‘Wow! What a sculpture.’ ‘Do you like it?’ ‘Very much so.’
‘Is it made in bronze or copper, perhaps?’ He peered even closer. ‘Hold on. Are they real ones? I mean, real guitars?’ ‘Sure.’ ‘But how did you do it?’ The guy… the artist, shrugged his shoulders. ‘But, will you tell me… or is it a secret?’ ‘Well, basically just lots of paint.’ ‘Could I buy it? Although, I guess it’ll be very expensive.’ ‘Not as much as you would think.’
‘Those guitars had been in a locker, but now no-one would pay anymore. I got it for a song.’
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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
It was a big Sunday roast, and all the crowd were here, since it was Granny’s birthday. I was the youngest, and I giggled out loud when I saw those bloomers from everyone. She also laughed, in fact, she had to wipe her eyes, using her pretty hankie, which always had the scent of lavender.
I had a little job on Sunday. I would walk down the long back garden, passing the huge fig tree – what a brilliant smell – then I picked some spearmint leaves, and brought them back to the kitchen.
Then soon it was lunchtime and all those smells were divine. There was roast spuds – just a half one for me though, and a little lamb, but best was the mint sauce, not too much, not too little, just the right amount – just heaven!
such a lovely day we had eaten gorgeous food, but gosh, those bloomers!
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been hurrying to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, since she was almost desperate to understand that stupid little note; she was about to cross the busy street, while thinking about thoughts, fortunately she looked both ways by the yield sign, before she stepped across the street.
She was almost by the Café now, as a lightning thought struck her, she stopped for a several seconds, but a moment later she realised what she was thinking was on the wrong track – she sighed; it would be so much better when she was there with Denise and Mimi, especially since it was in the mid-afternoon, one of the best times to talk.
‘Okay, down to business then,’ said Mimi, ‘let’s have another look at that note,’ – while the red-headed writer showed it to both of them, while she read it out loud: ‘this is very misleading, isn’t it’ – oh, and also, do either of you recognise who had written this?’
They all stared at it for several minutes – ‘dense and denser,’ muttered Mimi, – while Denise pulled a face, ‘don’t start that again!’
‘You know what,’ began Mimi, ‘I have not a single flash of inspiration… sorry.’
’But, really it means nothing, nothing at all, maybe you could just forget about it, since I have a better idea,’ said Denise, as her face brightened up considerably, ‘you see I think I know who wrote it, and look who has just arrived,’ as she pointed across the room.
That’s right, more coffee – and soon. She bent down to pick up her bag; she needed to write.
She looked over for a moment, the view was divine – sea and sky, but back to work.
Will she ever finish this great tome?
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Image credit: Peter Thomas @Unsplash
This image showsa table for two, set overlooking a picturesque scene. There are two teacups on the table, one of them is empty while the other is full of tea! In the background, you can see bright orange flowers, and far away mountains are visible too.
It was a good year, in fact, it was a great year, so many people said that. Do you know why? I will tell you.
Come, sit down here. Just next to me. Ahh, such a booming town. Lively, busy, such a good place to be then. He thought for a moment, and continued. What a beautiful car. It was my first, you see. Very grand at the time. He smiled, showing his gums.
I wonder what happened to it. You see, I don’t remember that. Lots of things I don’t remember now.
Does anyone know? I guess not now.
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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Faction Word Count: 100
the small pond glistened some tiny birds winged away I smiled at the crane since I felt so blissful then let me think some more nice thoughts
I smelled the coffee and I continued to drink looking at the sky I suddenly saw my hands I felt so very alive
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Melissa introduces a creative writing challenge inspired by Maggie Queeney. Participants observe from a window, write about their surroundings, and create a tanka poem using sensory imagery and personal reflections.
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) continued to remove so much stuff from her lovely apartment; she was determined to dismantle all this nonsense in her kitchen cupboards and under her bed – and it was the second time she’d done it, and it was less than a year – all those empty boxes.
Decluttering … that was the word, as she muttered to herself, as she started to shred all those papers which were not useful anymore, but at least they would be recycled.
She had several sacks which she had commandeered from the basement, and she’d brought them up to her apartment; she’d filled them up and now she’d put then outside in her front door, hoping that someone might help her, since it was six floors down – she giggled to herself thinking, maybe she could just drop then down, but probably not a good idea.
She shut her door and went into her living room, as she sank down on her couch, then she looked on the right; there it was – she gripped her big bag, she needed to take everything out… everything! – she took a big breath, and opened it.
Right on the top was that note, she stared and stared again, still as dense as it could possibly be; ‘dense’ she thought … that’s a useful word; she smiled again, the word dense, is almost the same as Denise – she could help me, she was sure.
The ocean beckons, what shall we do today? I know what we can do, let’s throw a pretty bottle in to the sea. Oh yes, it’s always nice to send one out. It needs a note, of course, we’ll write it together; a moment later, it was done. We just need to bung the cork back, and off it goes.
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Image credit: Tanya Barrow @Unsplash
This image showsa set of steps leading to a structure on a beach with multiple directional arrows pointing in different directions. Some of the names written on these arrows are Hogwarts, London, New York, Saas Fee, Dubai, Area 51, Bangkok, etc. In the background, you can see the ocean waves and sand.
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
luna's on line 