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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.

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*I have been reading Liz’s book, and here she is on WordPress – https://lizgauffreau.com

**Do see this on Goodreads – The Weight of Snow and Regret by Elizabeth Gauffreau.
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/228398641-the-weight-of-snow-and-regret

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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: 5^th 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!’

For information: The Gunpowder Plot – UK

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been munching her snap, crackle and pop for breakfast, she ate rather quickly, then dumped her bowl in the sink, and stuffed the box into the cupboard; ‘it’s going to be busy,’ she grinned to herself.

She had several messages to do, and then she hurried down the six floors holding her usual big bag, she opened the main door and felt the cold breeze outside, but at least it wasn’t wet, as she made her way to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro.

Even as she walked through the streets, she could hardly miss all this nonsense around, almost every house had at least one pumpkin or ghost on their stoops; she’d even craned her head right up to see what looked like a couple of witches on the roof with their broomsticks.

It was still pretty early as she entered the lovely Café, and what a great atmosphere it was; she could tell that Mimi had a big hand in making the place look really rather spooky; there’re pumpkins galore, little glowing lights around the walls and even tiny bats on the tables.

La Raconteuse removed her big bag and her coat, shoving them into the back of the bar, while looking around to find something useful to do – polishing perhaps, as she grabbed the first thing she found.

A moment later Tom appeared from the kitchen, ‘trick or treat,’ he grinned; ‘oh, by the way there’s a new guest arrived,’ he pointed, ‘it’s Reena.’

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Picking it up from last week with Clark… this is the SSC&B

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been miles away as she thought what had been occurring, partly since she had drunk too much coffee and eaten some nice pastries (both delicious) since the Bartender and Mimi had brought both to the Manager’s Office, but also she’d been mulling since it seemed that she might get away with talking about that certain note.

Fine and dandy, she grinned to herself as she watched Tom taking everything from the Manager’s Office and to the kitchen; he muttered to Mini, explaining that he would make a large spice cake for afternoon tea.

La Raconteuse returned to watch as the tall, thin man had a quick conversation with several people including Ms Strome and her uncle; it seemed that they were going back to the main part of the Bistro, as if some particular boot was on the other foot, as one might say, as la Raconteuse arched one eye up, although the tall, thin man was definitely staying, sprawling in the great new chair.

The Gatekeeper had been surveying the room, listening to what had been said, but then he walked back to the mantelpiece, and turned his back, looking at that mirror.

La Raconteuse joined him: ‘don’t you remember what was there before?’ – ‘sorry, I don’t,’ – ‘but look, you can even see where it was, it was more than a yard and a half longer… you really don’t remember?’

La Raconteuse smiled, ‘that was a painting, I wonder where it went?’

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‘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?

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‘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.

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) grinned for a moment, as she stepped up to the microphone, ‘Okay, can you all hear me?’ while she tilted the microphone a little higher, ‘ah, that’s better, now you can hear me, I’m sure,’ she was also talking rather loudly too.

La Raconteuse looked around as the tall, thin man had dimmed the lights, leaving only the spotlight on her; she smiled happily while scanning the room, with a quick wink for several people, ‘such a perfect place to do this,’ she beamed, ‘since this is the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro.’

She continued, ‘but please don’t worry, I’m not going to sing… certainly not – who did you think I was..? but I had a thought, don’t think this is a goofy idea, nor something laughable, you see it occurred to me, some of us (and that includes me) we’re quite literary writers – are we thinking thoughts already?’

La Raconteuse looked around ones more, while she pulled out a couple of pages from her jacket pocket and her glasses.

Meanwhile a few people began to talk around their tables, including several of the Proprietors.

Before the animated conversations continued anymore, la Raconteuse started to talk again from her spotlight, where she was waving her notes – ‘my time just now,’ as she grinned, ‘I have a new poem, and I have written this only yesterday, there’s no sobbing with this, it’s a little ditty, and I will tear each section as I read them – well, why not?’

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been peering on her cell phone – not ideal, but there it was, she was a keen follower off football – in particularly for the Liverpool F.C., and at the moment, they were winning yet again, just a couple of seconds to go, her app said ‘GOAL’, and then ‘GAME OVER’; she grinned to herself, as she put her cell phone back in her pocket, and then she looked around.

She was back in her booth in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro as so often she would, and things were moving in the right direction; so many choices she had, particularly since she’d eventually found out who had dropped that little note in her laptop.

She’d been still thinking about that, but now in a good way – no unwanted thoughts, such a pleasing time this evening.

She continued to smile as she read and replied on her laptop using that WordPress, it was pretty useful, apart from that niggle with that spam thing; she pulled a face, but what could she do? – as she continued to surf around.

She mused happily, there were no trashy poems or short stories in this place, even though sometimes they could be quite sad or scary, but neither was a problem; and of course, there were many other attractions in that bar and in the café.

It was time to walk into the limelight, as la Raconteuse, with a little help from the tall, thin man, she stepped up to the stage.

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‘Really… you know who wrote it… that little note under my laptop … quickly, tell me, dear friend,’ – the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) looked at Denise, the Bartender, but sadly there was no time to talk just now, since a whole load of punters had arrived; the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, was almost heaving.

Mimi also had to run off into the kitchen, as she had to finish several dishes for the evening service – ‘sorry, sweetie,’ I need to control everything in the pass, although Tom’s here now… thank heavens.’

‘Oh well, nonetheless I’ll find out… eventually,’ muttered the red-headed writer to herself, ‘a plot and a plan is always useful,’ as she continued to talk to herself; she moved to her booth, she was about to work out another story.

She scanned the room, noting that the tall, thin man and the Gatekeeper were both listening to the young attractive woman – what was her name? – la Raconteuse had a dreadful time to remember people’s names… but then it appeared in her head – Rosetta Storme, that was her name.

And the other one, she thought, who is he? she craned her head – also attractive, rather older, mature, perhaps – she mused, maybe a pilot or, or… no idea, but why would she think about a pilot? – although she’d written something about a pilot, ages ago.

‘A nice long drink,’ said the tall, thin man, as he put it down by her, as he winked; ‘you should join the party, with us.’

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been hurrying to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, since she was almost desperate to understand that stupid little note; she was about to cross the busy street, while thinking about thoughts, fortunately she looked both ways by the yield sign, before she stepped across the street.

She was almost by the Café now, as a lightning thought struck her, she stopped for a several seconds, but a moment later she realised what she was thinking was on the wrong track – she sighed; it would be so much better when she was there with Denise and Mimi, especially since it was in the mid-afternoon, one of the best times to talk.

‘Okay, down to business then,’ said Mimi, ‘let’s have another look at that note,’ – while the red-headed writer showed it to both of them, while she read it out loud: ‘this is very misleading, isn’t it’ – oh, and also, do either of you recognise who had written this?’

They all stared at it for several minutes – ‘dense and denser,’ muttered Mimi, – while Denise pulled a face, ‘don’t start that again!’

‘You know what,’ began Mimi, ‘I have not a single flash of inspiration… sorry.’

’But, really it means nothing, nothing at all, maybe you could just forget about it, since I have a better idea,’ said Denise, as her face brightened up considerably, ‘you see I think I know who wrote it, and look who has just arrived,’ as she pointed across the room.

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