It was the third of April, and the red-headed writer (aka the Raconteuse), was looking forward to enjoying a fun evening in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro.

Two days ago she had been doing a short story, slotting the two gargoyles in Paris (as usual) – it was about the Poisson d’Avril (April fool’s day, literally ‘April’s fish day’), where the iconic trick involves secretly sticking a paper fish onto someone’s back… she had been still giggling as she sent her email.

She went into her bedroom, wondering what she would wear, something understated – mostly black, just a bit of bling, all she would need to do was remove a little blot on her sleeve, but not a problem.

As she dressed, she remembered way back, when she had been in the Manager’s Office – while the tall, thin man had been over in the bar area, she had been lounging on that lovely chaise-longue, while eating a chocolate flake, closing her eyes… but, of course, what a mess she’d made – yes, she had been clumsy, such a clot; but she giggled again, that mat was probably still a bit sticky in one corner.

She was in the main room, where she looked at the time on her laptop, she’d have to take that, but she was almost ready; she had her flat shoes, much more comfortable, and her big bag with all those things she needed – now to go down all those stairs.

She walked quickly now, she could almost hear the music…

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The red-headed writer (aka the Raconteuse) suddenly shouted, ‘THAT MAP’, while several people looked up and stared, after all, it was a library… ‘sorry,’ she muttered, as she thought… fortitude, I must be strong.

The thing was, she’d realised that the map – the one that seemed to move around – it was real (of course), not like all those things she’d made up, for example, she might use slang for certain things, even though she wouldn’t necessarily mean it, or something she’d pronounce making it completely right, even though it wasn’t – no problem if it’s just writing, but this map…

Meanwhile, Deborah sidled up, ‘you know that you’ve written several novels, and they have been released, so I’ll send a card to one of the other librarians to go to the fiction section, and I can look at your work, that seems sensible, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, I don’t think any of my books are in your library though,’ said the red-head writer, ‘only in Amazon,’ – ‘well, maybe they will have a little look anyway – trust me,’ said Deborah, ‘we can get things,’ as she winked.

The Raconteuse smiled, but she was clearly rattled, she pointed at that map again, ‘I’m thinking about my most recent novel, gosh, it’s a bit complicated as far as I remember,’ – said Deborah, ‘in that case, you could wait, like I said, just trust me.’

‘Okay,’ said the red-headed writer, ‘I’ll wait, and the map will stay here; I’ll do something in the meantime.’

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The librarian, called Deborah, (not Deb, or Debbie), and the red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, were almost back to the library building again; they’d had a lovely, languid lunch in the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, they had looked out to the river, the water and the sky were more than blue, and not a cloud in sight, as they smiled, but then they both said, ‘come on, back to business,’ as they grinned.

They spread the various ancient books and maps around the large table, ‘where would you like to start,’ as Deborah put her pince-nez on, ‘always better to see,’ she remarked; while the Raconteuse bend over that very odd map, then she looked across to her, ‘you haven’t seen this before, even though you’ve been here for many years… is that right?’ – Deborah nodded.

‘I can’t really explain it with this strange map,’ said the Raconteuse, ‘but it seems to move around… look, watch it, but be careful, since earlier it almost made me shiver.’

‘Hmm, indeed, but at least I am a librarian so you don’t need to worry, you are secure in the knowledge that nothing bad would happen to you – trust me, I have been to many places, as have you, I imagine, since you’re a writer.’

The Raconteuse suddenly said, ‘it’s getting rather stuffy, shall I open a window?’ – not wanting to admit that she’d hardly been anywhere.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Deborah, although she kept looking at the map, staring… and staring, ‘mesmerising, isn’t it.’

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The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, was on a mission since she was going on a journey and soon, but in the meantime she needed to take several things and put them in her big bag.

She opened the door labelled ‘ENTRY’, and heard it click, as she went into the library, it was full of old books and maps; it seemed that no-one was around as she walked through the different aisles, she took things out and put them on a pile on a handy table, however, she couldn’t take too much, less quantity more quality, she reminded herself.

