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?’
my dancing days were delightful I’d shimmy and shake boogie down and dance the night away there was hip hop salsa, samba and rumba what a wonderful time it was my dancing days are over but I reminisce often you see I was that dancing queen back then
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Image credit: Marcel StrauB @Unsplash
This imageshows a dance floor lit by strobe lights, and many people can be seen on the dance floor.
She’d been humming in an off-key, as she dusted in the music room, moving things around a bit, but not too much. ‘Well, a job is just a job,’ she muttered to herself, as she decided to listen to the radio.
The music was rather bland, strange that it was tuned to that particular station. ‘What nonsense,’ she mumbled, while tuning further.
‘Ah that’s a bit better,’ as she started to hum again.
Her dusting became more vigorous and more animated. The music felt almost alive. Suddenly she grabbed the nearest guitar, and she shouted, ‘I’m going to boogie down!’
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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 peering on her cell phone – not ideal, but there it was, she was a keen follower off football – in particularly for the Liverpool F.C., and at the moment, they were winning yet again, just a couple of seconds to go, her app said ‘GOAL’, and then ‘GAME OVER’; she grinned to herself, as she put her cell phone back in her pocket, and then she looked around.
She was back in her booth in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro as so often she would, and things were moving in the right direction; so many choices she had, particularly since she’d eventually found out who had dropped that little note in her laptop.
She’d been still thinking about that, but now in a good way – no unwanted thoughts, such a pleasing time this evening.
She continued to smile as she read and replied on her laptop using that WordPress, it was pretty useful, apart from that niggle with that spam thing; she pulled a face, but what could she do? – as she continued to surf around.
She mused happily, there were no trashy poems or short stories in this place, even though sometimes they could be quite sad or scary, but neither was a problem; and of course, there were many other attractions in that bar and in the café.
It was time to walk into the limelight, as la Raconteuse, with a little help from the tall, thin man, she stepped up to the stage.
another artist what will this be? it seems to be a landscape and it’s pretty accurate.
I wonder if I could get a bit closer although I don’t want to put him off; rather I should walk a little further such a lovely lake.
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Image credit: Salva Jamm @Unsplash
This imageshows a man, probably an older man, sitting by the shore of a lake and there is a painting / picture in his hand. It looks like he is trying to capture the scene in front of him on paper / canvas.
‘Something delicious to eat this evening,’ as they walked through the hall to the dining room and sat down. ‘We need to order, but we also need to do something else.’ ‘True. We should crane around the tables and chairs.’ ‘We maybe could have a little look in the library – there is one, isn’t there?’ ‘Plus, we could also duck into the kitchen, we could see what is best.’
They stood up, leaving their napkins. So what happen next? . . . ‘I’ve got it,’ she said. ‘It’s me, Miss S in the hall, with the candlestick. That’s it, we were playing Cluedo!
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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
luna's on line 