Desperately don’t want to go there. Horrid, really horrid. Actually, pure hell. No really. These things are more than scary. Nope. Not going there. Once was enough. So… So… I’ll say nothing. Definitely not.
My mind is made up. And why not? It’s my choice. Just my decision. No-one else. Got that? I’m looking at you… and you… and anyone around here. It’s not going to happen. There’s no mystery. It’s not that. Sleight of hand? It sounds like a magician, perhaps? But no. Not that. That would be daft. ..
..
No. It’s those mannequins. I’d run a mile from them!
~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
‘Well, it’s certainly a door, and it seems to be real, but I don’t remember seeing it before, it could be perplexing, but it’s bound to have some interest,’ as the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse), continue to talk to herself, as she muttered to say, ‘only one way to find out,’ as she grabbed the doorhandle.
The door opened rather easily, which was a blessing, and at least there was some light outside, since there was a window, in fact several windows; she’d pressed her finger on the light switch, but nothing, oh well, still down.
She was about to walked to one of the windows, but then she noticed a handy shelf, it had several candles and even better, a gorgeous candelabra – it was very posh – so she lightered all of those candles with a couple of matchers, ‘now this is looking interesting.’
She could use her affectation of candour, and often she would, but this was definitely not needed in this case, because there were so many wonderful objects in all those shelves around the room; all these things were amazing, and all of them were steampunk related: mostly it was art and sculpture, but all in miniature, or at least, small.
So, la Raconteuse began to look at each object, she was particularly drawn to a clockwork clock sculpture, more than beautiful.
She happened to look outside and down; she could see a taxi and a cabbie was waving to her, and rather urgently it seemed.
‘What fun,’ grinned one of the boys. ‘Yes indeed,’ said the other one, ‘especially since we hopped on a bus, then we got out by this river in the Norfolk Broads.’ ‘We have brought some sandwiches and we are wearing our wellies.’ ‘And we have some fishing tackle, and we might even catch a couple of fishes.’
The two boys walked purposely. ‘It’s a bit deep by those reeds, and that’s going to be rather tricky,’ as one of them remarked. But a moment later they heard an interesting sound. ‘Ooh, it’s a chug-chug-chug noise, and it’s getting closer.’ And very soon a cabin cruiser appeared.
‘Do you want to hop over here on the next bend?’ shouted an old guy on the boat. ‘I’m sure both of you will enjoy this.’
And so they did. The two boys didn’t manage to catch a fish, but it was still fun.
Okay, time to get rid of all this stuff, as she smiled to herself. All this waste of nonsense, it’s got to go, and soon, very soon. She began to move things around. Aha, there’s a big box here, and another big box there, plus many, many cartons. There are even in those darkest areas, there are some old tea chests. She’s determined not to open any of those. Really? Yep, she’s focused. Should she have a little poke inside? No. Don’t even think about that. No… and no. Hmm. Shall she do this for another day? Yep, that’s fine.
~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
‘Well, that’s a pickle,’ muttered the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) as she peer down to the stairwell from the roof, it appeared that all those light bulbs had blown, or maybe just that particular fuse had gone, which was more likely, as she continued to peer down.
Surely someone would flick that fuse up again, as la Raconteuse pulled out her smartphone, she felt either Tom or the Bartender would not pay scant attention to sort that out and soon.
Meanwhile, la Raconteuse grinned since she’d been reading using the app for Kindle on her phone, it was an excellent quirky novel, with a genre known as steampunk, she might continue to read, but it was getting rather cold by the flat roof and the moon was up now.
So she clicked her torch on the phone, then began to walk down the narrow stairs; she was hoping that she wouldn’t fall again since she had scarred one of her knees rather badly, although at least that scab had almost gone now.
She suddenly stopped by the nearest landing as her smartphone started to ping; ‘what’s this, I wonder,’ as she talked to herself out loud, ‘it’s a ping and another ping, surely this must be a scam,’ as she tried to work out what it said.
