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‘Well this is a bit of a pickle,’ muttered the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) as she squeeze between Mimi and Tom on the chaise-longue; a moment later they all needed to stand up, rearrange the pretty throw, since the chaise-longue had had better days, and was rather coarse to sit on it without it’s throw.

It seemed there was going to be some kind of announcement, although no-one seemed particularly interested to move any kind of motion; there was some hint between Ms Strome’s and… what was his name..? – la Raconteuse closed her eyes, trying to remember his name, as she cursed herself.

She opened her eyes, ‘it’s not helping,’ while Tom grinned back at her – ‘you know what I am going to say,’ – ‘hmm, what?’ – ‘at least it’s bigger on the inside than on the outside… you know, like Doctor Who,’ as Tom giggled; la Raconteuse rolled her eyes.

She looked across the room where the Gatekeeper was standing with one elbow on the mantelpiece; she caught his eye, making a quick gesture – nothing more required since they had known each other for long enough.

Moving on, whilst crossing her legs and clasping her knuckles, she looked up to the tall, thin man who was perched on the handsome desk; he glanced around the room as everyone turned to him and stopped talking.

La Raconteuse thought to herself, there would be several options, she was sure, but what course might she take? – and what would he utter?

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‘Well, that when down like a lead balloon – a total flop… even some heckling, but that’s life,’ as the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) shrugged her shoulders, ‘no point in whimpering,’ as she muttered while jumping down from the stage.

‘Too radical,’ she thought, as she made her way to the bar, at least there’s a cabaret on next, and the tall, thin man altered the lights and turned up the volume; as La Raconteuse watched him go across the room and beckoned several people, including herself.

La Raconteuse leaned over to grab her big bag while still watching what was occurring; she’d already filled her pretty water flask which had animals around the outside, as she took a swig; she was in a quandary, should she reveal who wrote that note since that person was here?

La Raconteuse met the Gatekeeper just before entering the Manager’s Office, they stood for a moment as he showed her a new logo on his smartphone; ‘oh that’s perfect,’ she said, ‘we can definitely use that in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, just love it,’ as she grinned up to him.

However, she’d a little chill in her bones: the seasons were changing – fall in the northern hemisphere and spring in the south – maybe she’ll go somewhere… and maybe soon.

She looked around, should she reveal, or should she let it lie for the moment waiting to see more, as all of them crammed into that Manager’s Office, as the tall, thin man closed the door.

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) grinned for a moment, as she stepped up to the microphone, ‘Okay, can you all hear me?’ while she tilted the microphone a little higher, ‘ah, that’s better, now you can hear me, I’m sure,’ she was also talking rather loudly too.

La Raconteuse looked around as the tall, thin man had dimmed the lights, leaving only the spotlight on her; she smiled happily while scanning the room, with a quick wink for several people, ‘such a perfect place to do this,’ she beamed, ‘since this is the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro.’

She continued, ‘but please don’t worry, I’m not going to sing… certainly not – who did you think I was..? but I had a thought, don’t think this is a goofy idea, nor something laughable, you see it occurred to me, some of us (and that includes me) we’re quite literary writers – are we thinking thoughts already?’

La Raconteuse looked around ones more, while she pulled out a couple of pages from her jacket pocket and her glasses.

Meanwhile a few people began to talk around their tables, including several of the Proprietors.

Before the animated conversations continued anymore, la Raconteuse started to talk again from her spotlight, where she was waving her notes – ‘my time just now,’ as she grinned, ‘I have a new poem, and I have written this only yesterday, there’s no sobbing with this, it’s a little ditty, and I will tear each section as I read them – well, why not?’

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