a hostage? no, don’t be silly! this is a stage (almost) she was wearing her glad rags as she skipped the light fandango
it was only a very tiny flat not a hotel, nor a hostel it was all her own… just for the summer and she’ll bathe before running across the Rialto Bridge
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Image credit: Karsten Winegeart @Unsplash
This imageshows a Summer morning, at Rialto Bridge, Venice, Metropolitan City of Venice, Italy. We can see a young lady/ woman standing on the pier, looking back.
‘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
Dear Santa, How are you? Hope you are doing well I bet you have already done most of your work for this year although there are many problems around the world. By the way, how is Mrs. Christmas? She’s such a wonderful woman! Oh, the reindeers and all those helpers, also well – all good?
But now I have a little problem and a little plea… You see, the naughty spam has been such a pain lately. It’s all very well to just pop a ‘like’ but I really like to have a little conversation. I very much like to post back from anyone around the world especially on WordPress.
So, Dear Santa sorry about making a bit of a rant but I’m sure you will be able to help. You can have a little look to see what the problem is and after that we will all talk again and, of course, we will be ready to write our poems for Santa’s post!
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Val‘s Scavenger Hunt – 7th prompt Write an Epistle Poem to Santa. The Epistle Poem is written as a letter. It can be a direct address, intimate or formal. The form is flexible – from free verse to rhyming couplets to a sonnet. The audience can be internal or external. The Epistle Poem is often used for moral, political or religious discourse.
P.S. This is all true, and if you haven’t seen me saying something on your post, that has been the problem on spam, I believe.
‘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?
This imageshows Hawaii Volcano National Park, Hawaii, USA, The volcano Kilauea is spewing lava high into the air, and white smoke is seen emitting from the fiery lava.
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
little leaves and buds are all around the old oak it’s spring in the air birds and squirrels jump for joy and so much new life begins
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Val‘s Scavenger Hunt – first prompt Write a poem inspired by leaves (dying ones or newly emerged). For bonus points use a Tanka to express your feelings about the leaves.
‘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.
a jagged edge, it’s blurring, it’s dark and so cold tears are dropping across her face, a hand waves a blunt object appears, it’s unearthing but what? suddenly something shatters and scatters across the room she’s moaning, she’s scared, hardly surprising the hand appears again what is it doing? but it’s gone wake up BANG
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Image credit: Katie Mukhina @Unsplash
This imageshows the shadow of an arm and hand cast on a wall. The outline of the shadow are a bit blurry.
luna's on line 