The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had heard the noise outside the room, and a moment laterthe tall, thin man had opened the door, she grinned happily – such a good friend, although he seemed rather keen to make the move to another part of that room.
The tall, thin man suggested that she should sit down near that rather splendid yet small black marble fireplace, she concurred since she felt no qualms, in fact she was rather glad to sit there and start an interesting conversation.
La Raconteuse related so many wonderful things in those shelves as she wittered and wittered on, she took a breath, and then she said: ‘we do like to talk don’t we… we’re both able to make many quick quips and clever remarks, and even witticisms and retorts, yes?’
But the tall, thin man had been thinking other things by now, as he thought about options, and particularly on those excellent shelves – all those clockwork machines and stuff… more than useful, he thought.
Now, the red-headed writer suddenly stopped talking… at least for a moment: ‘oh gosh, sorry, I’ve been rabbiting on, as usual, you said something about options, you mean we would put some of those things down by the bar and the walls, would that be fine?’
The two of them glanced around the room, ‘sounds like a plan,’ she said, ‘I bet loads of people would want to see them, in fact, they might even be a queue around the block!’
The two of them would continue to stay there all the time. They’re very close to the lovely lake, such a good idea. Pretty, too.
Maybe they are thinking. About what? Well, anything. Or maybe nothing. So, which? I’d say… and again It’s what? Reminiscing. You think so? I do.
Pretty, aren’t they. Of course. Those excellent chairs. Oh yes, bright pink. Pink? I thought it was more mauve? Really? I’d say so. Okay, not a problem.
Anything else we should say? Anything meaningful? No. Let’s just scatter them down there. Now, enough, let’s go.
~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Hysterical Fiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) continued to peer down at the street, she was ninety per cent sure that it was the Gatekeeper who had just walked from the taxi; she grinned since she was pretty certain that he would be more than interested about all these tiny steampunk treasures in this room.
Meanwhile, la Raconteuse moved to the next group of objects by the window, as she got closer to this extraordinary tableau, it was amazing – such detail, as she stared around all the little people; but these were not people, no, these were animals and birds.
It was a delightful scene: there was a square in the middle with some shops, a town hall and a church, and just on the edge of the table there was a small button to press, and so she did.
Everything them began to move – as she smiled with glee; she could see a little group of mice who were by the church, the bride was there, but where was the groom… but then that naughty mouse dropped his top hat, and legged it; jilted she was, that tiny mouse, as she flung the bouquet away, then a little bird, a jenny wren, began to sing.
This was more than wonderful, as she pressed the clockwork machine again – such a lovely thing, as she thought to herself.
But she suddenly jerked her head as she could hear a noise beyond the room; she quickly stood up and moved to the door.
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?
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