The two boys had been mooching. ‘Hold on.’ He stopped and pointed. ‘Oh, I see. Interesting.’ They looked at each other, then jumped over the hedge.
‘Ooh, a painting,’ as he peered at it.’ ‘It’s a bit dreary.’ ‘Here, there’s some sticky paints on the easel.’ ‘We could jazz it up a bit.’
Both of them got to business. ‘This looks better. More colour.’ ‘Shall I add an animal?’
Then a man appeared. ‘Oi! He strode toward them. He was wearing a beret! He glared. He walked around. And then he said: ‘Hmm, that’s actually better now, especially that kangaroo.’
~~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: HistoricalFiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been munching her snap, crackle and pop for breakfast, she ate rather quickly, then dumped her bowl in the sink, and stuffed the box into the cupboard; ‘it’s going to be busy,’ she grinned to herself.
She had several messages to do, and then she hurried down the six floors holding her usual big bag, she opened the main door and felt the cold breeze outside, but at least it wasn’t wet, as she made her way to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro.
Even as she walked through the streets, she could hardly miss all this nonsense around, almost every house had at least one pumpkin or ghost on their stoops; she’d even craned her head right up to see what looked like a couple of witches on the roof with their broomsticks.
It was still pretty early as she entered the lovely Café, and what a great atmosphere it was; she could tell that Mimi had a big hand in making the place look really rather spooky; there’re pumpkins galore, little glowing lights around the walls and even tiny bats on the tables.
La Raconteuse removed her big bag and her coat, shoving them into the back of the bar, while looking around to find something useful to do – polishing perhaps, as she grabbed the first thing she found.
A moment later Tom appeared from the kitchen, ‘trick or treat,’ he grinned; ‘oh, by the way there’s a new guest arrived,’ he pointed, ‘it’s Reena.’
It was lashing down that fall, as she stared outside, willing for something to happen. She’d switched on her tv, and sat down on her dilapidated couch. She’d watched some of the news, but nothing had really grabbed her. She’d switched it off.
She’d picked up a trashy novel from her coffee table, as several magazines drifted down to the floor. Another chapter finished, she sighed and put it down. Surely she could do something better than this?
She went into her kitchen, and brewed some coffee. She mused as she poured, then walked back.
Could she be a writer?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: HistoricalFaction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been miles away as she thought what had been occurring, partly since she had drunk too much coffee and eaten some nice pastries (both delicious) since the Bartender and Mimi had brought both to the Manager’s Office, but also she’d been mulling since it seemed that she might get away with talking about that certain note.
Fine and dandy, she grinned to herself as she watched Tom taking everything from the Manager’s Office and to the kitchen; he muttered to Mini, explaining that he would make a large spice cake for afternoon tea.
La Raconteuse returned to watch as the tall, thin man had a quick conversation with several people including Ms Strome and her uncle; it seemed that they were going back to the main part of the Bistro, as if some particular boot was on the other foot, as one might say, as la Raconteuse arched one eye up, although the tall, thin man was definitely staying, sprawling in the great new chair.
The Gatekeeper had been surveying the room, listening to what had been said, but then he walked back to the mantelpiece, and turned his back, looking at that mirror.
La Raconteuse joined him: ‘don’t you remember what was there before?’ – ‘sorry, I don’t,’ – ‘but look, you can even see where it was, it was more than a yard and a half longer… you really don’t remember?’
La Raconteuse smiled, ‘that was a painting, I wonder where it went?’
‘We can easily climb that big old tree.’ ‘Definitely.’ The two boys dropped their bikes.
They both stared at it, then trotted around. ‘Gosh, it’s so tall, we can hardly see the top.’ ‘No probs though.’ ‘Which side shall we try?’ ‘Tell you what, I’ll go on the bendy one, and you can go on the straight one.’
The two of them jumped up, and began to climb. The first one went more quickly on the bendy one, while the straight one was rather slower. But then they almost met at the top. ‘Well, that proves something,’ as they giggled.|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
P.S. If you haven’t seen me saying something on your post, I believe it’s gone to spam. I won’t just leave a ‘like’.
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: HistoricalFiction Word Count: 100
‘Well this is a bit of a pickle,’ muttered the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) as she squeeze between Mimi and Tom on the chaise-longue; a moment later they all needed to stand up, rearrange the pretty throw, since the chaise-longue had had better days, and was rather coarse to sit on it without it’s throw.
It seemed there was going to be some kind of announcement, although no-one seemed particularly interested to move any kind of motion; there was some hint between Ms Strome’s and… what was his name..? – la Raconteuse closed her eyes, trying to remember his name, as she cursed herself.
She opened her eyes, ‘it’s not helping,’ while Tom grinned back at her – ‘you know what I am going to say,’ – ‘hmm, what?’ – ‘at least it’s bigger on the inside than on the outside… you know, like Doctor Who,’ as Tom giggled; la Raconteuse rolled her eyes.
She looked across the room where the Gatekeeper was standing with one elbow on the mantelpiece; she caught his eye, making a quick gesture – nothing more required since they had known each other for long enough.
Moving on, whilst crossing her legs and clasping her knuckles, she looked up to the tall, thin man who was perched on the handsome desk; he glanced around the room as everyone turned to him and stopped talking.
La Raconteuse thought to herself, there would be several options, she was sure, but what course might she take? – and what would he utter?
It was the middle of the day and the middle of the week. Always the same, just like clockwork. Only the obvious tasks. She would remove the slightly drooping flowers on the top few steps. She’d already brought some new ones to freshen it up.
She looked up to the tall windows and beyond, she said a little prayer, closing her eyes. But then it happened, and so quickly.
She walked back, slipped and tripped. Her beautiful blooms were held up.
But, oh dear.
Her bloomers were on show, just as the old rabbi appeared. What a confusion… Oops, indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hostingFriday Fictioneers Genre: Anectdote Word Count: 100
‘Well, that when down like a lead balloon – a total flop… even some heckling, but that’s life,’ as the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) shrugged her shoulders, ‘no point in whimpering,’ as she muttered while jumping down from the stage.
‘Too radical,’ she thought, as she made her way to the bar, at least there’s a cabaret on next, and the tall, thin man altered the lights and turned up the volume; as La Raconteuse watched him go across the room and beckoned several people, including herself.
La Raconteuse leaned over to grab her big bag while still watching what was occurring; she’d already filled her pretty water flask which had animals around the outside, as she took a swig; she was in a quandary, should she reveal who wrote that note since that person was here?
La Raconteuse met the Gatekeeper just before entering the Manager’s Office, they stood for a moment as he showed her a new logo on his smartphone; ‘oh that’s perfect,’ she said, ‘we can definitely use that in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, just love it,’ as she grinned up to him.
However, she’d a little chill in her bones: the seasons were changing – fall in the northern hemisphere and spring in the south – maybe she’ll go somewhere… and maybe soon.
She looked around, should she reveal, or should she let it lie for the moment waiting to see more, as all of them crammed into that Manager’s Office, as the tall, thin man closed the door.
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?’
luna's on line 