‘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
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.
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 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.
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
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been pondering since she still couldn’t fathom who had written that strange note; it was indelibly etched in her brain, and she had shoved it in her big bag while she’d thought about something else for a bit.
She was very much happier since the whole crowd – meaning the Proprietors – were all back, plus a couple of others who had joined as well; they were all pretty busy, even though some of them had been doing certain nefarious things, well, she at least thought so.
La Raconteuse stretched for a moment then moved over to the bar; she craned over to watch Mimi and Tom who were parading their new aprons – they had found them on their pegs on the back of the door in the kitchen.
Denise, the Bartender, explained: ‘I’d wondered what would look good on those aprons since there are so many symbols around everywhere; I’d thought maybe a dove, or maybe a heart, but then, of course,’ as she grinned, ‘here it’s on the floor.’
‘Ah yes, we all know that place don’t we,’ as la Raconteuse smiled, ‘what a perfect idea.’
She turned around and looked up where the Gatekeeper was back in his usual spot – he’d returned to the front entrance, as he was lighting his cigar; the red-head writer dropped down from the bar, as she ran up to talk to him, she hugged him and said: ‘we will never forget what you wrote there.’
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had just sat down in her usual booth, all seemed fine, as she started to open her laptop, as she glanced over to the bar where her usual suspects (meaning the Proprietors) – although of course they were not usual suspects at all.
However, she had realised that there were a couple of people around now who she felt were big time hoodlums – like Lou and Rosetta, still they were pretty cool and clearly well-bred and ‘interesting’, and for that she was fine about it.
Then she saw a written note inside her laptop, and that was weird: who had written that? – she didn’t recognise the writing, and why did it say – ‘this is very misleading, isn’t it’; she stared around for a bit, but the only thing she was sure, was that someone had been sitting here just before.
There was no signature, and just six words, how can that help, she wondered; but never worry about that for the moment: time to write!
She had been doing some poetry earlier; it was a good exercise to take more than one meaning; she’d used ‘witch’ and ‘which’, but what next – ‘rose’ or a pretty ‘rose’; but meanwhile, she was also writing a tiny story, one which only used 100 words.
But now she was thinking about food – some nice bread and a lovely moist and rare steak; and suddenly she giggled out loud, that was a perfect word for this… ‘stake’ (poor vampire).
I’ve always liked graves. Admittedly I’d only go in the daytime. But I’d be there from morning to evening, since I was a writer and it was such a peaceful place.
I’d write small stories, but they would be fun (mostly), while using my notebook and a couple of pencils. Nothing fancy like a laptop – not invented then.
But then I found that the darkness was even better. I’d fallen asleep and something had changed. After that it seemed that something else was required. But never mind about that.
Just have a look – my little fangs are so pretty!
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Thanks to Rochelle for hostingFriday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) grinned a huge grin, as she looked up to see the Gatekeeper who had just arrived at the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro; several other people looked as well, as he stopped at the second step down, and surveyed the room.
La Raconteuse looked the other way for a moment, as the Bartender gave a nod and a wink on the other side of the bar to the Gatekeeper: destiny was back, and the red-headed writer was more than pleased about that.
She hopped down from the stool as she turned around to see the Gatekeeper as he began to walk along the long bar – ‘gosh, you’re even smaller than I remember,’ he said – while she grinned – ‘just flat shoes for me now.’
Despite so many things had changed – and of course it had been several years from the start, but at least the main Proprietors were still in the heart of the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, although there were more exotic, devious and more besides too, who hang out there now, but the red-headed writer wasn’t worried.
The tall, thin man turned from the small group in the corner, as he strode to meet the Gatekeeper in the middle of the bar, right by the Bartender; in less than a minute, she’d served the finest malt whisky and two chunky glasses plus some ice – ‘let’s go through to the Manager’s office.’
La Raconteuse glanced out to see how dismal the weather was, as she sat down into her usual booth.
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