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.
Earlier she had been far too busy to do anything but eat and drink, since she’d had a very late breakfast (or brunch); she had been umming and arring about the menu for ages, as Tom was on leave, and Mimi was not here either. In the end she plumped for a couple of small pancakes with bacon and syrup (very proper for those American people, as she grinned), and in the meantime she munched some toast with butter and jam, or was it marmalade she wondered for a moment, but anyway everything was delicious, and she drank two coffees as well.
She went back to her usual booth where she opened her laptop, she was so happy that it had been fixed by this clever guy, since it took more than three days to work properly again. Without her laptop she had to write things down using paper and pen or pencil, and now she had so many notes and scribbles in her little notebook – what a mess! – but at least now she could continue to write on that laptop.
She had been working for more than an hour, but then she walked over to the bar, she smiled and waved to her great friend, the Bartender, while the tall, thin mangestured to the small group in the corner, and now, of course, she would be earwigging again.
‘Okay, the final race for the Tour de France this year, it has been excellent so far, don’t you think?’ smiled Francis, as he inverted the first bottle of champagne, while Joan and Scatty sip some, as they all watched the large television.
‘It’s such a wonderful place in the heart of Paris, all those lovely buildings and statues, meanwhile the cyclists will cycle around the Champs-Elysees (four times as usual), but this time it will be longer since it’s going up to the top of the Butte Montmartre,’ said Francis.
‘Gosh, right by us,’ said Scatty, ‘you know, I’m going to go out there, just now; I can get a little patch of grass near the Basilica of the Sacre-Coeur, and that will be perfect,’ as she grabbed her coat, then she reversed for a moment to say, ‘I will have a great position there, I’m sure!’
‘Well, I think this is much cosier, and there’s only the two of us,’ said Joan – ‘yes, I think so too,’ said Francis, as he put his arm over her shoulder.
‘Ah ha, here it is,’ said Joan, ‘such a beautiful sculpture for the horse, and it looks very like me where I’m sitting proudly up on the Place des Pyramides – oh yes, valour… that was me at the time, wasn’t it,’ as she grinned, – while Francis gave her a big kiss.
But what happened to the two gargoyles… and where’s that red-headed woman? – well, we guess it’ll be next time!
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