A librarian suddenly appeared, she was wearing a twin-set, classic and quaint, (a bit like Audrey Hepburn) and also wearing tiny glasses, called pince-nez, she could be pretty ancient but clearly intelligent, she started to speak, ‘any help required?’

‘Actually I’ve a couple of questions, if I may,’ said the Raconteuse, ‘you see, I’ve been looking at a particular map, and I think I should distrust it, although it might be useful in a different way… if you know what I mean?’

‘Well, I have been qualified in various ways,’ she looked around, and then said, ‘including secrets.’

‘Secrets?!’ said the Raconteuse, ‘ooh, very much for me, you see I’m a writer, and what could be better; but listen, it’s almost lunchtime, could you be free for maybe an hour, we are close to the river and also close to a lovely place, it’s called the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, will you come?’

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The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, had written into the deep night, as the rain lashed around the top of her apartment, it seemed to be a perfect storm; she listened to the whistling wind for a while, and then she was back to writing again.

She’d slept for several hours, and when she woke up she was pretty pleased with what she’d written so far; she looked outside and smiled, the weather was so much better.

She put her coat on and hurried down the many steps; but half-way down she stopped and stared across to the end of the street, she was almost sure that she’d seen the Bartender, and a guy who she felt she knew as well, but now they had parted, going in different directions; she wondered what that was about, but why would she worry about that?

It was still very damp outside but the Raconteuse wasn’t bothered about that, she was looking for a new style, she was still happy with her hair, but maybe a smaller bag, a clutch perhaps, and a new dress – red, of course, she would be rather classy for a change, as she went into a little boutique not far from there.

She was back in her apartment, happy to have got what she wanted; she would spend some time with her laptop, but then it would be party-time.

She looked at her watch – time to go; she was going to the Six-Sentence-Café-&-Bistro, she might even dance.

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The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, had left the Six-Sentence-Café-&-Bistro, as she walked through the slush and wintery rain; she had another rented place now, she had got a bargain and it’s right on the top floor, not far from here, and also not far from the Bartender’s pad.

The wind was picking up now; she began to hurry, while tightening her overcoat, and keeping her big bag close; she could hear a couple of yobs yelling, they were getting nearer, but she was here now, swiftly opening and closing her door.

She hurried up all six floors, it was certainly making her fitter; she unlocked her door, taking off her big bag, removing her coat, and kicking her shoes off, as she padded over to her very messy table; she looked out at the nearest window, while the night sky groaned and moaned.

She pulled out her smartphone, it had a new ring, not sure how it happened though; she’d heard two pings just now: one was from the Bartender explaining about something the tall, thin man had said, and the other was about another great friend, who knows all things about weather.

She returned to the table, looking around to find her many notes about weather, and she also needed her notes about the skies, the clouds and the rainbows, this can be awesome; she opened her laptop, waking it up, now she dived down to continue to write.

And yes, she talks to herself… but who doesn’t?

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The red-haired woman, aka the Raconteuse, had been writing furiously on her laptop in her usual place in the Six-Sentence-Café-&-Bistro; she worked on her latest series, it was almost finished, and she was thinking that it was really rather good – for example, who would think to make up such things like vampires and gargoyles, and even a fictional woman who looks rather similar like herself?

Earlier she had cast over the deli menu, the usual combinations – sandwiches, salads which are seasonal, but the best of all are the bagels, made by Tom each day, he has made his perfect niche making the best food around.

The Raconteuse had eaten very happily while Tom had been hovering around, trying to read what she had been writing on her laptop; she’d had several coffees through the day, as well, but now Tom had now finished for the day.

The bar was becoming busier, but at least she’d finished what she was doing; she sidled up to the mahogany bar, to smile and talk to her favourite Bartender: ‘I’d like a nice long G+T please, will you joint me – but of course you will have a VAT, unless you might make it later?’

They both grinned together, while the Raconteuse dropped a couple of notes – ‘here’s my tip, but now, if you’re not too busy can you tell me something; what could I write next time? I was thinking about the seven seas, it could be delightful, do you think it would work?’

