She’d been kicking a football around the yard. She was a pretty good kicker, well, she thought so. She’d been dribbling a bit, then she would kick the football as hard as she could by the tall wall.
But this time, she kicked the ball too high, and it sailed over the wall. She would have to go next door. And that place was very grand.
She should just walk over there and look confident, and not get her knickers in a twist.
She rapped the door knocker loudly. But nothing. However, the football bounced back to her. Lucky, eh?
~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
“Okay, we’re here,’ said Mr Cushing, as he gently stopped his wonderful limousine, and surveyed everyone behind him, apart from The Old One who always rides shotgun, “however,” as he continued, “I’m not sure I want to go down there, not my cup of tea (as I would say), but you can take your provisions – some rather runny brie and some crusty bread – but I think I might feed all those feral cats just over there instead.”
“Is everyone else coming down to this particular place in Montparnasse?” asked Francis – as all of them nodded; so they made their way to the nearest toll gate.
“Ooh,” grinned Scatty, “this is going to be fun, as she pulled a large bell to see who would open the huge gate, and a moment later an ancient janitor appeared.
“You may enter,” he muttered, then pointed to the left, and said, “go past those jailbirds, and don’t look at them, and maybe close your ears too, they are kind of monsters, so just ignore them – they’ve only had some misdemeanours but they’ll stay there, and probably forever.”
So they walked rather quickly, and nobody looked at those strange beings whatever they were, and that red-headed woman became pretty jumpy with all those spooky things around there, still the two gargoyles walked either side of her, and she felt rather better.
“Just a little stop here,” said Joan, “this part of those catacombs will be more than interesting,” as both of the gargoyles grinned.
We had been spying from another building for most of the morning. There was something going on down there. That large open-air swimming pool was the target. Definitely.
We continued to watch while eating and drinking, but not moving our eyes. Everything must be tangible. Real… really real, as we peered down. Whatever would occur, we would be ready.
That must be the actual target. Both of us were in agreement. It was time to go.
It wouldn’t take too long. We’re not deluded. Definitely not. But something had gone wrong. Still, we would be fine. We’ll just deny everything.
~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Just the facts Word Count: 100
“Magnificent!” said Mr Cushing, “Wow!” said Scatty, “Amazing!” said Joan, “Awesome!” said The Old One, and then the red-headed woman grinned and said, “What a wonderful wall!” as Francis seized his violin and picked several interesting chords.
The two gargoyles nodded and then said, “this is the best way to bring art and music together, as all of them smiled, while several of them did a couple of high fives, then they all looked at that fabulous wall again including the two gargoyles.
“It’s all very well but what are we going to do now?” wondered the red-headed woman, as the two gargoyles were clearly happy to move on to do something else.
“I know, and this will be good,” grinned Scatty, “and I don’t think we have been to this place all together before; it’s great, it’s interesting, and a tiny bit scary, it’s not too far although transport is very useful to go there, but then it goes down… down… down.
“Aha, I’ve got your drift,” grinned Francis, and then he said: “it’s not dangerous but we do need to be cautious, it’s very dark naturally and the walls and the floors will twist and turn, they go huge sometimes and then they go rather small and tight, but we shouldn’t get lost, since I have my very useful compass,” as Francis pulled it out to show them.
So off they went with Mr Cushing with his excellent limo, and the two gargoyles happily sitting at the back.
The red-headed woman grinned happily, while backing back from the large living room where the two gargoyles were still busy working to finish painting the walls; they both pretended to be stern to her, but it was only because they wanted to make sure everything would be done later today.
The red-headed woman walked to the wonderful library where there were so many beautiful books, but on this occasion Francis and The Old One were playing chess, and very complicated too, since there were three levels on the crystal board game.
She watched for a little while saying nothing, since they were concentrating so much; so she wandered along the hall, where she found Joan and Scatty who were going to the huge kitchen just a little further on, since this was the place Mr Cushing enjoyed his cooking.
“Aha,” said Mr Cushing, “do you want to watch,” as he indicated some stools by the gorgeous streamline kitchen table, “I’ve already made some soup, and also roasted some baby potatoes which I’ve put them in aluminium foil for now, but then the main event is this.”
“I bought this earlier today, there’s a lovely market only a couple of streets away,” as he opened the fridge and took out a now filleted salmon, “it’ll be just ten minutes, would you lovely ladies want to lay the dining room table?”
And so they did, and such a splendid lunch, they’d almost finished when the two gargoyles appeared grinning, “we’ve done it!”
The red-headed woman scooted down from her tiny top apartment as she stopped for a moment at the bottom, she thought to herself that maybe she should be kinder to that concierge, but she was such an earwigging woman, old, tiny and mostly cross too, as she slipped an envelope under her door which contained her monthly euros, then rushed outside to the small road.
It had been such a scorching summer in Paris, too hot she felt, but now it was early autumn, which is so pleasant, as she strolled through the streets, making her way to the beautiful, but slightly rundown house with very tall walls.
