she walked silently slowly measuring each step then she stops and thinks
she gently walks again listening in the cloisters, is there someone there?
she turns around quickly holding her notebook and pen, but no-one is there
it’s so difficult when you’re a writer
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Image credit:Nickola Johnny Mirkovic @ Unsplash
For the visually challenged reader, this image shows an arched veranda, where multiple pillars support a high vaulted ceiling. The sun is casting shadows on the wall behind the veranda. At the end of it is a fancy door.
The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, had a plan – she was on WhatsApp with Jenne, Denise and Mimi, telling them that she was still a little magic left in her journey around the world; we’ll meet tomorrow, and don’t worry about the different time zones, I’ll handle it.
Now they were sitting in a beautiful wine garden in the château in Franschhoek, right by the vineyards where they are bringing back the harvest – you see, it was autumn in the southern hemisphere. In a little while two waiters brought wine, juice and delicious food; then they rested – it was so peaceful and calm, and they must have drifted into slumber for a while.
Later, they woke up and it was almost dark; they walked along the Huguenots Monument and further, now it was rather steep, rugged and remote; they laid down on the sweet fynbos, and there it is, the Harvest Moon, huge yellow and magnificent – but that was all they could remember.
Did we dream it – all of us – in different places? But no, on the table, each one has a small silver box and inside it has a little locket; WhatsApp pings, it’s the Raconteuse, you know, it’s going to be useful one day, she said.
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Posted for The Unicorn Challenge, a magical challenge hosted by Jenne Gray and C E Ayr, where they provide a photo and we, in turn, provide up to 250 words.
The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, hurries along the narrow street, looking up and down and around, checking to see what is unchanged: here’s the Bagel’n’Cake place (closed at this time, of course), and here are the two warehouses, rather dingy, on either side.
She’s almost there… and here it is: The Café and Bistro, she holds her hands up, but there’s no one there; she’s deflated, she dropped her head and her feet felt like lead.
She notices something at the top of the steps, it was a still-smouldering cigar butt on the ground – it must be him, the Gatekeeper, who else could it be?
She hurries down to the three steps by the double-doors, peering in the gloom in the long bar and high seats, and across the way to the food pass behind the doors; she could almost see what should be happening – the Bartender with the wine and whisky, and Mimi in the kitchen, and Tom as well.
Then she turns around, going back up, scanning around; there’s something about the back of The Café and Bistro, she races around the building, heaving her big bag, she peeps in the basement, now she’s making headway; she can hear music, in her mind’s eye, she listens, isn’t it Mark Knopfler playing ‘Sultans of Swing’ and wearing his headband?
The Raconteuse grins and she can see the Manager, smiling back and waving; he cranks up the volume and plays, ‘Ace of Spades’.
growing up on distant continents without a common tongue lives so seemingly different rich north, poor south experiences diametrically opposed
and yet
sharing corresponding smiles weeping mutual sorrows our hearts are touched by the same love and loss
because, in the end we are all sisters under the skin
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This week’s image is in honor of international women’s day, celebrated on March 8th. This image shows a diverse group of five women holding a placard on which the word “ WOMEN” is written in bold letters. In the background you can see other people holding different placards too.
I wrote my poem back in 2020. It was also International Women’s Day too. I wanted to remind us that wherever we may be in the world, we have a bond of common experience. I’ve found it when travelling in parts of rural Greece and Spain and, when I moved to South Africa and met women from more diverse cultures and with very different life experiences, this connection came even more sharply into focus for me.
Another reason is for my lovely friend, Michnavs – Poetry by Mich. Here’s her powerful and beautiful book: After Rain Skies by Michelle Ayon Navajas. My review is here too.
the darkness is midnight the moon is misty and all the stars are hiding
the man stands staring in the distance his feet are poised should he stay or should he go?
a moment later the stars are back again the moon is radiant
his soul brings hope he straightens his hat it’s time to go
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Image credit: Darksouls 1 @ Pixabay
For the visually challenged reader, this image shows a monochrome photo of a man wearing a suit and a hat, standing at the edge of a small stone bridge. The man is facing away from us. There is a full moon visible in the background and some trees. The whole scene is surrounded by fog.
I didn’t expect that, but what a happy coincidence – two things happened at the same time (well, almost); just like ‘kill two birds with one stone’ (not literally, of course), but now I have ‘Six Sentence Stories’ and ‘The Unicorn Challenge’, how fun!
So, anyway, look at the photo – three musicians, all fine players, performing.
I remember the wonderful song ‘Pass the Dutchie’ (1982), written by three songwriters: Jackie Mittoo, Fitzroy ‘Bunny’ Simpson and Lloyd ‘Judge’ Ferguson from Kingston. It talks about the Dutch oven, a type of cooking pot, in Jamaica, and how very delicious it is. Even more interesting, the Jamaican slang is from a pot holding marijuana, although we would never use it (ehem).