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At Full Moon, the Moon’s face is fully lit up—give or take a tiny bit.
©Steffen Thorsen/timeanddate.com

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‘Do we remember what we did… that beautiful day, and night, when we saw the Harvest Moon,’ said the Raconteuse, – while Mimi said, ‘of course, it was us and Jenne,’ as she clapped her hands, – then the Bartender said, ‘later we came home where we found our silver boxes and our little lockets.’

Mimi held up her locket, while the Bartender held out her hand, ’I made it into a ring, nice, isn’t it?’, as the Raconteuse gently opened the small box; but then the Bartender froze for a moment, as Ms Storme lunged at the box, ‘give me a look, won’t you?’

‘Wait, just a moment,’ said the Raconteuse, ‘there’s no locket, but here’s a letter from Jenne – she says she’s gone to pastures new, also Mr C. E. Ayr, and the two of them do the Unicorn Challenge, jolly good,’ – ‘I would agree,’ said the tall, thin man, who winked.

He continued to pose a question, while the Gatekeeper looked on, and Hūnga barked; ‘my idea is that Ms Storme should take over the reins, what do you think?’

Everyone seemed to be happy with that, so that was that; Ms Storme and the tall, thin man suddenly needed to be elsewhere; while the Gatekeeper and Hūnga, will be elsewhere too, and later they will look up, since there’ll be a tiny nick over the moon.

‘And as for me,’ said the Raconteuse, ‘I’m going to dip into this book, in fact, it was partly written by me.’

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So very happy to be included in this wonderful poetry anthology.
🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

Devised by Colleen M. Chesebro and Robbie Cheadle
Amazon.com LINK
Amazon.UK.com LINK

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The Silver Locket
authored by Chris Hall
writing as Holly Atkins

Order on Amazon: paperback and ebook

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‘Are you going to open that?’ said Tom – as the red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, nodded her head; she was about to gently rip the parcel but then she heard the wonderful car, as the three of them turned to look at the street.

‘Looks like she’s back,’ grinned Mimi, ‘we can always adapt, but it is so much better when our Bartender is here,’ as they watched the beautiful car glide around the corner, ‘and look who also is there – it’s the Gatekeeper and lovely Hūnga.’

The tall, thin man and Ms Storme appeared from the Manager’s office, both of them looking rather smug, but Tom muttered to himself – she’s hardly an angel, but he said, ‘how nice to see you, my dear,’ as he smiled radiantly, using his best actor voice.

But now there was much merriment since Hūnga bustled in, closely followed by the Bartender and the Gatekeeper, while Mimi said, ‘it’s certainly busy now… drinks everyone?’

A little later, the Raconteuse began to open her parcel, ‘okay, I’m doing it,’ – while everyone crowded around, even Hūnga… ‘so, it’s a box, small oblong and clearly silver,’ she looked up, ‘ah, I know this… and you?’ staring at Mimi and the Bartender.

‘Do we still have those?’ – ‘well, mine is on my dressing table,’ said Mimi, – ‘mine is in my bathroom,’ said the Bartender, – ‘and mine, my original one, is still here in my big bag, so the fourth one has been given back… mm.

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The red-headed writer, aka the Raconteuse, was been on that long, long, wonderful train, but now she was keen to arrive back to New York; she’d been listening to the two guys talking about the executor of the will and how much money they might inherent; she was still grinning as she left the train, it seemed that their late uncle had a lovely long life.

She’d been mulling in her head as she’d begun to execute a plan and a plot, as she was sitting in a taxi as it made its way to downtown New York; she’d tipped the cab and then walked across and along to the small alley.

She was ready to greet all the Proprietors, as she walked down three steps to the door; she opened the SSC&B, hearing the tinkling bell; Mimi and Tom appeared through the double doors and both of them smiled although their hands were full.

‘There’s only us here at the moment,’ said Mimi, ‘the Bartender has gone on leave with her fancy car, and the Gatekeeper with his gorgeous dog have also gone somewhere; but the tall, thin man is around somewhere – and that new woman, Ms Storme, well, she’s a dark one.’

‘Look, on the table next to the bar,’ said Tom, pointing, ‘this is for you: it’s a small parcel, it arrived yesterday.’

The Raconteuse dumped her big bag, and then stared at it, and stared again; she looked to Tom and Mimi, ‘hmm, that doesn’t look good.’

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