Was it just a story? I think not. It was real. Very real. But perhaps just use a beautiful dream? That would work better.
She would walk into the lounge. She would open the double doors into the garden, and then to the still warm pool. Such a treat! She would sit on the wall, looking at the gorgeous sunset, between the dark waters and the vivid sky. She would remove a pretty feather to touch it and smooth it. Then she would walk back again. Closing the double doors.
She would lay down to sleep again. Sleep on… forever.
~~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: HistoricalFiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) was in her tiny apartment, she’d finally finished her crossword in her folded broadsheet newspaper, noticing that she had ink on both hands.
She mused as she wandered into her kitchen, while she cleaned her hands, and then brewed some more coffee; she had many diverse tastes and interests, in fact, she always had, although her favourite hobbies were her writing and reading.
A few minutes later she brought her coffee into the living room, putting it on the coffee table where she picked up her latest book – The Weight of Snow and Regret by Elizabeth Gauffreau.*
She held the book unopened for a moment: the front cover was beautiful, like a picture of snow – the perfect time to read in the winter, the book itself was quite heavy since there are many wonderful words, so she opened the book, removing her bookmark – she’d had this for years, a little cheshire cat in metal, she put it down – now it was time to read.
La Raconteuse was engrossed in her book apart from playing the CD by Lightnin’ Hopkins, since he was in that book; she continued to read for more than an hour, but now she was hungry.
It was almost lunch-time as she ventured out into the wintry day, it looked like it would snow soon, as she dodged the cars and taxis as she walked across the streets; at least it’ll be warm in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, as she quickened her step.
‘You are so nosy, aren’t you.’ ‘What, me?’ ‘Of course you are.’ She snickered. ‘Me as well.’ The two of them continued to peer from their upstairs window.
‘Did you see that?’ ‘No. Didn’t see anything.’ ‘But you must have done.’ ‘Why? I can’t see everything at the same time. I’d been looking in the other direction, and on the ground. We usually see that beautiful cat who walks with that nice man.’
‘Ah there they are.’ ‘I wonder what they saw.’ ‘You see I saw a dumpster, but that’s gone now, but I bet that cat enjoyed seeing that!’
~~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: HistoricalFiction Word Count: 100
What an interesting time the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) and Reena had, and they were hoping that both of them could meet again, and soon, especially since the usual suspects – meaning the Proprietors (plus a few hangers on – the clever ones) might learn a little bit of business between all of them, since Reena has great acumen.
La Raconteuse mused to herself as she crossed the street, as she glanced at someone’s newspaper – that date: 5th November – it was bonfire night; not that many people in the city would even know anything about it, but for her, she would always remember what happened since she originally came from the UK.
Ah yes, Guy Fawkes, such an important time and date (for us); she thought for a moment, this is the way it goes:
“Remember, remember the 5th of November, Gunpowder, treason and plot; I know of no reason Why the gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot!”
La Raconteuse was almost into the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, although she was still muttering to herself; she’d almost collided with the tall, thin man and the Gatekeeper, who were about to smoke together by the steps, as they each opened a flame on their exquisite zippos.
Just inside Tom grinned, ‘look what I’ve made – it’s almost a sparkler,’– he also came from the UK – as he lit two matches on a tiny cake, ‘we will enjoy, won’t we,’ as they both blew the two matches out; ‘let’s remember Guy Fawkes… in a good way!’
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.|
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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?
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