So, enjoy the music!
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Posted for The Unicorn Challenge, a magical challenge hosted by Jenne Gray and C E Ayr, where they provide a photo and we, in turn, provide up to 250 words.
A painting of ‘The Demeter’ which hangs on the wall of the Manager’s office at the SSC&B (origin unknown)*
The sound of a small explosion emanated from the Manager’s office, rattling the door and causing the lettering to peel a tiny bit more from its glazed panel.
The Bartender and the Supplier had been busy arranging the new stock on the mirror-backed shelves behind the bar, while Mimi, and her spatula-wielding assistant, Tom had been in the newly-refurbished kitchen preparing for Saturday night’s crowd.
They arrived at the office door together, Tom entered first, his eyes sweeping the room: the Raconteuse, quietly dripping by the fireplace, and the picture of the galleon hanging on the wall behind her.
Tom stepped forward, searching the red-haired writer’s face for an explanation, but none came; he reached behind her, running his finger around the damp picture frame: ‘I believe we have experienced a Dimensional Disturbance,’ he announced, glancing at the Raconteuse, ‘your escape route, might I surmise?’
The other Proprietors looked at Tom uncomprehendingly; Tom grinned, ‘it’s like a get-out-of-jail-free card for a blocked writer,’ he winked at the Raconteuse, ‘a stroke of luck that you introduced the Portal in here as a precaution before going to write yourself back in time.’
‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ replied the Raconteuse.
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This has been my second offering this week for Denise’s Six Sentence Story Challenge where this week’s prompt word was stroke.
*crafted on Canva by the author from an image on Pinterest
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Join us at the famous SSC&B for more Six Sentence Stories ~ click on the sign to enter!
Joey glanced at the carnage he’d left behind; an ominous silence pervaded the blood-spattered hallway.
Raising a hand to acknowledge Gary, Joey took a deep breath to quieten his thumping heart and shot back into the building; he burst into his flat and snatched up his back-pack, stuffing it with a handful of clothes and the small battered box which contained his ‘important stuff’.
Skidding back down the stairs, he paused by Ceridwen’s door; it opened before he could knock, revealing Ceridwen, clutching a bristling Cullen in her arms. Digging into his pocket, Joey pulled out a thick roll of notes and started to peel a few off, but Ceridwen shook her head; Joey was about to speak, but she silenced him with a look and with a nod of her head, gestured for him to leave. Giving Cullen’s head a regretful stroke, Joey fled the scene, only pausing to scoop a small shiny object from the hall floor.
Half an hour later, Ceridwen stepped sedately around the fallen bodies and picked up the pay-phone, wondering how she was going to explain all this to the emergency services; one thing was certain though, she wasn’t going to betray young Joey.
Creeping out at dawn, she tiptoes barefoot over golden sand, gritty grains sliding between her toes. The sun, a crimson sliver, struggles to free itself from the horizon. She steps onto the jetty, its planks still moist with dew. Now, tugging softly at the mooring rope, she draws the boat towards her. With a brilliant flash, sunlight flares across the azure water bathing the bay in its gilded rays. She shades her eyes, tastes the salt on the breeze, inhales. Then, she drops lightly into the boat, casts off, and slips away into the morning.
her island awaits: magical voices whisper giving up secrets
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Image credit:Saffu@Unsplash The image showsa red motor boat anchored near a quay. There is a small buoyfloating near it. In the distance you can see a small island.
A painting of ‘The Demeter’ which hangs on the wall of the Manager’s office at the SSC&B (origin unknown)*
The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, realised that something had gone seriously wrong with her plan to write herself back in time to find the key to the mystery of the Gatekeeper’s sudden disappearance and subsequent demise; mostly because she simply hadn’t wanted to believe that he’d gone.
While roaming around the inner reaches of her writer’s mind, jotting down what she’d thought should be her next step, events had overtaken her; apparently the Gatekeeper’s casting off of his mortal coil had merely been an elaborate ruse on the part of the Gatekeeper and his equally-imaginative collaborator, Ford the Supplier.
A clever misdirection – she should have known.
Meanwhile, mention being made of a mysterious coffin had sent her down another stupid rabbit hole, the curse of the ‘brancanneering’ story-teller, and now she was stuck on some god-forsaken beach, up to her ankles in chilly seawater, while a strange Gothic ship loomed on the horizon; a storm was brewing too.
A sudden gust of wind ushered in her own personal downpour, drenching her notebook; she applied her pen to the page, but it refused to mark the soggy paper.
How was she going to write herself out of here now?
luna's on line 