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.
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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?’
She’d been humming in an off-key, as she dusted in the music room, moving things around a bit, but not too much. ‘Well, a job is just a job,’ she muttered to herself, as she decided to listen to the radio.
The music was rather bland, strange that it was tuned to that particular station. ‘What nonsense,’ she mumbled, while tuning further.
‘Ah that’s a bit better,’ as she started to hum again.
Her dusting became more vigorous and more animated. The music felt almost alive. Suddenly she grabbed the nearest guitar, and she shouted, ‘I’m going to boogie down!’
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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 peering on her cell phone – not ideal, but there it was, she was a keen follower off football – in particularly for the Liverpool F.C., and at the moment, they were winning yet again, just a couple of seconds to go, her app said ‘GOAL’, and then ‘GAME OVER’; she grinned to herself, as she put her cell phone back in her pocket, and then she looked around.
She was back in her booth in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro as so often she would, and things were moving in the right direction; so many choices she had, particularly since she’d eventually found out who had dropped that little note in her laptop.
She’d been still thinking about that, but now in a good way – no unwanted thoughts, such a pleasing time this evening.
She continued to smile as she read and replied on her laptop using that WordPress, it was pretty useful, apart from that niggle with that spam thing; she pulled a face, but what could she do? – as she continued to surf around.
She mused happily, there were no trashy poems or short stories in this place, even though sometimes they could be quite sad or scary, but neither was a problem; and of course, there were many other attractions in that bar and in the café.
It was time to walk into the limelight, as la Raconteuse, with a little help from the tall, thin man, she stepped up to the stage.
‘Something delicious to eat this evening,’ as they walked through the hall to the dining room and sat down. ‘We need to order, but we also need to do something else.’ ‘True. We should crane around the tables and chairs.’ ‘We maybe could have a little look in the library – there is one, isn’t there?’ ‘Plus, we could also duck into the kitchen, we could see what is best.’
They stood up, leaving their napkins. So what happen next? . . . ‘I’ve got it,’ she said. ‘It’s me, Miss S in the hall, with the candlestick. That’s it, we were playing Cluedo!
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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Historical Fiction Word Count: 100
‘Really… you know who wrote it… that little note under my laptop … quickly, tell me, dear friend,’ – the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) looked at Denise, the Bartender, but sadly there was no time to talk just now, since a whole load of punters had arrived; the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, was almost heaving.
Mimi also had to run off into the kitchen, as she had to finish several dishes for the evening service – ‘sorry, sweetie,’ I need to control everything in the pass, although Tom’s here now… thank heavens.’
‘Oh well, nonetheless I’ll find out… eventually,’ muttered the red-headed writer to herself, ‘a plot and a plan is always useful,’ as she continued to talk to herself; she moved to her booth, she was about to work out another story.
She scanned the room, noting that the tall, thin man and the Gatekeeper were both listening to the young attractive woman – what was her name? – la Raconteuse had a dreadful time to remember people’s names… but then it appeared in her head – Rosetta Storme, that was her name.
And the other one, she thought, who is he? she craned her head – also attractive, rather older, mature, perhaps – she mused, maybe a pilot or, or… no idea, but why would she think about a pilot? – although she’d written something about a pilot, ages ago.
‘A nice long drink,’ said the tall, thin man, as he put it down by her, as he winked; ‘you should join the party, with us.’
‘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.
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