he’s a little goblin and rather sweet but he’s lonely and he’s looking for a mate there aren’t very many left now and that so sad he’d been busy in the embers and suddenly she’d appeared she smiled and waved let’s be lovers, eh?
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Image credit: Klára Vernarcová@ Unsplash
For the visually challenged reader, this image shows an outdoor scene at night. There is an open log fire burning in front of a wooden bench and a table. There are a couple of candles burning on the table.
The log fire has a strange-looking flame burning in its middle, that looks like a time creature of fire. A few iron spits are thrust into the ground near the fire.
The red-head woman (the fictional one) had pulled away from a spider web as she stood up inside the Hemingway House.
The Gatekeeper had been standing a little way away as he continued to smoke a rather nice Cuban cigar; he had been wondering whether he could get into deep water with this one as he hardly knew her – of course he knew the Raconteuse very well and they got on brilliantly, but that other one is very different, still why not – it could be fun.
The red-head woman had already opened the back door and leaned out to see him – ‘come on, let’s go up to the library’ – they looked inside, and there was Ernest Hemingway who was sitting at the typewriter, they looked at each other and back again; then the great man stood up and looked out, as he lit a cigarette and then walked straight through them –a ghost??
The Gatekeeper’s smartphone started ringing; it was the tall, thin man and he shouted at both of them: ‘get out quickly – it doesn’t matter why, just go’ – and then they heard several sirens coming closer as the house was lit up.
The two of them ran down and out, as the red-head woman said – ‘just go, I can deal with this’ – as the Gatekeeper decided to agree.
She began to shout: ‘I’m fine, just cross, actually livid… more than that I’m outraged – oh, doesn’t matter, look, Scatty‘s just appeared – I’ll hop behind her broomstick, and we will fly away (tallyho).
she warms up gently she needs to walk prettily here she goes, ‘en l’air’ there ‘glissade’ – she glides five five: but it helps if you’re a ghost
🩰👻🩰
In French en l’air – in the air glissade – to glide (a gliding movement for 5th to 5th)
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Image credit: Alex Shuper @ Unsplash
For the visually challenged reader, this image shows a white ghostly figure suspended in the air over a crop of pumpkins. The trees in the background are lit by an eerie red light.
She had been looking over the Hemingway House, just round the corner where she was staying at the rather nice villa where there was a maid and a cleaner (how posh); she had lingered around the library, particularly the old typewriter and the chaise-longue – she would have loved to sit by the great man… but at least she had met several six-toed cats; meanwhile she carried a book: Hemingway’s Boat by Paul Hendrickson (she had almost finished it).
For lunch she had had a gorgeous waiter, who had been helpful as she ordered some delightful crayfish (almost as good as Mimi’s) and also a large slice of Key lime pie (she should mention that to the Bartender next time too).
Then she wandered down to the beach to sit and read her Kindle; she’d read it before, it’s called One Day I Wasby Joe Leonardi.
The Raconteuse had fallen asleep but the red-head woman was ready to work.
It was night and Hemingway House was locked, but the Gatekeeper helped her to climb up and over the railings; she quickly broke a small panel of glass on one of the bottom windows and then she was through.
sweet, silky and smooth firm and crunchy or soft and juicy
eat it with cheese or salad or maybe cook a pie or a tart
try an upside-down cake or poaching them in wine
making some dried in the oven (very low – don’t burn it)
but the best way is to gently pull it from a tree and eat
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Image credit: Kateryna Hliznitsova @ Unsplash
For the visually challenged reader, this image shows a wooden table placed under a tree. On the table, there is an open book, a cutting board, and a knife. There is a plate with a sliced pear on it and some pears are on another plate on the table.
That’s right it’s me – not the red-headed writer (aka the Raconteuse) nor the fictional woman (also a red-head person too) – this time… it’s just me: so why?
Hold a pen hold a mouse different?
Type on the laptop sooo sloow oh dear.
The problem is my right hand is not working very well and it is very difficult to write (not good) and it is more than irritation – it’s a bad blow; but still I am sure it well get better soon (I hope).
But even if I was going to write the next episode in the SSS about the Hemingway House it would not be the proper thing to do, since Florida is right in the middle of the path of Hurricane Milton at the moment.
The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, had enjoyed Miami, although she had know that she should not venture into certain districts, since both the tall, thin man and the Bartender had warned her not to go there; but in any case, she was already going to Key West now.
However, she was still annoyed since she had been using her smartphone as she’d been reading and answering on Jetpack – they’re too many spam stuck under the radar, she muttered – see look, here’s D. and Reena, both in the SSS each week, and also two of my good friends, Aladin and Gary from WP (grrr).
Next she’d opened Facebook where she always looked at some lovely cats – there’s Misty with Dave Astor and Luna with Chris Hall (both of them are also WP people); she’d wondered whether the two cats might like each other (probably not), it was more likely at least one of them (meaning Luna) would open their claws… not good (moving quickly on).
But now it was time for the red-headed writer to grab her big bag and get off the bus; she was suddenly feeling famished but there was a nice café, and a few minutes later she was eating a hunk of bread and dunking it into her chunky soup.
She looked up… and then around… all these guys have beards, and all of them looked like Ernest Hemingway – really!
All she needed now was the Gatekeeper – was that him? she could smell the cigar just then.
The little lighthouse sits proudly just beyond the beautiful bay. Mostly it is sunny and bright, where the sea and sky are blue and bluer. The waves dance with the white foam, ebb and flow, ebb and flow. But sometimes the wind and rain lash around the rocky promontory, as it clashes and moans. It goes dark and there is no moon, but the little lighthouse flashes boldly around, keeping the boats and ships from harm. And then, in the morning, it is light and sunny again.
dear little lighthouse you shine gaily day and night keep us safe always
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Image credit: Elias Kipfer @ Unsplash
For the visually challenged reader, this image shows a lighthouse located on a tiny piece of land near a rocky coastline. The sea around it is misty and gray.
The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, was on a lovely train; she had her big bag, which was bulging, and she had lots of things to do.
She had been reading and writing, and then looking and looking again, as she watched the miles clock up; she had gone from NYC to NJ, Pennsylvania and then to Virginia; she stood up – it must be time for dinner, as she went into the dining car.
It was late as the red-headed writer opened her secret lining in her bag, this was what she’d taken in the Six-Sentence-Cafe-and-Bistro under the bar; the tall, thin man had given a nod as she quickly pocket it: it had been there for ages – and now she had been looking at this again – would it be time to use it?
It had been a long trip, even though it was so pleasant, but she felt a bit wrecked as she sat up; she went into the tiny bathroom to comb her hair, then made it spiky again, next she squirted some toothpaste onto her toothbrush and begin to clean her teeth, brushing with her incisors, canines and molars, as the train went clickety-click, clickety-click.
There were only a few miles left now and she packed her things back, carefully.
She was now feeling good as she got off the train; it was so busy with people rushing around, but after all, it was Miami; she could almost see Crockett and Tubbs holding up their guns.
I was never good at numbers, unfortunately. However, I have written so many things. When I was little I would write poems and small stories, and then in high school I went up to an essay each week. I am happy with all writing things – either pen or pencil with paper, and even better on my laptop now… but numbers? Really not good – apart from playing Scrabble, of course.
a pen or pencil is mightier than a number: wouldn’t you say, eh?
right, okay strike it out, that’s it; now, try it again
a pen or pencil is mightier than a sword: better isn’t it?
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Image credit: Karla Hernandez @ Unsplash
For the visually challenged reader, this image shows a hand holding a Rubik’s cube which has words written in some of the squares, that can be read from left to right or top to bottom that says; “ Figure it out”