She was always keen to try something new, and this was a new project, she rubbed her hands with glee, as she slipped into the side gate using her special key.
And there they were, her best friends: clever Joan and her husband, Francis, who were very rich, well, they were vampires after all, like The Old One too, who still stays there, although he has a chateau in Orleans, France; then there was the athletic feisty Scatty, who was an immortal from Ireland, and finally, it was Mr Cushing, also an immortal who had been an actor in the past.
The red-headed woman greeted all of them with many little kisses – very French, of course, but where were those two gargoyles?
But there they were, and she almost keeled over with laughter, they were doing some painting in the living room!
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had woken up very early, for a moment she thought there was a huge fire in the distance, but no, it was a fabulous sunrise, more than gorgeous, it was going to be an excellent day – not dreary at all.
She got up and padded to her little kitchen, ah yes, coffee to brew, as she talked to herself as usual, and then she stared at the calendar on the door; gosh, she muttered, it was already September, as she quickly grabbed her diary to make a note for today.
With her mug in her hand, she went to her writing table, and opened her laptop, but what should she write?
Now she felt that her other red-headed woman could have another spin in Paris, with all her friends, especially those two gargoyles.
She pondered a bit, but she was getting hungry now, best to go to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, she already knew what she would order – it will be two dippy eggs and toast, since she was pretty certain that Tom would be working that shift.
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) was grinning to herself – my word, this place is buzzing, really buzzing, as she entered the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, – there are so many people I know, this is going to be fabulous.
But earlier she’d had such a dithering afternoon, almost a calamity in fact; it started with what she would wear at the Café-and-Bistro later.
She’d opened her wardrobe, and messy it was, as she threw out various things, but what to choose, not that there was much choice, and of course, she didn’t often vary her colours of clothes, her motto being: just black and black, but this was a proper event, so nothing ventured nothing gained, she will wear a flowy and pretty dress, long too.
So that was sorted, as she went to her laptop, opening it up to look at her poetry section, rather vast now, she would have to memorize a couple of those, and that could be a problem.
She wrote three of her most recent poems which she hadn’t yet released, and copied them on some small cards, then she looked to decide which would be best, then the second one for reserve, and finally the last one if required, although she felt it was rather unlikely, still all she needed to do was… practice, practice, practice, and out loud.
La Raconteuse was meeting and greeting, smiling and waving, but the sad news was this, as she held this up – I’ve lost my voice completely, more than hoarse!
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) dashed down from her apartment (all six floors), then trotted across a couple of roads to get to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro; she was about to enter the establishment, and she was sure she could smell the particular aroma of a cigar… she smiled… a lot.
La Raconteuse scanned around the place; it was quite early, so few people were around, but Mimi and Denise, aka the Bartender, were talking about making lunch.
“A lovely selection of tomatoes, courgettes, carrots and lots of spuds,” grinned Mimi, “and all organic food of course,” – “perfect,’ smiled the Bartender, “you’ll use the carrots to make carrot cake?” – “oh, naturally,” as Mimi went back to the kitchen to organize everything.
La Raconteuse sat on a stool opposite the Bartender and said, “what’s happening just now,” as the Bartender slid a flyer, “look at this.”
“See, it’s going to be a function, right here,” said the Bartender, “where there will be music and lights, and then everything will go dark and then the spot light will come up… it will be a slam poets party… see, look it says here.”
“And I will be the overseer,” said the tall, thin man, as he suddenly appeared from the hallway, “you’ll enjoy this a great deal, won’t you,” as he grinned, “we’re starting a list, all those poetry people, either actually here, or on line… it’ll be next week, oh, and don’t worry, our excellent friend, the Gatekeeper, will be looking after the door.”
“It’s such a hip joint, isn’t it,” grinned the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) as she and Aurelia sat up by the beautiful mahogany bar in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro: “you see, if we sit just here we can see everything from the back mirrors behind us.”
“You’re right, you can,” smiled Mimi as she appeared from the double doors in the kitchen, next to the middle of the bar; then she extended her right hand to shake Aurelia, “please to meet you, my dear, it’s always nice to have a new friend… anything you would like to eat, by the way?”
“I bet cake will be involved,” grinned la Raconteuse, “but before that, what in the Sam Hill have you been doing for so long, dear Mimi?”
“But surely both of us have been busy in the hall and further up to the different floors in that very large building,” said Mimi – “ah yes, that’s very true,” as la Raconteuse gestured to the darker parts by the hall, “lots of interesting doors and windows as we know.”
Then Aurelia said, as she jumped down, “I need to go to the bathroom, I’ll not be long, I promise, it’s just a little problem,” as she rubbed her back as if there was something niggling in her pretty shirt.
So the two of them, Mimi and la Raconteuse, began to talk and quickly, starting with Mimi, as la Raconteuse said, “go on, fire away, there are so many stories we need to tell.”
