Words for Wednesday -- 23 January -- Unicorn Farm 16

This week's prompts are provided by Lissa at The Memory of Rain.

1. birthday
2. dream
3. cake
4. sugar
5. wishes
6. grant

and/ or

1. joyride
2. promise
3. wishing well
4. ghost
5. flowers
6. love


For once the prompts did not ligth any spark whatsoever, but as I idly read through my chapter from last week, my mind's eye went back to those days of long ago, and the words started flowing. I have used NONE of the prompts, but the link is given, so that other may participate and join the fun. 


Not more than half an hour has passed since last Wednesday's chapter.


At the library Susan went straight to the newspaper section. She vaguely remembered, maybe from some guided learn how to use the library-tour from years ago, that the old newspapers were kept handy. And yes, underneath each paper from today, which were laid out on sloping tables, were a set of shelves, four for each paper, each holding a week's worth of newspapers. A whole month of news lay there for the taking. Susan found another paper than the one with Lis' clippings and searched the relevant shelf for Saturday's paper. There was a mentioning of the arrival of the head of state, no pictures, and nothing new compared to Lis' paper. Susan folded it neatly and put it back. The next five were no better, either they did not mention it at all, brought the same photo, or some with the President seeing sights in Copenhagen. And they all wrote almost the same words. But finally, in the local paper, the one Susan had left out, she found a rather long reportage from the airport and some photos.
Susan looked closely, yes it was Torben. And that photo there, it showed the foreigner quite clearly. She checked with the big watch on the wall; only a quarter to four. If she hurried, she could make it the the newspaper's office before closing time. She might be able to buy - or even have for free - the original photo or one like it. First she went to the librarian and had a copy made of the relevant pages. It cost her 50 øre, but Susan had been given some money for Christmas, so she was quite rich for the nonce.

It was turning dark outside and the people still in the street were hurrying home, the rain still fell in heavy showers and thunder could be heard now closer, now further away. It was just one of the things that came from living in a coastal town. The rain clouds just stayed around the town until they had dropped their very last drop and spent every ounce of energy unsuccessfully battering the towers of the two churches with their thunderbolts. Susan biked almost all the way to the newspaper, only pushing the bike through the narrow one way streets near the centre. The traffic was still sparse, and she made it to the office in time without any incidents.
As she reached the door, it was opened rather forcefully from the inside. A large man with a black beard stood in front of her.

"Hello Susan, what are you doing here?" he asked.
"Oh, hi Stellan!" she answered. "I am looking for a photo from last Saturday's paper, did you make them?" Stellan was a friend of her parents', he was a journalist, and Susan had met him a couple of times before. He was a nice and easy fellow, from somewhere else, Susan had momentarily forgotten where, and he spoke with an accent. Normally he was all smiles, but Susan thought he looked sad.
"Which photos? I made some from Copenhagen, as I was there, visiting a friend of mine."
"From the airport?" Susan asked eagerly, Stellan nodded, and Susan said: "Yes, those are the ones I'm looking for."
"Ah," Stellan nodded "social studies?" Susan nodded agreement, happy that he himself had uttered the words. She hated lying, and just saying yes was only half so bad.
"You know what," Stellan said. "I have all of them at home, and I have to hurry home and eat before leaving for Copenhagen again. My friend is very ill, you see. If you could water my plants and take care of my canaries for me, you could have two or three of the photos."
"I'd be happy to," Susan said and strode after the long legged man through the dark streets of the city.

"Here are the photos," Stellan said, as they entered the living room and he pulled out a big, yellow envelope. "Remember the upstairs plans as well, and now come and say hello to the canaries while I eat!" They went into the small kitchen. Stellan quickly fried eggs and ham and ate and smoked cigarettes, making Susan's eye water and itch.
She chatted with the birds, caressed them, fed them, gave them fresh water, even cleaning the dirty water tubs, and changed the newspapers at the bottom of the cage. She then looked for the watering can, and found it in the window sill.

"You're a dear, Susan" Stellan said, "Just put out the lights and close the door when you're done."
"Thank you, Stellan," Susan said. "You are a big help."
Stellan tousled Susan's hair and left in a hurry. Susan opened the window and carefully watered all the plants. Some of them seemed more than half dead; no wonder as they had been trying to live off too much smoke and too little water and care; and she could not resist the temptation to give them a little boost with her magic.
Stellan's house was small, but full of wonders. Lush carpets, musical instruments and colourful spreads and trinkets gave it a semblance of Aladdin's cave. It spoke of his foreign background and his many travels. She loved it, but she was very careful not to disturb anything. She only ran her hands caressingly over the violin. It had not seen as much use as his banjo, but it was much prettier. Susan could not play either, only simple tunes on the piano, but she loved listening to other people playing.
After having completed the chores and emptied some of the ashtrays for good measure, she sat down on the blue sofa and opened the envelope. A zillion photos from the presidential visit to Copenhagen spilled over the table. Susan sorted them and looked through those from the airport. She found some where the stranger and Torben were in plain view. Most of them featured the president as well. She chose three, put the rest back into the envelope and left the cosy house behind.

As she closed the door she remembered having left behind her bike at the newspaper. She did not want to leave it there overnight. The office lay in a part of own with many pubs and bars, peaceful enough in the daytime, but her bike would most probably be stolen if she left it where it was. It was a detour, but then she still had time to spare. Sheltering the precious photos inside her jacket with a bit of additional magic she went out into the rain.