Was that me in a different life? Is it possible to be reborn again without knowing? Something drastic happened. Everything disappeared completely. Not just dark. Just nothing. Nothing at all. Gone.
And yet… Something rebooted, eventually. Eyes opened. But looking upside down, and back to front. Just like a brand new baby. And then it all came back again. So, I’m thinking that’s what happened.
a new chance many lovely days lucky me!
~~~~~
Image credit: Mohsen Karimi@Unsplash
The image shows a blurred girl/woman through a rain-streaked window. The background is not clearly seen.
At last, something worked, she grinned, I’m so happy!
She had looked out very early, just as the sun poked up. She could see it was fine, as she showered and dressed quickly. She brewed her coffee, as she continued to smile; she wondered what this particular one had managed to cling on to life, since so many hadn’t. Dreadful really, as she mused while supping her coffee.
It was very windy, as usual, as she stepped out into her kind of garden. There it is, as she looked up. My first pretty rockery with some real living little flowers!
~~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: HistoricalFiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed woman had been in various places in France, enjoying the cafes and vineyards, and also managed to get a bit of money on the side, since she had to earn a living in some way or another – a hustle here and a hustle there, but at least her lovely ruby red ring had been fixed.
She was so happy to draw up in her little red car to look up to see her attic apartment in Paris; she parked her car several streets away and hurried to buy some things.
She went to the nearest small supermarket, threaded her way to the counter where she would find a few things to keep her going – a baguette and a squishy cheese and a carton of fava beans which she would cook with some butter and garlic, very tasty.
She walked up to the top floor, unlocking her door, dumped her big bag on the table, then opened her double French doors, how lovely to be home; she had idly thought about the two gargoyles since she always enjoyed their company.
She had been perusing on her smartphone to see what had been going on over those last few months and, of course, the main story had grabbed her the most had been the Louvre Museum in that amazing dare-devil heist and all those gorgeous jewellery stolen, almost to order, she’d thought; could it have been the two gargoyles who had a hand in that heist?
Was it just a story? I think not. It was real. Very real. But perhaps just use a beautiful dream? That would work better.
She would walk into the lounge. She would open the double doors into the garden, and then to the still warm pool. Such a treat! She would sit on the wall, looking at the gorgeous sunset, between the dark waters and the vivid sky. She would remove a pretty feather to touch it and smooth it. Then she would walk back again. Closing the double doors.
She would lay down to sleep again. Sleep on… forever.
~~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: HistoricalFiction Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) was in her tiny apartment, she’d finally finished her crossword in her folded broadsheet newspaper, noticing that she had ink on both hands.
She mused as she wandered into her kitchen, while she cleaned her hands, and then brewed some more coffee; she had many diverse tastes and interests, in fact, she always had, although her favourite hobbies were her writing and reading.
A few minutes later she brought her coffee into the living room, putting it on the coffee table where she picked up her latest book – The Weight of Snow and Regret by Elizabeth Gauffreau.*
She held the book unopened for a moment: the front cover was beautiful, like a picture of snow – the perfect time to read in the winter, the book itself was quite heavy since there are many wonderful words, so she opened the book, removing her bookmark – she’d had this for years, a little cheshire cat in metal, she put it down – now it was time to read.
La Raconteuse was engrossed in her book apart from playing the CD by Lightnin’ Hopkins, since he was in that book; she continued to read for more than an hour, but now she was hungry.
It was almost lunch-time as she ventured out into the wintry day, it looked like it would snow soon, as she dodged the cars and taxis as she walked across the streets; at least it’ll be warm in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, as she quickened her step.
She’s a busy lady! She’s beautiful, She’s clever, She’s making a nest.
She weaves, and weaves, Delicate but strong, She continues to weave, Until she’s happy.
She’ll finds some food, More than she needs, But she’ll keep it for later, Now she’ll doze for a while.
A few days later, She’s even busier, She’s making more silk, It will be her nursery.
Do you know her? I’m sure you’ve guessed… She’s more than just a spider, She’s a lucky lady!
~~~~~
Image credit: Doncoombez @Unsplash
In this image we can see branches of a pine tree. There is an intricate spider web woven between two of the branches. The background is blurry, but the golden light suggests a forest or garden setting.
‘You are so nosy, aren’t you.’ ‘What, me?’ ‘Of course you are.’ She snickered. ‘Me as well.’ The two of them continued to peer from their upstairs window.
‘Did you see that?’ ‘No. Didn’t see anything.’ ‘But you must have done.’ ‘Why? I can’t see everything at the same time. I’d been looking in the other direction, and on the ground. We usually see that beautiful cat who walks with that nice man.’
‘Ah there they are.’ ‘I wonder what they saw.’ ‘You see I saw a dumpster, but that’s gone now, but I bet that cat enjoyed seeing that!’
~~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: HistoricalFiction Word Count: 100
a veil of mystery whatever can be revealed something hides its face the waves draw back and forward a pinnacle will fly out
“Mysteries are feminine; they like to veil themselves but still want to be seen and divined.” Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel
my moon is displayed so bright – full of energy yet the veil pulls down such a strange conundrum dear moon, come back again… please
~~~~~
Written in response to this week’sTanka Challenge hosted by Yvette M. Calleiro Yvette has chosen the word veil. There are several definitions for veil. Choose whichever version of the word that speaks to you, and write a syllabic poem of your choosing.
What an interesting time the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) and Reena had, and they were hoping that both of them could meet again, and soon, especially since the usual suspects – meaning the Proprietors (plus a few hangers on – the clever ones) might learn a little bit of business between all of them, since Reena has great acumen.
La Raconteuse mused to herself as she crossed the street, as she glanced at someone’s newspaper – that date: 5th November – it was bonfire night; not that many people in the city would even know anything about it, but for her, she would always remember what happened since she originally came from the UK.
Ah yes, Guy Fawkes, such an important time and date (for us); she thought for a moment, this is the way it goes:
“Remember, remember the 5th of November, Gunpowder, treason and plot; I know of no reason Why the gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot!”
La Raconteuse was almost into the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, although she was still muttering to herself; she’d almost collided with the tall, thin man and the Gatekeeper, who were about to smoke together by the steps, as they each opened a flame on their exquisite zippos.
Just inside Tom grinned, ‘look what I’ve made – it’s almost a sparkler,’– he also came from the UK – as he lit two matches on a tiny cake, ‘we will enjoy, won’t we,’ as they both blew the two matches out; ‘let’s remember Guy Fawkes… in a good way!’
luna's on line 