She stared around the darkness, then looked at her phone again, it said: how can it tell me to open a door, when I didn’t know there was a door here before?
‘That’s a puzzle,’ said the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) as she continued to stare at that large book about gardening, ‘it says we need several different types of veggies but we need to be careful since some of them wouldn’t be happy together.’
‘Good grief, I didn’t know all of those things,’ as la Raconteuse continued to talk out loud, ‘toms don’t like spuds, fancy that; this great book is a mine of knowledge, isn’t it… so glad it came in that big cardboard box with all those other things.’
‘But, sorry I’m hogging this book, although you, Tom, you are reading the other new one, the one about gourmet food, and that looks also interesting,’ as la Raconteuse peered at the other one for a bit.
‘Gosh, that one looks even better, miles better in fact, and all those beautiful photos… ooh, lovely salads on this chapter, with different edible flowers; look, there are nasturtiums, pansies, pot marigolds and borage; hmm, the only one I would know is that last one – borage flowers – good for gin and tonic,’ as she giggled.
‘Listen,’ said Tom, ‘shall we go up to the flat roof to see how things are doing; I’ve already put out those bags of top soil and compost,’ – ‘oh yes, sounds good.’
So, la Raconteuse headed out to those new raised beds, and good there were, but the first thing she said was this: ‘it’s hardly a mortal enemy, it’s just a slug, but it’s huge… ugh.’
“They’re wilting aren’t they?” “’Fraid so.” “I’m sure I’ve given enough of this. Or maybe too much?” “Don’t ask me!”
“Well, they seem fairly dry, but they should be okay for the moment.” “If you say so.” “I do.” “Is that it then?”
“I’m just a bit worried about all of those. I wouldn’t want something to happen to them.” “Like what?” “Oh, I don’t know.” “Indeed.”
“And look, they seemed to have perked up a bit.” “Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it?” “And, in any case, it’s not a huge problem.” “No indeed. They’re only little triffids after all.”
~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Realistic Fiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had signalled to the lovely Bartender at the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, as she held up one finger and smiled; she knew she had enough for today, but what a lovely day she had.
Such a beautiful walk by the river with Hūnga and the tall, thin man; la Raconteuse would fling a nice stick to Hūnga, and Hūnga would bring it back; he would drop the stick by her feet, then sit on his hunches while looking up to her and woofing.
It seemed that Hūnga was grinning back too, since la Raconteuse had been flaunting a new red hat, and rather startling too; indeed, the tall, thin man was also wearing a cap, and why not? although he would remove it before walking into the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro.
Then, la Raconteuse started to grin again as she thought about that big cardboard box; it turned out that there were various useful things, and nothing worrying in it at all, in fact, when they came back, that big box had gone, and new things had been put into places.
She mused as she looked around, all those pretty vases which held sprouting bulbs now, they are going to be daffodils she had been told, how lovely, and there was one on every table.
But even better Tom had been up to the flat roof, it was where la Raconteuse used to write there, but now Tom had repurposed the place – it’s going to be a productive garden.
Of course, I’m a big girl – and I’m a beautiful one, too. You see, I’m Clarissa, and this is Jennifer, and we’re the two best layers in this farm.
There are quite a lot of us around this place, and we’re all free. Free to peck in many nice places. There are walls and gates around the farm, and that is sensible. And we’re all kept in our coops in the night-time. It’s too scary otherwise, since there are foxes.
Now there is Floyd? He’s the rooster, and a pretty good one. He must cry from morning to night. He’s very, very noisy, but we’re all happy about that.
It’s early, and it’s time for us to lay. Jolly good, we’ve done it. So now it’s pecking time.
But what are these little things? Piggies? Do we remember those? Maybe. But we’ll just ignore them. Let’s go back to pecking.
~~~~
150 words
P.S. Clarissa and Jennifer were real hens, and Floyd was a real rooster. They had lovely lives for many years in our yard!
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