always liked graves. Admittedly I’d only go in the daytime. But I’d be there from morning to evening, since I was a writer and it was such a peaceful place.
I’d write small stories, but they would be fun (mostly), while using my notebook and a couple of pencils. Nothing fancy like a laptop – not invented then.
But then I found that the darkness was even better. I’d fallen asleep and something had changed. After that it seemed that something else was required. But never mind about that.
Just have a look – my little fangs are so pretty!
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Thanks to Rochelle for hostingFriday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
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